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[Sarah1281]

This week's Anders prompt is 'Claustrophobia.'


When Anders had first learned that his punishment for his most recent escape was a year in solitary confinement, he had felt that it was completely worth it. After all, he had managed to steal back a month of his life from the templars and while a year in solitary meant that he wouldn’t be able to escape again until it was over, being confined alone couldn’t be much worse than regular life at the Tower.
 
That feeling had lasted for all of a week.
 
The room had seemed a bit small at first but not really a big deal. ‘At first’ being the operative word. Eventually, he had found Mr. Wiggums the cat who occasionally visited and helped keep him sane. Mr. Wiggums couldn’t be there all the time, however, and there were still far too many hours spent staring blankly at the walls. Those all too stifling and suffocating walls. There were times when he almost thought that the walls were closing in on him which was worrying for two reasons. One, that wasn’t a particularly sane thing to think, he was pretty sure. And two, this being a prison for mages meant that for all he knew it really was.
 
The end of the year in solitary couldn’t have come soon enough. Anders was rather embarrassed by the state he’d been in when Greagoir had finally let him out. Some of the templars hadn’t been able to contain their smirks at the sight of him. See how they’d look at the end of an entire sodding year in a cramped room with no one to talk to but a cat and no way to figure out how much time had passed save the meals that had been slid into his cell.
 
So it was a bad experience – a horrible experience – but at least it was over and he could move on with his life and lay low until the time came for his next escape attempt. Or so he thought. He hadn’t expected the nightmares about being trapped back in that tiny room (permanently this time) but since those only occurred at night, he thought that he would be fine.
 
He would have sincerely appreciated it if he could have realized that was wrong before he’d slipped into a closet with not one but TWO beautiful redheads. Unfortunately, despite how very…excited he had been going into the closet, once he was actually inside his excitement had immediately turned into mindless terror. His heart had started racing uncontrollably and he felt lightheaded. It was like he couldn’t breathe and instead of a small closet with his two delightful female companions, he was suddenly back in that room, that terribly empty room.
 
The girls had not been impressed with his performance – or lack there of – to say the least but, despite the fact that they complained to all their friends and his reputation took a hit, Anders really did have bigger problems. He was out of that room, yes, and intellectually he knew that it was over but it was becoming more and more clear to him that the room wasn’t done with him yet, not by a long shot. It seemed that every time he was in an enclosed space he began to panic. Did he mention that the entire Tower was one big enclosed space? Fortunately, it was easier to control when he was in a larger enclosed space than a smaller one. Still, this irrational fear of his was the driving force behind Anders’ sixth escape.
 
When he was caught, Anders found – to his great surprise – that Greagoir had decided not to put him back in solitary. Anders had been terrified that another escape would mean another year, at least, back in that room but he couldn’t not escape. It just wasn’t who he was. Fortunately, Greagoir seemed to have decided that either the room was too cruel even for a mage or else not as effective as it should have been and so he was spared from having to go through an ordeal like that again. Greagoir’s decision was a makersend as Anders honestly didn’t know if his sanity could have withstood that again and certainly not so soon after the last time.
 
It was becoming increasingly clear to Anders that he had a problem and so he did the only sensible thing he could and went to the library to do some research. It would have been easier and taken far less time had he simply asked someone about his symptoms but everyone knew about what he had been through and so if he did ask then whoever he asked would instantly make the connection that he wasn’t just asking out of idle curiosity. Once one person knew, who knew how many would find out? That might not have been a big deal to some people but Anders hated the thought of his fellow mages who were content to just waste away in this prison or the bucket-headed bastards that guarded them seeing him vulnerable.
 
Eventually, he found what he was looking for. Claustrophobia. The fear of having no escape and being closed in. It was almost a relief to find this information, to realize that he wasn’t alone in this. He soon absorbed everything the library had to offer about the subject because he figured that the more he knew, the better prepared he was to deal with it.
 
One day, he’d be free of the Tower for good and never have to worry about being trapped. Until then, there was no reason to let anybody in on this little weakness of his.

[Sarah1281]

This week's Nathaniel prompt was 'Groundskeeper Samuel.'


Nathaniel returned from Amaranthine in a pensive mood. When he had first heard the news of his family’s fall from grace and the rumors of his father’s depravity way back before he’d even left Kirkwall, he had immediately assumed the whispers to be wrong and vicious slander to boot. Upon meeting the woman who had killed his father and being forced to join the Grey Wardens which was surprisingly not as bad as he had feared, he had begun to doubt. The new Arlessa wasn’t a bad sort, really, but he still couldn’t believe what everyone said about his father had been the truth all along. A compromise, perhaps? His father was being made a scapegoat for backing the losing side (and since the former regent was still alive, well, and the father of the Queen the blame was hardly going to go to him) and yet the Warden had no knowledge of this. That could work. He had found Delilah in Amaranthine, however, and what she had to say about their father…it didn’t seem real. Slaving, kidnapping, torturing…it couldn’t be real.
 
He was taking a brisk walk around the Keep to try and clear his head when he saw him. Groundskeeper Samuel. The man who had informed him that his sister was still alive and told him how to find her. He had never left Amaranthine even after the Grey Wardens had taken over, had he? He would be able to tell him more about what had happened. It wasn’t like Nathaniel was going to take the word of Samuel above the word of his sister, of course, but the idea of his father being a monster – though he had intellectually accepted it – just refused to sink in. The more people he asked and who confirmed those ugly rumors the better chance he had of finally believing it…or so he hoped. This cognitive dissonance, believing in his father’s evil and good at the same time, was killing him.
 
Samuel was pulling at some weeds behind the Keep when Nathaniel approached him. Once he registered Nathaniel’s presence, he straightened immediately. “Oh, you’re back. Did you find Lady Delilah?”
 
Nathaniel nodded absently. “I did. She seemed…well. She also said some very disturbing things.”
 
Samuel tilted his head. “Oh?” he prompted.
 
“You worked here after I left and up until my father’s death, right?” Nathaniel asked, almost rhetorically.
 
Samuel nodded. “And I haven’t stopped working even now that the Arling has changed hands. There’s nobody that knows the grounds of this place better than me.”
 
“Delilah said…” Nathaniel began. Stopped. Steeled himself. “Delilah said that our father was a monster. I wasn’t here. I don’t know. Would you agree with that?”
 
Samuel hesitated. “Your father spent most of his last year of life in Denerim dealing with the civil war and consolidating his power,” he hedged. “Just the same…”
 
“Yes?” Nathaniel asked, struggling not to let his impatience show.
 
“Just the same I’ve worked for that man since the Orlesians were thrown out of the country and it was safe to come out of hiding,” Samuel replied. “The pay was good and Amaranthine itself is beautiful, plus it’s near enough to the Alienage in Highever so I can’t say I ever regretted taking the job.”
 
Nathaniel sensed there was a ‘but’ coming. “What was the problem then?”
 
“Your father was never a friend to the elves,” Samuel said delicately. “Oh, I know we could have had it far worse, don’t get me wrong. Under the Orlesians we did have it far worse. Even in Ferelden, the tales told about Bann Vaughan are enough to chill the soul. Your father was never nearly that bad but it was still painfully obvious that elves weren’t really people to him. Like so many others, he felt that because we were different than human we must be subhuman as well. I do not claim to know what your father got up to in Denerim but it would not surprise me in the slightest if he really did lead a purge through the Alienage and send phony Tevinter ‘healers’ to enslave them.”
 
“I see,” Nathaniel said, his heart plummeting. It seemed like he was the only one surprised to hear what his father had gotten up to after massacring the Couslands…well, aside from the Couslands, of course.
 
“I’m not telling you this to hurt you or to make you think less of your father,” Samuel said earnestly. “Because for better or for worse he was your father and I know that you loved him.”
 
“Then why are you telling it to me?” Nathaniel demanded. “Well…aside from the fact that I asked and it may be the truth.”
 
“You are a Grey Warden now,” Samuel explained. “I watched you grow up, you know. It’s been killing you to be a part of the evil order that murdered your father, hasn’t it?”
 
Reluctantly, Nathaniel nodded in confirmation.
 
“I don’t expect that knowing the truth about your father will make you happy,” Samuel continued. “But your father is dead and you’re not. The Grey Wardens aren’t going anywhere either and from what I understand you can’t just stop being one, even if you do decide to quit one day. I hope that by realizing the truth about your father you will be able to find peace one day.”
 
Nathaniel couldn’t imagine that ever happening. Still, it was a bit premature to say for certain and he might be pleasantly surprised one day when he realized that he was at peace with what had happened.
 
Samuel was still staring at him.
 
“Thank you,” Nathaniel said with a tight smile. He didn’t feel very thankful but Samuel had done as he asked and being in a bad mood was no reason not to be polite. He made his excuses and then quickly hurried away.
 
He could feel Samuel’s eyes on him until he was all the way back in his room.

[Sarah1281]

This week's Alistair prompt is 'Everyone has a darker side.'


Alistair may not have ever really felt that he was the bravest guy around or the smartest (although he often felt like he was the funniest but that was more due to the humorless men he found himself surrounded by than any great skill on his part) but he could at least rest assured that he was, without a doubt, a decent person.
 
Not to say that he was perfect, of course, and he had plenty of foibles but he never went out of his way to hurt people and he often went out of his way to help them. Often but not always because, again, lack of perfection and his situation not always making it feasible to lend a hand. Lothering, for instance. He had wanted so badly to save those people but even if he had stayed until the Blight devoured the town he wouldn’t have been able to do much and then who would save the rest of Ferelden? Leliana said that the fact that he felt so horrible about doing what he had to do to save everybody meant that he was a good person. Alistair himself wasn’t so sure but he figured that Leliana had spent a lot of time recently doing some soul-searching and reflection in the Chantry so she would probably know better than he would.
 
It wasn’t like Alistair was trying to be the best person around but he generally held to the belief that he was thoroughly decent. Despite his templar training, he had supported saving the mages. He had supported ending the curse the werewolves had been under and thus saving both them and the Dalish. He had supported saving Redcliffe from the walking dead and then in saving both Connor and Isolde. He had been horrified when what seemed like the entire village of Haven had attacked them and forced him and the others to wipe them all out. Morality mattered to him. The world wasn’t black and white and so sometimes the right thing to do wouldn’t be clear – like pretty much everything in Orzammar – but at least he could say that he always tried.
 
Except.
 
Except there had been a slow-burning hatred in him ever since Ostagar. He had tried to stay calm, tried to impartially find a reason for Loghain’s sudden retreat and the massacre that followed but he hadn’t been able to. Part of it, he supposed, was the cryptic little hints that Flemeth had given him about what had happened. But really? “Men's hearts hold shadows darker than any tainted creature”? How else was he supposed to interpret that and the dozens of other pithy statements just like it? Another part of it was the fact that Duncan was dead. Duncan and the other Wardens and King Cailan and hundreds if not thousands of good Ferelden men…all of whom were counting on the celebrated Teyrn Loghain to charge.
 
So maybe Alistair had problems thinking about Loghain rationally but it wasn’t like the man hadn’t seemed to go out of his way to prove what a treacherous bastard he really was. Declaring himself regent and sparking a civil war, sending an assassin after them, declaring the Grey Wardens outlaws, blaming the Grey Wardens for his own crimes, snatching a blood mage from templars that he then imprisoned, sending said blood mage to poison Arl Eamon and indirectly causing everything that followed, selling elves into slavery, allowing the torture of nobles, having his own daughter kidnapped and making her fear for her life…Alistair felt that he could have been thoroughly convinced that quitting the field at Ostagar was the only way to preserve what was left of the army and thus save the country because everyone else was doomed anyway and he still would have found plenty of reason to want Loghain’s head.
 
So no, it wasn’t like he had a problem with this burning hatred because he felt that Loghain didn’t deserve it because he did and quite a bit more, too. What was really starting to scare him was what that hatred was doing to him. His fellow Warden had tentatively brought up the fact that Anora had spoken out in support of sparing her father’s life if it was at all practical to do so and his reaction to that had been quite a bit stronger than he’d expected. He had been, in the moment that followed this announcement, perfectly willing to give Anora the crown and let her rule despite his serious reservations about her concern for the people if it had meant Loghain’s death. He had tried to imagine watching Loghain walk out of the Landsmeet chambers alive and his first reaction had been that he’d walk out of Ferelden if he did. If anyone should even think to spare Loghain by conscripting him then he didn’t even know how he would react.
 
That…that wasn’t right. Loghain was evil, yes, but leaving wouldn’t hurt him so much as it would hurt Ferelden and the country he had worked tirelessly to save for the past year didn’t deserve to be abandoned by him just because Loghain was still around. He knew that, he did, but he couldn’t guarantee that he could bring himself to stay if things had played out that way.
 
That was why, when Loghain had surprisingly been talked down from attempting to kill them all for voting against them, Alistair had been so eager to duel Loghain himself. His fellow Warden looked like she had some serious reservations about letting him but she had ultimately agreed and that was all that mattered. The duel was to go on until one side became incapable of fighting or until one party yielded.
 
“So, there is some of Maric in you after all. Good,” Loghain said, resheathing his sword. He sounded calm, like he knew what was coming.
 
Loghain had just yielded. He didn’t even have a weapon in hand anymore. Technically, the duel was over even if it hadn’t been called. He should just let it go, he knew. He should trust that justice would be done and Loghain would be executed as a traitor for what he had done to Ferelden over the past year. But…his fellow Warden had seemed almost disappointed when he had so vehemently objected to Anora’s desire to let Loghain live if it could be done. It was unlikely, yes, but did he really want to risk it? He may get justice in the future but he could get justice right now. The blade was in his hands and Loghain’s head was bowed to make it oh-so-easy to just swing his sword and…
 
“Forget Maric. This is for Duncan.”
 
Everyone had a darker side.

[Sarah1281]

This week's Zevran prompt is 'Crows.'


Zevran wasn’t quite sure what was going on but he didn’t like the way the man with the tattoos on his face was looking at him. The manager of the ****house, Loretta, was standing nearby, watching the tattooed man very carefully. Zevran didn’t often see Loretta as he and the other children were usually looked after by Imelda who was too old to work like the others.
 
This morning, he had been woken up far earlier than usual and told to wash up despite it not being his scheduled bath day. He had also been given twice the amount of food for breakfast that he usually had after Loretta, who had appeared in the kitchen, had told everyone that he was all ribs and bones. When he and the other nine children (two girls and eight boys) were done, they had been led into a room and lined up.
 
That was when the man with the tattoos had shown up and started walking back and forth and looking at them. Sometimes, he’d stop and pinch one of them or open their mouth so he could examine their teeth. It was all so very strange and Zevran didn’t like it when the man did it to him but no one else had said anything or squirmed and so he didn’t either. He had been learning some of the things that the women did in the ****house (because this one only had women) and was getting quite good at the massages. Was he being taken to a ****house that offered boys? He was getting pretty old. At seven he was the oldest one child there. There had been some children older than him in the past, he remembered, but they had all left some time ago. He didn’t know where they went or what happened to them.
 
Eventually, the man stopped. “I’ll take both girls and the boys at either end,” he declared.
 
Zevran was on the end.
 
Loretta hesitated. “The girls? But they could be raised to join our establishment and that one boy is elven.”
 
“I’ll give you three sovereign apiece for them,” the man said, making it sound more like a fact than an offer.
 
Loretta seemed to sense this, too, and she nodded. “Very well.”
 
The man took a fat pouch out of his pocket and quietly counted out twelve gold pieces before handing them to Loretta who quickly reached out to take the money and then drew back as if she were afraid to touch the man for any longer than was absolutely necessary.
 
“Come children,” Loretta said, calling the boys that had not been chosen to her and then ushering them into another one. She cast one last look at the ones who had been chosen before shutting the door behind her.
 
Once they were alone, the man began to pace again. “My name is Damiano and I’ve just bought you four. This means that from now on you belong to the Antivan Crows.”
 
Zevran had never heard of the Antivan Crows before and he didn’t think that the others had either since they were all younger and had been born in the ****house just as he had even if their mothers were still alive.
 
Their confusion must have shown on their faces as Damiano continued, “The Crows are the assassins that operate in Antiva. All assassinations in this country go through us. You will be trained to become assassins yourselves. Succeed and you will live a life of luxury and privilege. Fail and you will die violently, perhaps at the hands of your fellows. That is all you need to know.”
 
Zevran shivered slightly. That didn’t sound good. He’d never killed anybody (except for his mother, a traitorous voice in the back of his head reminded him) and he didn’t know how to do that. He was sure he’d end up being one of the ones violently killed. Still, he didn’t have a choice about going since Loretta had been paid three whole sovereign for him. He definitely wasn’t worth that much and if the Crows realized it then he was going to be hurt a lot. Maybe if he worked really hard at the training he might get lucky and not have to die after all…or at least put it off for awhile.
 
“I-I don’t want to go!” one of the girls cried out suddenly. “I want to stay here with my mommy!”
 
Damiano backhanded her across the face. “None of that, now. You’re never going to see your mommy again and the sooner you get used to that, the better chance you have of surviving. Make a fuss and I’ll drag you out of here. Make yourself more trouble than you’re worth and I’ll slit your throat right now. Do I make myself clear?”
 
The frightened girl, held the spot where he’d smacked her and, her eyes beginning to fill with tears, nodded.
 
No, this definitely didn’t sound like a good idea. And yet…what if he had had the choice to stay or to go? What would there be for him here? Nothing, really, and he’d just be sent off to another ****house soon. He’d seen the women after some of their clients had left and how quickly some of them burned out. That didn’t sound like a good idea either.
 
A life of luxury and privilege? He couldn’t even imagine. And yet…Damiano had said that if they succeeded that that’s what they’d get. He could be lying but it was more than Zevran had ever thought possible. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe it would be better than what would happen to those other boys who weren’t chosen.
 
As Damiano signaled to the four of them to follow him outside of the ****house and to their new home, Zevran made a silent vow to do whatever it took to be the best Crow there was. He may not have chosen this path, but he’d make the best of it. He always did.

[Sarah1281]

This week's Anders prompt is 'Jealousy.'


Sigrun froze suddenly causing Anders to bump into her and nearly knock her over.
 
“Sorry about that,” he said easily. “Why’d you stop?”
 
Sigrun didn’t say anything but slowly raised one shaking hand towards a particular bush near the Keep.
 
Anders rolled his eyes. “Oh, not this again!”
 
“What?” Sigrun asked innocently. “It’s not my fault if there’s an evil bush over there.”
 
“No,” Anders allowed, “but you’re the one has to keep walking past it.”
 
“I will not allow a plant, no matter how evil, to deter me from going anywhere on the grounds of my own home that I want to,” Sigrun said stubbornly.
 
“You could always ask the groundskeeper to get rid of it for you,” Anders suggested.
 
Sigrun sighed. “I tried that. Nathaniel walked by while I was talking to him and because they used to know each other from way back when, Nathaniel dragged me away and forbid me from bothering the guy about evil plants.”
 
“And you listened because…?” Anders prompted.
 
Sigrun looked at him as if he were stupid. “Because he is the second-in-command to Angélique Amell and therefore the one really running things.”
 
Anders realized that she had a point. Not that he would have had much experience with it in the Tower, but he supposed that not having the person in charge upset with you was bound to make life easier. “What I don’t get is why you seem to think that bush is evil, anyway.”
 
“I don’t think it’s evil,” Sigrun replied matter-of-factly.
 
Anders raised an eyebrow. “That’s news to me.”
 
“I know that it’s evil,” Sigrun clarified.
 
“How?” Anders challenged.
 
The dwarf looked like she was seriously considering make a bad pun but evidently decided against it. “I don’t know quite how to explain it. It just has this…this aura of evilness!”


“ ‘Aura of evilness’, huh?” Anders repeated skeptically. “Right.”
 
Sigrun sighed again. “You’re so lucky, you know.”
 
Well that was new. Anders had occasionally been told that he was lucky given his success with women but he hadn’t been aware that Sigrun was even interested in her own gender. “I am?” he asked carefully, making sure not to say too much in case he was reading this wrong.
 
“You are,” Sigrun confirmed. “You have the power to destroy that evil bush in so many ways! You could burn it or freeze it or strike it with lightning or send out your purple energy thing or crush it or a dozen other different ways. I’m so jealous.”
 
“Wait, wait, wait,” Anders said, holding up his hand to quiet her as he tried to process this. Surely he hadn’t just heard what he thought he had heard. “You’re jealous of me?”
 
“Right,” Sigrun said with a nod.
 
“Because I am a mage?”
 
Another nod. “Right.”
 
“Because I can kill a plant?” Anders couldn’t believe it.
 
“That is what I just said, yes,” Sigrun agreed.
 
“…Why?” Anders demanded.
 
Now it was Sigrun’s turn to be incredulous. “You know, you just told me why so I’m finding it difficult to believe that you don’t remember.”
 
“No, I do,” Anders assured her. “I just don’t see how you think that being a mage would be worth it because it would enable you to kill a plant that you are perfectly capable of killing already.”
 
“Yes, but then I would have to touch it and its evilness might rub off on me,” Sigrun said matter-of-factly. “It would be so much simpler if I could just shoot a fireball at it from twenty feet away like you can but won’t for some mysterious reason.”
 
“There’s nothing mysterious about it,” Anders argued. “I just don’t see the point. Besides, even if it were an evil bush, I still can’t see why you would actually want to be a mage.”
 
“Yes, it is so very bizarre that someone would find the nearly unlimited power at your fingertips to be appealing,” Sigrun deadpanned.
 
“You know, that’s almost as appealing as being torn kicking and screaming from your parents once the templars catch wind of your having magic…and that’s only IF your parents aren’t the overly religious types who really think that their child is evil and stop loving them the minute they change the color of their hair or freeze some water,” Anders exclaimed, clapping his hands together.
 
“That sounds rough,” Sigrun agreed. “Sort of like how where I come from, many little girls are raised to be ****s to try and improve their potentially bitter, drunken mother’s life…and that’s only IF your mother didn’t decide to sell you off or abandon you in the Deep Roads.”
 
Sigrun was so insanely cheerful sometimes that Anders almost forgot her freakishly depressing backstory. But still… “And then once that’s done, getting to spend your entire life trapped in a tower in the middle of a lake unless you’re either especially good at licking the templars’ boots or particularly bad at staying put is just such a delight. I used to thank the Maker every day for being a mage.”
 
“I know I would,” Sigrun told him dreamily. “Well…if I believed in the Maker, I would. I would definitely thank someone, though. Not the Ancestors since I don’t have those. I will have to think on this but rest assured that someone will be thanked!”
 
“You wouldn’t mind being trapped in the Circle Tower forever?” Anders asked, stunned. Given all of her energy, Sigrun had never really struck him as the type not to mind being cooped up somewhere for long periods of time.
 
“No, I would probably hate it,” Sigrun admitted. “But at least you wouldn’t be told you were worthless-”
 
“Even if you were told that you were evil,” Anders muttered.
 
Sigrun ignored the interruption. “And you wouldn’t have to struggle every day and do all sorts of horrible things just to stay alive. Besides, if I ended up in the same place I am now then I would have escaped the Circle, become a Warden, and been able to destroy that evil bush!”
 
Anders groaned. She was never going to let that go, was she? Almost lazily, he flung out his arm and watched the fireball speed towards the supposedly evil bush and engulf it in flames, Sigrun cackling evilly beside him.

[Sarah1281]

The prompt for the Anders thread finally reaching page 200 is 'Grey Warden.'


The king looked over at Anders with an overly-eager expression. “So, what can you tell me about being a Grey Warden? You must have some great stories and invaluable insight into the nature of the darkspawn.”
 
Anders fought the urge to roll his eyes. He wasn’t quite sure about the details but after he’d been dragged back to the Circle Tower after his sixth escape attempt, he had found Duncan, Irving, and Greagoir waiting for him. Duncan had introduced himself and Irving had practically thrown Anders at the Grey Warden. Greagoir hadn’t looked pleased at what was happening but Irving said something about how he would be somebody else’s problem now and Greagoir seemed to accept that. So within twenty minutes of stepping off the boat, Anders was back on it and heading for Ostagar to become a Grey Warden and fight darkspawn.
 
It wasn’t what he had expected, but at least he hadn’t had to go back to the Tower and now never would have to again. Unfortunately, shortly after his Joining he and Alistair had walked by Cailan and Teyrn Loghain’s strategy session. Cailan had immediately lost interest in the planning – not that he appeared to have had much to begin with – and started pestering the pair with all sorts of questions. Loghain had frowned at Alistair and quickly dragged him away, leaving Anders to deal with Cailan’s bizarre fascination with the Grey Wardens.
 
“You realize that I’ve been a Warden for about three hours now, right?” Anders asked him.
 
Cailan nodded. “I had heard something like that from Duncan when I walked by him setting up a funeral pyre for the bodies of those other two recruits.”
 
That gave Anders pause. He had been under the impression that the Joining was a secret. That had been part of Duncan’s justification for killing what’s-his-name, after all. “Wait…you know that the other two died?”
 
Cailan looked mildly affronted. “Of course I do! Even if I hadn’t seen Duncan getting rid of them, I surely would have noticed when one the three Warden recruits became just one Warden.”
 
“And you don’t think that that is at all unusual?” Anders pressed.
 
Cailan shook his head. “Not particularly. I know that the Joining has a high mortality rate.”
 
Anders choked. “You…You know about that as well?”
 
Cailan laughed. “Oh, who doesn’t? My father – King Maric the savior, you know – once went on a glorious adventure with the Grey Wardens back when he first allowed them back into the country twenty years ago and it’s always been a very popular tale.”
 
“So…your father learned all sorts of Grey Warden secrets when he went on some mysterious adventure with them and now he goes around telling everyone?” Anders couldn’t believe it. What’s-his-name had died to protect a secret that had already been told? It was a good thing that Anders had never liked what’s-his-name and his typical fear of mages or else he might actually be upset by this turn of events.
 
“Well, he did,” Cailan corrected, looking sad for a moment. “He’s dead now, of course.”
 
“But…why?” Anders asked, dumbfounded.
 
Cailan shrugged. “Why not? It’s a very thrilling story, you know, and Loghain likes it because it reminds everybody of how evil the Orlesians can be and also how badass he is – though he won’t admit to that last part. I like it because of that hot elven mage in it. Other people like it because the talking darkspawn was really interesting or because it showed just how far my father would go to protect his people.”
 
Anders still couldn’t quite wrap his mind around this. “And the Grey Wardens don’t care that your father tells everyone their most deeply-held secrets to amuse them?”
 
“Well, if they do care then it’s not like they ever did anything to try and deter him from doing so so I’m sure they don’t mind that much,” Cailan reasoned. “But enough about that. Tell me about your thrilling adventures! I heard you went into the Korcari Wilds earlier.”
 
“That was before I became a Warden, though,” Anders pointed out.
 
“Close enough,” Cailan said dismissively. “You were a Warden recruit, after all.”
 
“Well…we went into the Wilds,” Anders began. “We killed a bunch of darkspawn and some wolves. We looked for some ancient treaties but they were gone. This really hot mage told us that her distinctly less hot mage mother had them and they gave it back to us and then the hot mage accompanied us out of the Wilds.”
 
“Treaties?” Cailan perked up. “Oh, this sounds good. What kind of treaties?”
 
Anders shrugged. “I wasn’t really listening. Something about how after the last Blight the mages, Dalish, and dwarves agreed to help out in case a new Blight came and so they signed treaties to that effect. Duncan thinks that over the past four centuries, their goodwill may have died down just a little and so we may need to actually use the treaties should the need for non-Ferelden allies arise. Of course, I’m not sure that the Chantry would even allow the mages to help with the treaty, let alone without it…”
 
Cailan’s eyes were shining. “Oh, you just leave the Chantry to me. The Grey Wardens will get their mage allies, I promise you that! Just think…I’ll get to go into battle with not only the Grey Wardens and have an epic war like in the tales but I’ll get to have the dwarves, Dalish, and mages by my side as well! Maker, it will be like the fourth Blight all over again!”
 
“And…that’s a good thing?” Anders asked uncertainly. From what he had remembered from the history lessons he never paid attention to, the fourth Blight was kind of awful and nobody should want to go through something like that.
 
Cailan wasn’t listening, though. “Oh, I’ve got to find Loghain and tell him all about these treaties! He should be as glad to hear of it as I am since it would mean we wouldn’t need to rely so much on the Orlesians…”

[Sarah1281]

This week's Alistair prompt is 'Lyrium is one hell of a drug.'


Alistair had never been more sure that he didn’t want to be a templar than he was today, which was really saying something when you considered that he had hated his future career since the moment Arl Eamon had told him about it.
 
Today a templar had arrived at the Denerim Chantry for a day or two on his way to Val Royeaux for his retirement. Ser Graham was the man’s name and Alistair had been assigned to keep watch over him for the duration of his stay. No one else had wanted the job and, honestly, Alistair hadn’t either but he had just been caught jumping on the revered mother’s bed (though he had gotten two galleons for it and so he considered it well-worth it) and so he was being punished. How sad when after a full lifetime of service to the Chantry, a retiring templar had to have people being punished by being in his presence.
 
The reason that no one wanted to go anywhere near Ser Graham was because, in addition to the fact that they all had better things to do than keep an eye on him, he was – quite frankly – extremely creepy. Since arriving, Ser Graham had gazed at everything with an almost child-like sense of wonder as if he had never seen it before and occasionally his head would swivel from side to side as if he honestly had no idea where he was. The others had told him that Ser Graham was suffering from years lyrium intake…years of lyrium intake that he would be expected to go through once he stopped being able to put off the taking of his vows.
 
So, Ser Graham really bothered him but it wasn’t like he had much of a choice about talking to him and so Alistair squared his shoulders and marched determinedly over to the aging templar.
 
Ser Graham blinked at him. “Hello,” he said, sounding very much as if he was speaking from the bottom of a well. “You look like King Maric.”
 
Alistair winced. He hadn’t gotten that nearly as much since his biological father had died. “I’m not,” he said flatly.
 
“Oh,” Ser Graham said slowly. “I remember…did he die?”
 
“He did,” Alistair confirmed quietly.
 
“Why am I here?” Ser Graham asked. “I don’t belong here.”
 
Alistair coughed awkwardly. “Well…this is the Denerim Chantry.”
 
“The Denerim Chantry,” Ser Graham repeated. “I don’t think I’ve been here before. Still, if the Maker calls upon me to serve here then I will do my sacred duty as a templar and serve here.”
 
“You’re only going to be here for a few days,” Alistair corrected. “Then you’re going to Val Royeaux, remember?”
 
If the way Ser Graham was frowning at him was any indication then he did not. “Val Royeaux…that’s in Orlais, I think. Are we speaking to Orlais again? Or did they ever even leave? I don’t quite…remember.”
 
“They left, yes,” Alistair confirmed, glad to be on more familiar grounds. “Nearly thirty years ago King Maric and Teyrn Loghain drove them out. Ferelden is dealing with them again but the Ferelden Chantry never stopped.” As the Divine herself was in Val Royeaux, that was hardly surprising nor was the fact that the Chantry had supposedly supported the occupation which still made them a little unpopular to this day.
 
“That’s good,” Ser Graham declared, blinking rapidly. “I am a templar first and foremost but I would hate to have to live out my days in a land that is an enemy of my home.”
 
Alistair surreptitiously looked around to see if anyone was paying any attention to them before he asked his next question. They weren’t. “So, uh…what exactly happened to you? Why are you…retiring?”
 
Ser Graham frowned again. “I don’t know. That may be the problem. I just…there’s so many things that I…everything’s all blurry and I just don’t know. It makes it harder to do the Maker’s sacred duty but I am determined to do my best until the end of my days.”
 
“I see,” Alistair said unhappily. Was the still-fanatical devotion to the Maker and the Chantry a result of the lyrium or just a lifetime of service to the Chantry? Neither possibility really sat well with Alistair.
 
Ser Graham suddenly pulled out a bottle that Alistair could identify from the smell as lyrium. He began to gulp it down with an almost painful desperation and it was hard for Alistair to watch it. This man, Ser Graham, was losing his mind to the lyrium and yet even now he was still taking it. It seemed…horrible. Of course, it wasn’t like there was any better option. The lyrium withdrawal would drive him crazy all the faster if what Alistair had heard was true.
 
Lyrium was one hell of a drug and, though he had no idea how to keep this promise, Alistair swore to himself that he’d find a way to avoid this fate ever becoming his.

[Sarah1281]

So here is the second Anders prompt I did for the page 200 theme of 'Grey Warden.'


Anders had been at the Circle Tower for all of a week and already he knew that he had to get out of there. His mother had been right about it. It wasn’t like he hadn’t believed her, exactly, but he had difficulty imagining that it would be quite this bad. Some of the mages here had no memories of a life outside and kept asking him to tell them stories (which he did, gladly, as he loved the attention) and about such basic things like what the sun was like. How was he supposed to explain something like that? Everyone in the Tower was so very pale and lifeless and he couldn’t stand the thought of that happening to him. Plus, everyone said that the templars wanted to kill all the mages and could stop their magic from working and even though Anders wasn’t quite sure if that were true, the giant templars in their stupid bucket-helmets and their refusal to speak more than necessary were just a little bit…concerning. Not scary at all.
 
“Ander?” a late middle-aged woman called out to him. She was one of the senior enchanters he’d seen around sometimes. Gwynn or something like that.
 
“That’s Anders with an ‘s’,” Anders corrected sullenly. Hopefully she wasn’t about to start giving him a lecture about how she ‘understood’ him and the ‘troubles he was having to adjust’ like Irving kept doing. Honestly, if he didn’t want to talk the first time Irving offered, why would he want to the fifth? Or however many times Irving asked him?
 
“My apologies,” Gwynn told him with a slightly sheepish smile. “I’ve never been the best with names. My name is Wynne.”
 
Gwynn, Wynne, close enough. Still, at least he knew this now before he called her the wrong name and proved that he wasn’t any better at it than she was. “Did you want something?” Well, that had come out a little ruder than he’d wanted but oh well. It wasn’t like he wanted to talk anyway.
 
Wynne shook her head tolerantly. “Not particularly, I just wanted to know if you wanted to talk.”
 
Anders scowled. “I already told Irving that-”
 
To his surprise, she cut him off. “I know. Irving’s quite concerned, you know, but we don’t have to talk about the Circle.”
 
Anders tilted his head. “What else could we possibly have to talk about? You’ve been here since you were younger than me, right?”
 
“I have,” Wynne confirmed. “But I’ve been a Harrowed mage for a very long time now and sometimes that means that I can leave the Tower.”
 
Anders eyes widened. This sounded promising. “Leave the Tower?” he asked, hoping that he sounded casual.
 
The way Wynne grinned at him made him think that he hadn’t been successful. “Oh, yes. There is often a need for a trustworthy mage to perform some service outside of the Tower. It will only happen if you study hard and pass your Harrowing and if you don’t give the templars a hard time. Leaving the Tower is a privilege and not a right.”
 
Anders scowled again, suddenly feeling that that wasn’t so much of a makersend after all. “It should be.”
 
Wynne ignored that. “How about if I tell you a story?”
 
“What kind of story?” Anders asked her suspiciously. “Is it one about the kind of adventures I’ll get to have if I’m a good little mage and don’t bother the templars?”
 
“No,” Wynne started to say. She stopped. “Well…maybe. You never know. Have you ever heard of an order called the Grey Wardens?”
 
Anders thought back. It did sound vaguely familiar. “Did it have griffons?”
 
Wynne laughed. “Griffons! Alas, that seems to be the only thing people remember from the tales – the mighty flying mounts that bore the Grey Wardens into battle.”
 
“That’s probably because they’re the most interesting part,” Anders informed her. Despite having no idea what else the Grey Wardens did (which was probably something unless they were an order of griffon breeders which would actually be kind of cool), he knew that there was really no way that they could possibly do anything cooler than have griffons. “I wish I had a griffon.” It was probably best not to mention that he wanted one to fly away from the Tower from on.
 
“That certainly would be something, wouldn’t it?” Wynne asked rhetorically. “Unfortunately, it’s quite impossible as the griffons died out after the last Blight.”
 
“Why?” Anders asked, indignant. One would think the Grey Wardens would take better care of their most awesome feature.
 
Wynne shrugged. “The Grey Wardens suffered heavy losses at the end of the last Blight. Perhaps too many griffons died and there weren’t enough to sustain their population and to keep breeding with. It was said that watching the Wardens ride in on their white griffons was enough to rouse a weary heart, and put the dance back in the step of an old man. The Grey Wardens were powerful and feared back then but they also were respected and inspired the common people.”
 
“Why be feared or loved if you could be both, huh?” Anders mused.
 
“I suppose that’s one way of looking at it,” Wynne agreed. “And it brings me to a story I heard once many years ago-”
 
“Does the story have griffons in it?” Anders asked eagerly.
 
Wynne threw up her hands. “Maker’s breath, it’s like talking to a child!”
 
Anders crossed his arms and glared at her. “Well, it’s not like I know what else they do!”
 
“They fight darkspawn,” Wynne explained. “They are the only ones who can end a Blight. Didn’t you make the connection when I said that the griffons suffered heavy losses in the last Blight?”
 
Anders shrugged. “I didn’t want to presume. Besides, the Blight kills everything so how would I know?”
 
Wynne rolled her eyes. “Yes, there are griffons in the story. Now be quiet and listen. ‘The Blight had ravaged the land for months, and the armies of the great kings had amassed for one last stand. As the sun burst through the clouds that boiled and churned in the dark sky above, it illuminated a vast seething horde of darkspawn, with the Archdemon at its head. And it was then – when courage seemed to fail, and all lost to death and despair – that the Grey Wardens came. They arrived with the beating of wings like mighty war drums, and stood before the armies of men.’”
 
“The Grey Wardens had wings?” Anders asked, confused. “No, wait…that would be the griffons, wouldn’t it?”
 
“Yes, it was the griffons,” Wynne said tolerantly. “Now shush. ‘The Grey Wardens, grim and fearless, marched forth, ever between the men and the encroaching darkspawn. They formed a shield of their own bodies and held that line until the Archdemon was dead and the last darkspawn lay trampled in the dirt. And then, demanding neither reward nor recognition for their sacrifice, the Grey Wardens departed. When the clouds finally rolled back and the sun shone full upon the blighted ground, the great kings knew that they had lost no men, and none of their blood had been spilled.’”
 
Anders just stared at her for a moment. “That…is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Why wouldn’t they get around to the other side of the darkspawn? And why would they become a human shield if they’re more valuable fighters? And wouldn’t they be more effective if they’d let the armies fight? Why else would the armies even be there? And why couldn’t they have shown up earlier? And maybe if they had demanded some recognition they wouldn’t be forgotten today. And why wouldn’t they want anything for ending a sodding Blight? And are we really supposed to believe that nobody died at all? What, are the Wardens super-human now? And what happened to the griffons? You weren’t even going to mention them if I hadn’t brought them up, were you? And-”
 
“That wasn’t about any specific battle!” Wynne interrupted, exasperated. “It’s an allegory.”
 
“A what?” Anders repeated blankly.
 
“An allegory, a figurative mode of representation conveying meaning other than the literal,” Wynne explained.
 
“…Right.”
 
“It communicates its message by means of symbolic figures, actions or symbolic representation,” Wynne clarified.
 
“I see,” Anders said, only slightly less confused. “And that’s supposed to explain its stupidity?”
 
“It’s not stupid,” Wynne snapped. “It represents how the Grey Wardens have always defended us from darkspawn and taken losses so that we would not have to. People may have forgotten, but nothing has changed and I just know that if and when the darkspawn return, the Grey Wardens will be ready for them!”
 
“Yeah, that’s great,” Anders told her. “But, no offense, I really don’t think I would ever want to be a Grey Warden.”
 
Wynne snorted. “None taken. And, no offense, I really don’t think I would ever want you to be a Grey Warden either.”

[Sarah1281]

This week's Nathaniel prompt is 'Hero.'


If there was one thing that Nathaniel’s nephew had in common with his namesake, it was the fact that he had a mild obsession with Grey Wardens. Unlike with their own parents, Delilah and her husband had no deep-seated issues with the ancient order that was ruling over their Arling and so Thomas didn’t have to hide it like his uncle had.
 
Somehow, Thomas’ normal childhood fascination with the famed Blight-enders had led to him declaring that Nathaniel was his hero and following him around whenever he came to the Keep for a visit or Nathaniel came into town to see them.
 
“So your mother told me that you hate to go shopping,” Nathaniel remarked as the pair began to walk back to Delilah’s house.
 
Thomas made a face. “Do I ever! It’s all just a bunch of standing around and carrying things and mom and dad always take too long to pick things out.”
 
Nathaniel nodded. That really wasn’t unexpected for a boy his age. “That leads me to wonder why you just insisted on going on a three-hour shopping trip with me where you smiled the whole time and didn’t complain once.”
 
“Oh, well that’s different,” Thomas explained.
 
“Because…?” Nathaniel prompted. “I would think your parents’ shopping expeditions take less time as they can go to the market whenever they want and I have to make a special trip from Vigil’s Keep.”
 
Thomas shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s just boring when they take me there but it’s really cool when you do, even if it does take a lot longer.”
 
Nathaniel blinked in confusion a few times at that. “Why?”
 
“Hm…I think it’s because you’re a Grey Warden,” Thomas theorized. “And everyone knows that everything that Grey Wardens do is awesome.”
 
“Do they, now?” Nathaniel asked, amused.
 
“Absolutely,” Thomas said seriously with a firm nod. “Although I kind of think you guys would be cooler if you still had griffons.”
 
“So does everybody,” Nathaniel murmured. “So why are you such a fan of the Grey Wardens?”
 
Thomas’ eyes widened. “Are you kidding me? Why wouldn’t I be?”
 
“I really want to know,” Nathaniel confirmed. “So if you have a reason, I would be happy to hear it.”
 
“You saved everyone from the Blight!” Thomas burst out. “And then you saved all of Amaranthine from the evil talking darkspawn!”
 
“Both of those things happened before you were even born,” Nathaniel pointed out. “And I wasn’t even around during the Blight.”
 
“So?” Thomas countered. “That doesn’t mean that it’s not still awesome or that the Grey Wardens didn’t do it. Besides, they’re almost scary-good at fighting.”
 
“ ‘Scary-good’?” Nathaniel repeated, a little puzzled. How could they be so talented at fighting that it was scary? Well, if this was the enemy’s perspective he could understand that but the main enemy of the Grey Wardens were the darkspawn and they hadn’t seen any talking darkspawn for years.
 
“ ‘Scary-good’ means ‘insanely-good’,” Thomas helpfully translated. Upon seeing that this cleared nothing up for his uncle, he continued, “Or ‘really good.’”
 
“Then why don’t you just say ‘really good’?” Nathaniel inquired.
 
Thomas shrugged again. “Because everyone else says ‘scary-good’ or ‘insanely-good.’”
 
“So that’s all that it takes to be a hero, huh?” Nathaniel asked rhetorically, feeling somewhat cynical. “Being a talented fighter and killing a lot of darkspawn?”
 
“You make it sound like that’s really easy,” Thomas protested. He thought for a moment. “Of course, I suppose for you it might really be but for most people it’s kind of not.”
 
“I just think you’re throwing about the term ‘hero’ a little lightly,” Nathaniel told him.
 
“What’s a hero for you, then?” Thomas challenged.
 
Nathaniel frowned, contemplating the question. “For me, I guess, a hero would be someone who saw what was wrong with the world and took steps to correct it, preferably for minimal reward.”
 
“Sort of like, I don’t know, someone who fight the darkspawn wherever they go even when everyone else forgets about them?” Thomas asked innocently. “Even when everyone else thinks they don’t exist anymore? And who have to be scary-good fighters in order to do this?”
 
Nathaniel couldn’t help the surprised laugh that burst out of him. “Yes, I suppose just like that. But even though the Grey Wardens might technically fit the qualifications, I still don’t really feel like we’re the big heroes that you and everyone else think that we are.”
 
That stopped Thomas for a moment and he stuck his lip out as he tried to find a way around this new problem. “You know,” he said casually once he had thought of something. “I think that maybe that’s one of the most important qualifications of a hero: they think that they do just what anybody else would have done and don’t realize just how heroic they really are.”
 
“That’s certainly one way to look at it,” Nathaniel agreed. He was more inclined to think that their ‘whatever it takes’ philosophy and their cruel recruitment practices were what really separated them from the heroes but he was hardly going to tell his little nephew that, even had he been allowed to.
 
“But not the way you would, right?” Thomas guessed. “Typical hero. There is still one small problem, though.”
 
“And what is that?” Nathaniel asked him.
 
“I want to be a Grey Warden when I grow up but since I already know that they’re a bunch of heroes, would that at all affect my hero status?” Thomas wondered.

[Sarah1281]

So now there are guest prompts for Alistair as well. This one is 'In a perfect world we never would have met.'


The door opened.
 
“Where are you going?” King Cailan asked curiously as he quietly slipped into the room.
 
Prince Alistair, dressed in splintmail armor, reluctantly pulled his foot back through the window. “Escaping.”
 
“Escaping,” Cailan repeated, sounding amused. “From what, exactly? The palace is hardly a prison.”
 
“There are certainly enough guards to staff one,” Alistair muttered.
 
“Oh, they’re just there to make sure everyone knows who we are and to carry out our orders,” Cailan said easily. “Well…and technically also to protect us but I’ve never found myself in much need of protecting and you can certainly take care of yourself. Still, it’s nice not to have to.”
 
“I will concede that they are important,” Alistair acknowledged. “But how am I supposed to see the real Denerim if they’re always following me around and making sure everyone knows that a ‘royal personage’ is coming?”
 
Cailan laughed. “The ‘real’ Denerim? And where, exactly, do you think we are now? The secret fake Denerim?”
 
“It might as well be for all that it compares with the rest of the city,” Alistair declared. “I want to meet the people and the guards, regardless of their intentions, get in the way. They won’t let me out by myself and so I’m escaping.”
 
Cailan rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “You know, as your king and elder brother, I feel like I really should put a stop to this reckless course of action.”
 
“But you won’t, right?” Alistair asked hopefully.
 
Cailan laughed again. “Oh, go have fun, Alistair. And flirt with an elven girl for me. Anora never lets me have any fun…”
 
Alistair thought about pointing out that since he was married, Cailan wasn’t supposed to be having that kind of ‘fun’ so Anora’s attitude on the matter was really quite reasonable but decided that it would just be a wasted effort. His brother had a happy talent for never seeming to notice anything that would inconvenience him. Instead, he nodded his thanks and took off for the tavern.




Ahria Noromin tapped her foot impatiently as she waited for her cousin to join her. Shianni had been increasingly busy since Valendrian had decided on Shianni as the future hahren of the Alienage. They had all been rather…concerned about Shianni’s brash and outspoken nature but, though she would inevitably step on some toes, leading the Alienage would call for that at times. Her mother, who had been a bit of a rabble-rouser herself back in the day, had always insisted that Shianni would turn out fine and now it looked like she was right. Still, they had been planning to go out for drinks just the two of them for weeks and Shianni had better not have forgotten.
 
“I’m sorry I’m late!” Shianni cried out as she ran towards her cousin. “There was a discrepancy with the one of the accounts and-”
 
Ahria shrugged. “At least you’re here now.”
 
“There is that,” Shianni agreed. “Let’s hurry before Soris decides to tag along with us.”
 
“Why didn’t we invite him again?” Ahria asked as the pair began to make their way towards the tavern.
 
Shianni rolled her eyes. “Maker knows I love my brother, but whenever we go anywhere he keeps trying to set me up with people. He claims it’s because he wants to share the joy of matrimony with me – especially when Valora’s around – but I think he just doesn’t want to have to help pay the dowry or risk losing me to Highever.”
 
“Well with your future all planned out, I think there’s very little risk of that happening,” Ahria decided. She had been secretly donating some money to Shianni’s dowry fund because, though she knew her cousin wouldn’t appreciate the ‘charity’, she didn’t want her to have to marry anyone that wasn’t worthy of her.
 
“I notice you didn’t invite Nelaros, either,” Shianni pointed out.
 
“True,” Ahria admitted. “But he’d be kind of a third wheel since the point is to catch up with you. Besides, it’s not as if I didn’t see him all day, anyway.”
 
“You really lucked out with him,” Shianni noted. “Being an elven merchant isn’t easy but since he smiths all your goods for you, you really don’t have to worry about finding a supplier.”
 
“Well, you know what I always say,” Ahria deadpanned. “If you’re going to be forced into an arranged marriage, it might as well be a good one.”




Alistair was standing at the bar when the redheaded elf walked up to him.
 
“Where’s the bartender?” she asked him.
 
Alistair gestured to the room behind the bar. “He actually runs this service for some of the shadier elements in Denerim. ‘Favors for certain interested parties’ and whatnot. He’s meeting with a nobleman right now to work out the details on one of these ‘favors.’” It wasn’t that Cailan didn’t know about this (Alistair had considered it his brotherly duty to tell him about it), it was just that he found it charmingly roguish and was content to let it be.
 
The elf’s eyes widened. “Is he really? You’d think he’d find somebody else to watch the bar.”
 
“I’m Alistair,” Alistair introduced, offering her a hand.
 
“Ahria,” Ahria told him, shaking his hand. “So what are you here for? Not to drink your sorrows away, surely? If nothing else, when you collapse drunk it would be much more comfortable if you weren’t in armor.”
 
Alistair laughed. “Oh, no. I just…needed to get away for awhile and I always love the atmosphere here. You?”
 
“My cousin and I are just here to have some fun,” Ahria replied. She paused. “And since I’m an elf, I feel it might be a good idea to add that by ‘fun’ we do not mean ‘threesome’ and neither of us is looking to go home with anybody.”
 
“Got it,” Alistair told her. “Although my brother did ask me to flirt with someone for him…can I tell him this counts? It’ll save me the embarrassment of trying to find someone else to flirt with. You used the words ‘fun’ and ‘threesome’ and everything!”
 
Ahria smiled. “Oh, why not? While watching you try might be fun, I’m in too good of a mood to be that mean. Hey, do you have a table?”
 
Alistair shook his head. “Not yet. I was waiting for the bartender to come back and get a drink first so I would look less pathetic sitting there by myself.”
 
“Why don’t you come sit with me and my cousin?” Ahria suggested. “We could wait together.”
 
Alistair brightened. “You know, I think I’d like that.”

Modifié par Sarah1281, 29 novembre 2010 - 08:13 .

[Sarah1281]

This week's Zevran prompt was "I ran off to join the famous Dalish when one of their clans drew near Antiva City. Naturally, the reality did not live up at all to the fantasies." 


“Ah, Zevran, a moment of your time,” Keeper Eruohan of clan Aeramiel called out as the newest member of his clan walked by. Zevran had come to them recently from the Antiva Crows and he always ended up leaving Eruohan unsettled for some reason, probably because he could never tell if the younger elf really meant what he said or not.
 
Zevran nodded and hurried over to him. “Of course, Keeper.”
 
How to begin, how to begin? “You’ve been here for several weeks now. How do you feel you’ve been adjusting?” Eruohan inquired politely.
 
“Surprisingly well, actually,” Zevran responded cheerfully. “I had expected things to be a lot harder after our first discussion but everyone’s been very accommodating.”
 
And there was the opening Eruohan had been looking for. “That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about.”
 
“Oh, you wanted to know how friendly Clan Aeramiel has been?” Zevran asked rhetorically. “Well, rest assured that I have no complaints.”
 
Eruohan winced at that. “That’s part of the problem, I’m afraid.”
 
Zevran’s eyes narrowed, confused. “You had expected your clan to be rude? What purpose would that serve? To test how dedicated I am to the Dalish lifestyle?”
 
“Well, that and a fear of spies does tend to lead we Dalish to not always give newcomers the warmest of receptions,” Eruohan admitted before realizing that he was starting on a tangent. “But that wasn’t what I was talking about.”

“Then what were you referring to?” Zevran asked.
 
“For the last two weeks, our hunters have not been killing in the traditional manner,” Eruohan replied, careful to keep the accusation out of his voice.
 
Zevran looked blank. “Is this a problem? I must confess, I haven’t learned enough about your ways to know if it’s scandalous not to shoot them through the heart or the throat or whatever the traditional method is.”
 
“It’s not. I’m just…” the Keeper trailed off, wondering how best to put this, “concerned. The animals have all been assassinated.”
 
“Assassinated?” Zevran repeated innocently.
 
Eruohan nodded gravely. “Indeed. There have been food traps left out and poisoned and my hunters have carefully scoped out their hunting grounds and then waited for hours until something wandered by and then stealthily took it out.”
 
“How droll,” Zevran remarked absently. “You said this was a problem?”
 
“I just really have to wonder at the timing, you understand. I had never even heard about Dalish hunting in this manner before you showed up,” Eruohan explained.
 
“That is certainly a strange coincidence,” Zevran agreed.
 
“Is it?” Eruohan challenged. “Is it really?”
 
Zevran gave him a strange look. “I suppose so. Do you disagree?”
 
“It seems to me like it’s more likely that the assassin has brought assassination techniques to my clan,” Eruohan said delicately.
 
“That is a sound theory, to be sure,” Zevran said approvingly.
 
“Is that a confession?” Eruohan demanded.


“Is this an interrogation?” Zevran quickly countered.
 
“Just…” Eruohan sighed. “Answer the question, please.”
 
“Some of the hunters asked me a few questions, yes, and I thought it only polite to answer them,” Zevran answered obediently. “Was I not supposed to have done this?”
 
“I would have been happier not to see my hunters turn into assassins, especially as this is sure to cause problems the next time the clan comes into contact with humans. Still, I suppose you didn’t know,” Eruohan conceded reluctantly.  
 
“I most certainly did not,” Zevran agreed easily.
 
“But you do now,” Eruohan said pointedly.
 
“Of course,” Zevran confirmed. “Were there any other problems?”
 
Eruohan nodded. “Indeed. I’ve been receiving some very…unsettling reports. As you know, we Dalish take matters of sexual activity very seriously. It isn’t even proper for a couple to give a gift before they bond, let alone engage in such activities! “ he exclaimed, a trace of outrage in his voice.
 
“Really?” Zevran asked, blinking. “I had not heard this.”
 
“I gathered that,” Eruohan said dryly.
 
“So did you just want to inform me of this or was there something else?” Zevran asked politely.
 
“You don’t feel that, in light of being made aware of this, there’s something you need to tell me?” Eruohan hinted.
 
Zevran thought about it for a moment before shaking his head. “Not particularly. Perhaps you could give me a hint?”
 
Eruohan closed his eyes. “From what I understand, you’ve had…relations with every attractive man and woman under forty in this clan.” He waited.  
 
Eventually, Zevran spoke up. “Am I supposed to say something here?””
 
“An admission or – preferably – a denial would be greatly appreciated,” Eruohan confirmed.
 
“Right. It’s all true, of course,” Zevran declared.
 
Eruohan paled. “A-all of it?”
 
“Well, I haven’t heard everything you have so some of it might not be,” Zevran clarified, “but I’m fairly confident that a great deal of it is.”
 
“Creators!” Eruohan cried out, stunned. “Why? Just…why?”
 
Zevran frowned, puzzled. “Why what? Do you think I should have expanded my selections? I felt it would be mildly inappropriate to be with anyone who wasn’t considered an adult but I guess I could have gone older. There are some very attract older elves, after all, and drawing the line at forty was a rather arbitrary decision.”
 
“Believe me, I do not want you to go after those older or younger than you already have!” Eruohan said firmly.


“Then what do you want?” Zevran queried. “Would you prefer I not only pick attractive people? I suppose I could do that though it is not my preference-”
 
“No!” he shouted.
 
Zevran stared at him.
 
Eruohan cleared his thought. “I mean, I am asking you to stop corrupting my people. Stop seducing them no matter how willing they might be and stop teaching them to be assassins!” He took a deep breath. This went against everything he had ever believed but he felt compelled to say it. “If you cannot do that then, as painful as it is for me to say this, perhaps you might be better off in Antiva City.”
 
Zevran looked surprised. “You…may have a point. I will have to think on this and get back to you.”
 
As he wandered away, Eruohan discretely sent his two least attractive guards over the age of forty to follow him, just in case.

[Sarah1281]

Another guest Alistair prompt is 'For Duty and Honor.'


Teagan had thought it was a little odd when his brother had sent a messenger to Rainesfere with a note remarking on how they hadn’t seen each other in a few weeks and inviting Teagan to come to Redcliffe whenever he had the time…preferably leaving that very day. Still, Teagan couldn’t see any reason not to do as Eamon asked as that usually made his life easier and so he had gone directly to the Arling.
 
Eamon had greeted him warmly, fed him lunch, and then disappeared into his study with Alistair. Twenty minutes later, his brother explained that Isolde was pregnant and so since he refused to tell her that Alistair was Maric’s she was convinced he was Eamon’s and wanted him sent away to protect her future child. Eamon ‘felt it was for the best’ that the boy be sent to the Chantry. Alistair had disagreed and ran out of the castle. Suddenly, the reason for Eamon’s sudden feelings of brotherly-ness made a lot more sense.
 
Teagan had always gotten along well with Alistair and had offered to just take the boy with him back to Rainesfere but apparently even that wasn’t good enough to quiet Isolde’s paranoia (Maker, he wanted to like his sister-in-law but every time he saw how she treated Alistair it just became so difficult) and since Eamon was Alistair’s guardian, there was nothing he could do. Nothing except try to make Alistair feel better about it.
 
He found Alistair halfway to the village, poking angrily at the ground with a stick and completely covered in mud.
 
“Hi, Bann Teagan,” Alistair greeted him glumly. He had always insisted on calling him that no matter how many times Teagan had requested otherwise and he suspected Eamon’s influence as familiarity with Teagan would imply familiarity with Eamon which would help fuel those bastard rumors that Eamon was so desperately afraid of. Teagan was sure that his brother had tried his best but…Why, exactly, had Maric thought that Rowan’s brother was the best person to leave to raise his bastard son? And if it had to be one of them, why not him? He may have only been seventeen compared to Eamon’s twenty-four but he also wouldn’t have given a damn about the rumors. “What are you doing here?”
 
“Looking for you,” Teagan replied simply.”Or did you mean at Redcliffe in general? My brother invited me.”
 
“Yeah, he wants you here,” Alistair said, a little bitterly. “Not like me. He never wanted me. Did you know that he’s going to give me away?”
 
“I had heard, yes,” Teagan confirmed delicately. “You’re going to be a templar.”
 
“I don’t want to be a stupid templar,” Alistair said with a scowl, jabbing furiously with his stick a few times.
 
Teagan eyed his clean outfit mournfully before settling down in the mud next to Alistair. “I know you don’t and I bet that Eamon doesn’t really want to send you either.”
 
Alistair looked skeptically up at him. “Then why would he? He’s an Arl, for Maker’s sake! No one can make him do anything.”
 
Teagan sighed. He didn’t even agree with his brother’s decision and now he was being called upon to defend it to someone who was being hurt by it. “Alistair…sometimes people – especially grown-ups – have to do things that they don’t want to do. Do you know why?”
 
Alistair shook his head firmly.
 
“Honor and duty,” Teagan said solemnly. “Do you know what those mean?”
 
“I hear the knights talking about honor sometimes,” Alistair offered, a little sheepishly. “But no, not really.”
 
“Your duty is something that you probably don’t want to do but is required of you for whatever reason,” Teagan explained. “For instance…I don’t like politics but I am a bann and so it is my duty to attend the Landsmeet every year to deal with problems our country has and to help the king make important decisions.”
 
“And honor?” Alistair pressed.
 
Teagan frowned, not entirely sure how to explain that concept. “Honor has a lot of different meanings,” he said finally. “It can mean glory and recognition, it can mean a good reputation, it can mean a privilege, it can mean that you’re a credit to whatever it is you’re doing, it can mean that there’s a lot of respect involved…A lot of things that are honorable aren’t always pleasant. It’s a great honor to be chosen to be a bann, for instance, but it’s also a lot of work. I have to get involved with politics far more than I’d like and have all sorts of duties to the people that live in my Bannorn. Do you know why I’m telling you this?”
 
Alistair fidgeted a little but said nothing.
 
“Do you?” Teagan repeated gently.
 
“I guess so,” Alistair said reluctantly. “You’re talking about me being a templar.”
 
Teagan nodded encouragingly but remained quiet.
 
“You’re saying that once I get to the Chantry, even though I don’t want to be a templar I’ll have a duty to learn how to be one so that I can try to protect people from evil blood mages and…whatever else templars do,” Alistair said slowly. “And that even though I might not like it, not everyone can be a templar and my job will be important so it’s an honor for me to get to be one. Is that right?”
 
Teagan nodded again, relieved that Alistair had understood. “Honor and duty don’t just apply to my being a bann and you being a templar, you know. Everyone has to deal with it in some way, all the time. Your duty can even be small things like making sure be polite to the servants and to not treat them cruelly because you think you can get away with it.”
 
“Honor and duty, huh?” Alistair asked, looking thoughtful. “Those sound like important things. Maybe…maybe I can go to the Chantry for them. Better than because no one wants me, anyway.”
 
Teagan’s heart went out to his almost-nephew. “Oh, Alistair…”
 
“But I’m still don’t want to talk to the Arl,” Alistair said, crossing his arms and looking like he dared Teagan to disagree.
 
“That’s alright,” Teagan said instead. “I really don’t feel like doing that either.”
 
Duty and honor…were there no two words more bitter?

Modifié par Sarah1281, 01 décembre 2010 - 03:27 .

[Sarah1281]

This week's Anders prompt is 'Anders in Origins.'


Knight-Commander Greagoir broke off his explanation about the situation with the mages when his ees fell upon of the members of the Warden’s group. “Anders?”
 
Anders blinked. “ ’Oo eez zhis ‘Anderz’ zhat ’oo speak of?”
 
Greagoir rolled his eyes. “That is, by far, the fakest accent I’ve ever heard and I regularly have to hear Carroll’s attempts to sound Antivan.”
 
Anders, who had had to deal with Carroll when he first got the idea to develop an accent way back when the templar had been guarding him in solitary confinement, thought that that was rather unfair. He may not have the most convincing accent but he wasn’t at Carroll’s level. He cocked an eyebrow at Greagoir skeptically.
 
“And that’s the fakest-looking mustache I have ever seen,” Greagoir continued. “It’s not even the right color and one side is falling off.”
 
Automatically, Anders hands flew up to check the status of his mustache. What did you know, it really had been falling off. Of course, since he had checked to see if it was then Greagoir would have been tipped off regardless. Reluctantly, he removed the fraudulent facial hair.
 
“You were reported dead at Ostagar,” Greagoir said accusingly.
 
“Was I?” Anders asked innocently. “I certainly did nothing of the sort.”
 
“”There was a hysterical elven woman who waxed poetic about your tragic final moments for over three hours,” Greagoir said reprovingly. Ah, good old Namaya. She never let him down.
 
“How strange,” Anders remarked offhandedly. “Was she absolutely certain that it was me?”
 
“She seemed pretty sure,” Greagoir confirmed dryly. “No doubt it was an honest mistake.”
 
“I wouldn’t know since I never faked my death in front of any elven girls…well, not within the last year or so at least,” Anders amended. “But I’m sure that’s exactly what happened.”
 
“Right,” Greagoir deadpanned. “But regardless of what happened before, the fact remains that you are a mage whose reason for being away from the Circle is no longer valid and who has returned to us so-”
 
“You’re not going to suggest that he stay here, are you?” Angélique Amell asked, scandalized.
 
“I wasn’t about to suggest it, no,” Greagoir agreed. “I was about to demand it. We can’t have mages just wandering around free, after all, and the law is fully on my side here.”
 
“But…the Tower is under attack. Something tells me that throwing Anders in with the other mages would be kind of a bad idea,” Angélique told him seriously.
 
Greagoir gave a long-suffering sigh. “That is why we won’t be putting him with the compromised mages. We can surely keep an eye on one mage while we’re waiting for the Rite of Annulment to show up.”
 
“But what will happen after everyone gets all annulled?” Angélique pressed.
 
“Oh, that would make me the most trusted mage in Ferelden, wouldn’t it?” Anders asked brightly. “Would that make me First Enchanter? Staying at the Circle would be horrible but having Irving’s job would almost make it worth it. I’d need to leave someone in charge whenever I escaped. Oh! But as First Enchanter I could just assign myself positions outside of the Tower!”
 
“No, you couldn’t be First Enchanter,” Greagoir snapped, looking like he was beginning to regret starting this conversation and yet strangely determined to see it through. “We’d import someone from Orlais first.”
 
“Well, I’m not going to stick around here then,” Anders declared, crossing his arms stubbornly.
 
“And just how do you propose that you can manage to walk out of here with dozens of templars right here in this room?” Greagoir challenged.
 
“Well, I’m sure that I can do nothing to stop you,” Anders freely admitted. “However, the most gorgeous woman that I have ever met might be able to do something.”
 
Angélique, recognizing a reference to her when she heard it, beamed. “I’m so sorry to have to do this, Greagoir, because you know that I heart you almost as much as I heart Irving and would like nothing more that to just watch you two bicker for hours but…I am totally conscripting Anders into the Grey Wardens. He’s very attractive, great in bed, and properly appreciates me.”
 
Anders coughed. “And I’m great at fighting darkspawn and the Grey Warden treaties require mages to help the Wardens and I’m the only mage available.”
 
“Right that,” Angélique agreed, nodding. “Plus, if you’re going to be mean and try to take Anders away then I won’t kill my way to the bottom of this mystery.”
 
Greagoir began to get the same pounding headache he always got when he spent more than five minutes in Angélique’s presence. “But the Grey Wardens can only have one mage at a time,” he protested.
 
“That’s a stupid rule,” Angélique said bluntly.
 
“It doesn’t matter, that’s Chantry policy,” Greagoir said firmly.
 
“Then they can lodge a formal complaint,” Angélique said dismissively.
 
Greagoir clearly had nothing to say to that.
 
“So now that that’s all been settled,” Anders said cheerfully. “I suggest we hurry up and go deal with this problem before Alistair gives in to his clear urge to just side with the templars.”

[Sarah1281]

Another guest prompt was 'Hawke walks into a bar and meets Drunkenstair.'

Aurelia Hawke was merrily sitting on a barstool and hiding from all the people who wanted her to go solve all of their problems for them when the man sleeping on the bar stool next to hers shifted and fell over onto her.
 “Gah!” she cried out and promptly shoved him off.
 
As the man fell to the floor, his eyes fluttered open. “Ow…how much did I have to drink?”
 
“Too damn much,” the bartender said bluntly. “But most of that pain you’re feeling is from when she” he inclined his head towards Aurelia “knocked you to the ground.”
 
The man turned confused and slightly hurt eyes to her.
 
“Hey,” Aurelia said defensively. “You’re the one who rolled onto me! Pushing you off was a reflex, really.”
 
“Oh, I see,” the man said dully. He brushed himself off and stood up.
 
As he turned to walk away, Aurelia called out to him. “So…that’s it? I very possibly give you a head injury and you’re just going to let it go without even getting annoyed?”
 
“What would you rather I do?” the man asked her.
 
“…I just said that,” Aurelia answered. “Get annoyed.”
 
“I’ve seen far too much to get worked up over something so minor,” the man told her.
 
The bartender sighed. “Oh, now look what you’ve done! Alistair will a weepy drunk for the next week!”
 
The man, Alistair, looked a little embarrassed. “No, I won’t!” he denied.
 
“Sure, you say that now,” the bartender muttered disbelievingly.
 
“Am I missing something?” Aurelia asked awkwardly.
 
“Only if you consider the fact that Alistair claims that he was one of the Grey Wardens who was working to end the Blight over in Ferelden but left before the end because his fellow Warden and the Blight-ender decided to not kill someone he desperately wanted dead to be ‘something,’” the bartender answered. “Oh, and let’s not forget the fact that he’s apparently the bastard son of King Maric.”
 
“Trust me, I can’t,” Alistair assured him, looking downcast.
 
Aurelia examined Alistair closely. “You know, I was actually in Ferelden when the Blight first broke out.”
 
“Oh, so you fought darkspawn?” the bartender asked, intrigued.
 
Aurelia laughed. “Are you kidding? My family and I heard Teyrn Loghain tell us that a Blight was coming, made our arrangement, and then within the month we were heading for less doomed parts.”
 
“That’s not very altruistic of you,” Alistair said disapprovingly. He had twitched at the mention of the Teyrn’s name for same reason.
 
“Maybe not,” Aurelia admitted. “But it does explain why we’re all alive and most of the people we left behind kind of aren’t.  I did stay long enough to see the Warden though.”
 
“Was she as amazing as everyone said she was?” the bartender asked eagerly.
 
Aurelia looked awkward. “Well…you have to keep in mind that I only saw her for a few minutes on our way out of Lothering…”
 
“What happened?” the bartender pressed.
 
“I saw her picking the lock to a cage that held a violent family-murdering giant – and the family he killed had saved his life, too – and then ruthlessly cutting down some desperate refugees. To be fair, they were trying to collect the bounty on her for being a Grey Warden but some of them weren’t even armed and she didn’t even try to talk them down. In fact, she called them pathetic. I might have just caught her on a bad day, though,” Aurelia said, though she sounded doubtful.
 
“And let me guess, no Alistair,” the bartender said smugly.
 
“Actually, I think he was there,” Aurelia corrected him. “He was surprised the giant had managed a few weeks in the cage with no food or water and the giant told him that if he couldn’t it was probably his lack of knowledge about the, what was? The Koon? Or was it Qun?”
 
“I’m not going to say ‘I told you so’,” Alistair said with a tiny hint of a smirk. “But know that the sentiment is there regardless.”

“Well, fine, maybe that part’s true,” the bartender conceded, looking stunned. “But there’s no way you’re also the bastard son of King Maric.”


Aurelia coughed.
 
The bartender groaned. “Oh, don’t tell me you can personally confirm that as well!”
 
“Sorry,” Aurelia said, shrugging apologetically. “But I’ve heard that the Ferelden throne was settled after that nasty civil war when the Hero of Ferelden’s fellow Warden was proposed to take the throne from Queen Anora. He failed, of course, but he was put forth because he was the bastard son of King Maric.”
 
“…Seriously?” the bartender demanded, flabbergasted. “The rambling drunk actually is a bastard prince and a Grey Warden to boot?”
 
“Was,” Alistair corrected.
 
“I guess so,” Aurelia said with a shrug. “You didn’t really end up here because someone failed to kill someone you wanted dead, did you?”
 
Alistair winced. “It was a bit more complicated than that, thank you,” he said stiffly. “But I don’t particularly want to discuss it. Bartender, if I could get another drink-”
 
The bartender shot her a pointed look. Remembering what he had said earlier about how that topic was likely to make him a weepy drunk, Aurelia tossed some coins down and quickly headed as fast as she could without being considered rude to the door.
 
And hey, if she could lend credence to his story then it looks like she could manage good deeds even while hanging out a tavern. That information was sure to come in plenty of handy, she could tell.

[Sarah1281]

This week's Alistair prompt is 'What if Alistair met Duncan in the Fade?'


Alistair blinked. He was standing in a grand hall but, for the life of him, he couldn’t remember how he had gotten there.
 
“Alistair!” a deep voice rang out merrily.
 
Alistair looked up to see Duncan beaming and heading towards him. He started in surprise and then wondered why. Duncan had probably just startled him. “Duncan, I…this is a little embarrassing but where exactly are we?”
 
“Weisshaupt, of course,” Duncan replied. “We’ve been here for nearly a month now. Alistair…are you feeling okay?”
 
“Yes. No. Maybe?” Alistair asked, shrugging a little. “Why are we in Weisshaupt of all places instead of Ferelden? We have a Blight to fight, remember?”
 
“I’m not the one who can’t remember, Alistair,” Duncan pointed out. “And you’re a little confused, I see. We did have a Blight to stop. Then we stopped it.”
 
“We did?” Alistair asked, hardly daring to believe it. That was…that was wonderful!
 
Duncan nodded. “Indeed. It was a glorious battle. We set the lairs of the darkspawn aflame and completely eradicated them. It’s far more than I ever hoped to achieve in my lifetime but I certainly won’t question the Maker if He sees fit to deliver us from them.”
 
Alistair couldn’t remember any of that but he trusted Duncan and he had to have gotten to Weisshaupt somehow, right? “So what are we supposed to do now that the darkspawn are all defeated?”
 
Duncan sobered slightly. “The sacrifices that our fellow Wardens made must never be forgotten, Alistair. We have decided that henceforth the Grey Wardens shall be an order of historians and storytellers. We won’t need recruits to undertake the Joining anymore, of course, but I don’t want to see our order fade away and allow the sacrifices to be forgotten.”
 
“No, the sacrifices of the Wardens should never be forgotten,” Alistair agreed. “But…why are we at Weisshaupt? I know the Blight’s gone but that doesn’t explain why we’re here. And where’s Anastasia?”
 
“I’ll answer your second question first,” Duncan decided. “Anastasia is a Cousland, remember? She was willing to help us while we needed her against the darkspawn but once the darkspawn were wiped out, she went back and drove the late Arl Howe and his men from her teynir and became a Teyrna. She and her new husband Teagan Guerrin are very happy together, from what I understand.”
 
“Teyrn Teagan,” Alistair said. It sounded good despite his almost uncle’s dislike of politics. “But what about me and Anastasia? We had something!”
 
Duncan looked a little troubled. “I know you did, Alistair. It’s just…you’re a commoner and she is a noble. Her duty is to Highever and you had to have known that the minute she was released from her obligation to fight darkspawn that you two could never have worked out.”
 
It was as if the floor were falling out from under his feet. The worst part was that he had known that and that was why he had tried not to fall in lo-to like her as much as he did. Duty meant almost as much to her as it did to him, after all, and so it really didn’t matter what either of them thought of it. And Teyrn Teagan was a good man. They’d be happy together, he hoped. He might have dreamed that…but it didn’t matter, now did it? “And we’re not in Ferelden because?” he repeated his earlier question to try and stave off the pain.
 
“Politics,” Duncan answered simply.
 
“Politics?” Alistair repeated, not quite understanding. “But…you said that Wardens are supposed to stay out of politics.”
 
“We are,” Duncan confirmed. “And that is why the Teyrna resigned from the order. After Teyrn Loghain won a great victory at Ostagar and was instrumental in ending the Blight, we owe him a great deal.”
 
Alistair heard the words but he was having difficulty processing them. Loghain wasn’t a hero, he was a traitor! But…why was he a traitor? What had he done? Alistair couldn’t for the life of him remember but being asked to see Loghain as a hero was anathema to him. He could remember genuinely respecting Loghain once but somewhere along the line that had changed. Why? “What does that have to do with this?”
 
“Loghain is a great man but he’s never been able to get over his issues with the Orlesians and our order came to Ferelden from Orlais. I myself was conscripted in the Empire. He was never happy that we were allowed back into the country but we were needed then and now we can afford to honor his wish to keep us out of Ferelden,” Duncan explained.
 
“Loghain kicked us out of Ferelden?” Alistair cried out, outraged. He wondered if that would be enough to explain the deep burning hatred he felt for that man. No, he decided, it wasn’t.
 
“It’s a bit more complicated than that,” Duncan told him. “After the Blight was over, King Cailan called a Landsmeet to announce that Queen Anora was infertile and so he was marrying Empress Celene of Orlais. Teyrn Loghain wouldn’t accept that and within a year Anora had married and had a son with Nathaniel Howe who Anastasia had let keep his land. The civil war for the throne is still brewing and that, combined with Loghain’s desire to see us gone, convinced me to take the order out of Ferelden.”
 
“What? But…Cailan wouldn’t do that! Wynne assured me that Cailan loved Anora and the only thing that ever stood in their way was Loghain! Wynne’s very wise, too, so it must be true!” Alistair protested.
 
“I’m sorry, Alistair,” Duncan said gravely. “Does this mean that you’re not interested in helping me compose a ballad about the great heroism of Teyrn Loghain during the Blight?”
 
Alistair started screaming then and he didn’t stop until Anastasia appeared out of nowhere .
 
“Alistair, we have to go. This isn’t real,” she told him urgently, sounding as if she didn’t expect to be believed.
 
She was in for a surprise, then. “Oh, thank the Maker!”

[Sarah1281]

My eighty-second story might end up multi-chaptered. It's called 'Kmeme Gone Wrong' dealing with Kmeme prompts that have, well, gone wrong. This one is "Alistair gets turned into crazy hairy dog beast thing because Morrigan got twitchy or something. PC thinks it's kind of hot and wants to do him before Morrigan changes him back."


“So you don’t know that one either, huh?” Alistair asked with a smirk. “Hm…how about this one: Where was Andraste killed?”
 
“What part of ‘religious questions are not academic questions’ did you not get?” Morrigan growled.
 
“Ask me again after you tell me what part of ‘any self-respecting five-year-old would know the answer to this’ you didn’t grasp,” Alistair retorted. “So…do you know?”
 
“No, I do not know nor do I care to know where a long-dead woman met her ignoble end,” Morrigan ground out. She was seriously not in the mood for Alistair’s attempts to get her to stop calling him an idiot. If he truly weren’t one, surely he would have had the sense not to bother her when she had such a splitting headache.
 
“The answer is Minrathous, of course,” Alistair said smugly. “But that was a hard one. I mean, it’s not like Minrathous is the capital of the Tevinter Imperium or anything…oh wait, yes it is! But let’s try this one-”
 
That was it. Morrigan absolutely could not take it anymore and she shot a powerful burst of magic at the still-smirking templar. He hadn’t expected her attack or he would have undoubtedly attempted to use his templar skills to save him.
 
“Morrigan,” Alistair asked, horrified. “What did you-” He stopped speaking as his human mouth became that of a canine’s.
 
Morrigan had found it sad when that dog had joined the party and Alistair was still the stupidest member and so she wondered if turning Alistair into a mabari (albeit one that was bigger and hairier) would increase his intelligence any. At any rate, at least he wasn’t talking anymore.
 
Mary Sue Cousland wandered up to her then. “Hello, Morrigan. Have you seen Alistair?”
 
Morrigan gestured towards the Ali-beast.
 
Mary Sue blinked. “You know, I could have sworn that he was human just this morning. Did you do something to him?”
 
“I turning him into an Ali-beast,” Morrigan announced. “Why? Do you feel that that was wrong of me?”
 
Mary Sue bit her lip gently and fingered her long, luscious raven hair. “Oh, no, not at all.”
 
“Well, then you should have been here five minutes ago when…” Morrigan trailed off as she realized what Mary Sue had actually said. “Wait, what? You don’t have a problem with me turning your boyfriend into a gigantic dog?”
 
Mary Sue shook her head. “Far from it. In fact…” At this Mary Sue let out a girlish giggle. “I think it’s kind of cute. And – dare I say it – really hot.”
 
The Ali-beast drew back in horror.
 
“Let me get this straight,” Morrigan told her. “You’re finding yourself attracted to him in this form? I know that they say that hormonal lust is blind but he’s a dog.”
 
Mary Sue laughed. “Please. I’m a good Ferelden girl. Since when would a little dog offend my sensibilities?”
 
Morrigan felt a sudden urge to vomit and a profound gratefulness towards her mother for not letting her grow up amongst these deeply disturbed people…which, in turn, just made her want to vomit again. “Right. Well, if you need me I’ll be back in my ten-wait, you always use that for your sexual encounters don’t you? Well, I’ll be over by Sten enjoying the silence. Send Alistair to me when you’re done and I’ll change him back…if no one gives me any details.”
 
“Will do,” Mary Sue said cheerfully. “Now come here you sexy, sexy Ali-beast you…”
 
Morrigan ignored the Ali-beast’s plaintive whimpers as she retreated to the other side of camp, already dreading what she’d find in her tent when Mary Sue was done with it. Things might have been a little awkward with Sten since he had filled her in on qunari mating rituals – which, true or not, were deeply disturbing – but at least he wouldn’t pester her incessantly and she had her mother’s Grimoire with her so she could at least read while she was waiting. Waiting on other people to have sex before she could go back to her space…sometimes it felt like she’d never left home although at least her mother had restricted herself to bipedal species.
 
Finally, after about thirty minutes Morrigan’s reading was interrupted by the arrival of the desperate-looking Ali-beast. Annoyed, Morrigan pushed the creature off of her. “Finished already, are you? I would have thought she’d have taken longer. Still, I really don’t wish to know any more of this than I have to.” Morrigan shot another burst of magic at the Ali-beast and within seconds he was fully human again.
 
“Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” Alistair said gratefully. “I promise I’ll never try to trip you up with an academic question ever again!”
 
Morrigan briefly considered reminding him that she was the one that had turned him into a dog in the first place but decided against it. She really hated those questions, after all.
 
“Oh, Ali-beast!” Mary Sue called seductively as she made her way over to them. “I…Morrigan! Why did you change him back?!?!”
 
“You weren’t done?” Morrigan asked blankly. “Then why ever would you send him to me?”
 
“We didn’t even start,” Mary Sue complained. “Silly boy kept running from me. And I didn’t send him to you, I guess he made his way over on his own and tricked you into thinking I wanted him turned back.”
 
“It looks like it,” Morrigan agreed before suddenly turning and glaring at Alistair.
 
“Well, change him back!” Mary Sue demanded. “I didn’t get my mabari love yet!”
 
“I can’t,” Morrigan said, peeved. “Alistair just drained my mana.”
 
“Oh, don’t even pretend like you blame me,” Alistair told her shortly before turning his attention back to his girlfriend. “As for you…I can’t believe you tried to do that!”
 
“What?” Mary Sue asked, surprised. “You’re my boyfriend and we’ve had sex before. What was so wrong about what I wanted us to do?”
 
“I wasn’t a dog before!” Alistair cried out. “That is just so…so…I don’t even have the words for how disturbed I find this! And what part of me escaping didn’t scream out ‘No, stop, I don’t want this’ to you?”
 
Mary Sue shrugged. “I thought it was part of the foreplay. You were a dog, after all.”
 
“Mary Sue, this pains me quite a bit – actually, no it doesn’t. You’re crazy and I’m scared to be alone around you. We’re over.” With that, Alistair stormed away.
 
Behind him, Mary Sue’s eyes began to fill with tears.
 
Morrigan quickly made her way back to her tent. It looked like it wouldn’t be a mess after all and she was hardly in the mood to comfort someone for a relationship end they so very clearly deserved.

[Sarah1281]

My eighty-third story is 'How the Loghain Stole Christmas'  which I think is a bit self-explanatory.


Naturally, it was all Loghain’s fault although with his daughter one of the most celebrated Queens ever, this fact somehow never made itself into the public consciousness of the people of Ferelden.
 
The parents of Théodore Grinch had moved from Orlais to Ferelden when little Théodore  was just five during the last days of the rebellion and, finding the country so very agreeable, decided to stay when most of their countrymen left. It was difficult at first to get past the mistrust and outright hostility on the part of their Ferelden-born neighbors but eventually they were accepted in the community at large.
 
They loved their new home but also felt that it was important to keep the spirit of their Orlesian heritage alive. Théodore especially loved to share his ways with those around him, particularly after his parents died and he became the sole Grinch in Ferelden.
 
One of the most important Orlesian celebrations was a holiday late in the month of Haring called ‘Christmas.’ Ferelden hadn’t celebrated Christmas prior to the occupation but it was just one of those things, like horses and fashion, that had stayed with the newly independent nation and Grinch couldn’t have been happier.
 
Until…one year the ruler of Ferelden – Teyrn and Regent Loghain Mac Tir – decided that Christmas was far too Orlesian to be celebrated by proper Fereldens and banned the holiday. Grinch, living in Denerim by that time, was horrified.
 
“A year without Christmas?” he had cried out. “How can this be?”
 
“D-does this mean that we won’t get any presents?” one of the children, Cindy Loo, asked as tears brimmed in her eyes. “And no feast? We won’t get to sing songs or get a giant Christmas tree?”
 
Grinch didn’t know what to say. He knew that Loghain didn’t like the Orlesians or anything to do with them. EVERYONE knew that. Just the same, to ban a holiday that was such a huge part of the Gwaren economy at this time a year (for everyone had to have a Gwaren tree) because he was holding a thirty-year grudge seemed a little extreme, to say the least. And how could you go around banning Christmas anyway?
 
“You can’t ban it,” he realized. “Christmas will come, whether Teyrn Loghain likes it or not.”
 
All of the children cheered and the Grinch continued on with his usual holiday preparations…just a little more discrete this year since he was planning to openly celebrate a banned holiday in the nation’s capital where Teyrn Loghain was currently residing.
 
Surely, though, surely he’d be reasonable when he saw how much it meant to the children? It’s not like Christmas was some Orlesian plot to re-conquer Ferelden, after all. Still, Grinch couldn’t shake the terrible feeling that something was going to go dreadfully wrong as the twenty-fifth day of Haring drew ever-closer.
 
Then, finally, Christmas arrived.
 
There was really no point in trying to hide it from the regent. There was the biggest tree the Grinch had ever seen in the center of the Denerim marketplace with lights and ornaments adorning it and making it perfectly clear what it’s purpose was. There were mountains of wrapped presents resting under the tree and various other Christmas decorations everywhere the eye could see.
 
The food smelled so good that Grinch found that he had a hard time waiting for it to be feast-time but somehow he made it. He and what must have been half of Denerim sat down for their feast and – after first thanking the Maker for their wonderful feast – the Grinch was just cutting the roast-beast when pandemonium broke out.
 
Soldiers were everywhere, smashing decorations and overturning tables. The presents were crushed underneath their feet and someone lit the Christmas tree on fire! Grinch didn’t understand. What was going on? Why would the soldiers-
 
Someone grabbed him and dragged him along to a figure waiting in the back of the crowd. Grinch had lived in Denerim for long enough to recognize Teyrn Loghain on sight.
 
“Well, well, well,” Loghain drawled. “If it isn’t the rabble-rouser himself. Tell me, Mr. Grinch…you’re Orlesian, aren’t you?”


“I’m Ferelden,” Grinch insisted, though his accent made Loghain’s eyes narrow.
 
“Are you?” he asked dryly. “I find that very difficult to believe. Tell me: Orlesian or not, did you or did you not realize that I had banned Christmas?”
 
What could he say? “I did,” he said defiantly.
 
“And yet you thought that you could celebrate it anyway and, what’s more, that you could lead the good people of Denerim into participating in your crime?” Loghain asked rhetorically. “You can’t deny that I gave you fair warning.”
 
“It’s a stupid law!” Grinch burst out. “You can’t just ban Christmas. Even if you take away all the presents and the lights and the tree and the feast and- and everything else, Christmas will come just the same no matter what you or anyone else has to say about it!”
 
Loghain smiled grimly. “We shall see. Guards, take him away.”
 
And they did take Grinch away. He was supposed to have been taken to Fort Drakon but money had exchanged hands and he had been taken instead to the personal dungeon of the Arl of Denerim where he stayed for many months. The Arl, Rendon Howe, had his own private mages that liked to experiment on the prisoners in their free time and – far from minding – Howe seemed almost to encourage the practice. Somehow, they’d managed to turn Grinch green and they hadn’t been able to reverse the process yet.
 
One day, a dwarf, two humans, and an elf came by his cell. They’d asked for his story and he’d told it. One of them looked furious and muttered something about adding this to his ‘list’ and they’d let him out.
 
It was kind of them, Grinch supposed, but he wasn’t sure what to do then. He no longer loved Ferelden but he didn’t want to go back to Orlais, either. He could go travelling, he supposed, and see what lay beyond the known countries of Thedas.
 
One thing he knew for certain was that, after all those months of being tortured and experimented on while he’d been imprisoned, he absolutely hated Christmas.
 
He’d go somewhere far away where there was no Christmas and live out the rest of his days in peace. And if he couldn’t find a place without Christmas then he would simply stop it from coming. After all, if Teyrn Loghain could do it, why couldn’t he?

[Sarah1281]

This week's Anders prompt was 'Children.'

Anders would have been perfectly happy had he never seen Namaya again. He was mostly convinced that she’d had her reasons to sell him out to the templars but on the other hand…she had totally sold him out to the templars and disappeared without a trace so he wasn’t exactly feeling friendly.
 
When Namaya showed up at the Keep one day in late Justinian, she did not do so alone. A small blonde girl with the biggest blue eyes he had ever seen was being carried in Namaya’s arms. “This is Angelica.”
 
Anders stared down at the child. “I see.”
 
“She’s named after your Warden-Commander,” Namaya elaborated.
 
Anders shuddered at the mention of Angélique and eyed the toddler suspiciously to see if having a similar name would make them at all similar in other areas. Angelica looked a lot like a mini-Angélique but he couldn’t tell if she were as…special as his Warden-Commander. “Is there any reason that she’s here?” he demanded. “Did you get stuck on baby-sitting duty or something? And for that matter, why are you here? You can’t possibly expect me to help out with that after the last time we met.”
 
“I’m not babysitting and I’m not asking you to babysit her either,” Namaya snapped.
 
“Well, good,” Anders remarked. “But that really only answered half of my questions, you know.”
 
“She’s yours, Anders, and I looked after her for two years but now I’m moving to Antiva and so I’m leaving her with you,” Namaya said bluntly as she forced Angelica into Anders’ protesting arms. She turned to go.
 
Anders, who had been frozen in horror, suddenly found his voice. “Wait, I…Wait!”
 
Namaya turned around. “What? I have a boat to catch, you know.”
 
“You can’t just leave me with a child!” Anders objected. “Especially not a child named after Angélique!”
 
“Oh, so now you have a problem with Angélique?” Namaya asked skeptically. “You didn’t seem to have one the last time I saw you.”
 
“Well, of course I’m sleeping with her,” Anders conceded. “I mean, have you seen her? But that doesn’t mean she’s not absolutely crazy! Anywhere she happens to be is no place for a child.”
 
“Well that’s too bad,” Namaya said, sounding mostly indifferent. “I suppose you’ll just have to make other arrangements, then. If you need me – and you’d better not – then I’ll be in Antiva.”
 
“But…I…how did this even happen?” Anders burst out, flabbergasted.
 
Namaya shot him a pitying look. “Really? One would think that with all your boasting and your experience that you would have worked that out by now.”
 
“Well, I mean I know where babies come from, obviously, but how did you manage to get pregnant?” Anders demanded. “We were always so careful!”
 
“Angelica begs to differ,” Namaya disagreed.
 
“I don’t understand…we were relying on my spells to keep you from getting pregnant and I always rely on those and so if they didn’t work this one time then…by the Maker, I could have dozens of illegitimate children out there!” Anders cried horrified.
 
“And that is so not my problem,” Namaya told him cheerfully. “But hey, if it makes you feel any better, you only have the one from me.”
 
“No, that does not make me feel any better,” Anders said flatly.
 
Namaya shrugged, unconcerned. “Well, I tried.”
 
“Are you ever going to come back or will I be expected to watch her forever?” Anders cried out, feeling a little desperate.
 
Namaya thought about it. “Unlikely, really. I’d write but then you’d know where to find me and maybe try to send Angelica back. Maybe I can send you a letter before I reach my new home.”
 
Anders looked down at the child in his hands. Her eyes weren’t really gleaming with evil…were they?
 

 
As Namaya was making her way out of the Keep, Nathaniel stopped her. “That wasn’t very nice.”
 
Namaya shrugged again. “Maybe not but he’ll get over it.”
 
“Are you really going to Antiva?” Nathaniel asked curiously.
 
Namaya nodded. “Oh, yes. I’ve heard wonderful things about the weather there and they, at least, are not still recovering from a Blight.”
 
“They also are run by a professional order of assassins,” Nathaniel pointed out.
 
“I’ll be fine,” Namaya said flippantly. “Thank you for your concern, though.”
 
“And Angelica?” Nathaniel inquired.
 
“Her mother should be along around five,” Namaya answered. “I’d watch her but, well, I’ve got to go catch that boat…”

[Sarah1281]

This week's Alistair prompt is 'First Meeting' and I went for irony.


Alistair had never met Teyrn Loghain before but he had certainly heard the stories. The Teyrn had once been a commoner like him but had risen to the ranks of the high nobility due to sheer bravery and talent. He had also been a close friend of King Maric (the man who, like it or not, had technically fathered Alistair) and was instrumental in driving out the Orlesians as well as being a lifelong confidante to the king. And now…Alistair was actually going to meet the man.
 
It wouldn’t just be him and Loghain, of course, as Alistair was quite certain that he was beneath the Teyrn’s notice but King Cailan had insisted that all of the available Grey Wardens be presented to him upon their arrival at Ostagar and that did include Alistair. Loghain was also present for whatever reason and though he had frowned upon first laying eyes on Duncan, his face had smoothed out into a mask of impassiveness.
 
Thinking about Loghain was easier than thinking about the king. Cailan was, as difficult as it was to believe, his half-brother. This was actually the second time they had met although Alistair rather doubted that the king even remembered their first meeting, so eager was he to drag Teagan to the armory. No, Alistair could never be a noble king like Cailan but maybe one day if he did his duty well enough and was in the right place at the right time he could become a commoner-turned-hero like Loghain.
 
Alistair actually thought that Loghain seemed more impressive than Cailan anyway. Cailan had all the trappings of the nobility that Loghain lacked and truly looked like a glorious king out of those tales he had mentioned earlier but he lacked a certain something that Loghain possessed in spades. Experience, maybe? Alistair actually rather hoped that that was it because that was something Cailan would gain in time, perhaps even by the time they were finished here at Ostagar. Alistair just knew that whatever it was that Loghain possessed that Cailan didn’t, it was enough that he had no doubt who he trusted to carry them through the day.
 
Loghain caught Alistair staring and came to stand by him.
 
“Never doubt that you belong here,” he said quietly. “The Grey Wardens, whatever else they are, do not recruit the weak.”
 
Alistair’s ears reddened and he had to fight back a smile. He was glad that Cailan had someone like Teyrn Loghain on his side.

[Sarah1281]

My eighty-fourth story is 'A Dragon Age Christmas Carol.'


With the close of the twenty-ninth year of the Dragon Age, Arl Rendon Howe was faced with a difficult decision. He had just come into possession of some very interesting information that, if properly skewed, could make the Couslands of Highever appear to be involved in Orlesian treachery. He knew that Teyrn Loghain had just decided to confront his idiot son-in-law about his refusal to admit that the Orlesian occupation had ever happened or that it might be at all relevant to the present and that he was looking for ways to undercut Cailan’s support so that he would be more amenable to listen to reason.
 
He knew that he deserved more, had always deserved more. He had fought well and bravely in the rebellion like the rest but somehow his grandfather’s decision to side with the Orlesians still hung over his head and he was being forever held back. This might not have been so galling if it weren’t for the fact that Bryce Cousland had profited everywhere that Howe had not. Howe was – for one reason or another – not the kind of person that made friends easily whereas Bryce didn’t even have to try to make everyone love him. Even Howe loved him against his will and that only infuriated him more. Howe had married Lady Riane Sighard who had despised him – and he her – and whose family never thought he was good enough. So what if he were an Arl while she was the second child of the Dragon’s Peak Bannorn? His family hadn’t joined up with the rebellion soon enough and so they were no good. Bryce, of course, had gotten to marry the lovely Eleanor Bryland of South Reach and it was painfully obvious how in love the pair were. Howe’s children were the far too idealistic Nathaniel, the practical but unremarkable Delilah, and the flighty dreamer Thomas. Bryce’s children, Fergus and Anastasia, were both very good-looking, very smart, very determined, and capable fighters. Though Howe sometimes felt that Bryce and Eleanor were quite unaware that they had a daughter instead of two sons, they were fine children. In fact, Fergus had married some Antiva noblewoman and had a precocious little brat of his own! Howe sometimes wondered if he would die grandchild-less.
 
And so that was the crux of his dilemma. If, for whatever reason, the entire ruling family of Highever were to be suddenly wiped out then the Howe family would take over, much like the Couslands had only risen to the ranks of the nobility once the Elstan family had been extinguished. Before that, the first Lord Cousland was the captain of Elstan’s guards. The Howes had been noble for long before that and yet the Couslands just kept rising in prominence. They had wanted Bryce to be the king four years ago when Maric had vanished but Bryce, ardent royalist that he was, turned down the position. Howe simply couldn’t understand that and resented the fact that he would never be asked to be king. He had so much to gain by wiping out the Couslands and at last they would cease to hold him back! On the other hand…he and Bryce had been old friends since the rebellion and the bonds forged in war were not easily broken. It wasn’t that he even disliked Bryce for all that he strongly resented him and he had always been fond of Eleanor as well. Fergus was the kind of son he wished Nathaniel or Thomas could be and even Anastasia – for all that she should have been a boy – was always very pleasant to him.
 
What to do, what to do…the plan had slowly formed in his mind. There were a few letters he would need to write to set his plan into motion and it would take some weeks or even months to pull it off and to get away with it but he knew that he could do it. The question was…did he want to? He honestly wasn’t sure and his indecision only served to frustrated him more.
 
Howe through his quill across his desk and stood up. He’d sleep on it and decide whether to write those letters or not come morning.
 
Varel came in then. Howe couldn’t stand the sight of the man and it was obvious that the feeling was mutual. Varel had once been his seneschal but he wouldn’t stop questioning Howe’s orders so he had had little choice but to keep demoting the fool. He briefly wondered what rank Varel was at now but it eluded him.
 
“You have a letter, my lord,” Varel said smoothly. A consummate professional, he didn’t let his voice or his face betray any of the hostility that Howe just knew was there. “And you still have not responded to the Cousland’s annual invitation to have Christmas dinner at Highever.”
 
Right, he hadn’t since he had been rather preoccupied in trying to decide whether he was plotting their imminent demise and was trying to keep his contact with them to a minimum until he had made up his mind for fear of giving something away.
 
Howe sighed in annoyance and quickly jotted off a polite letter declining the invitation and sealing it with his family ring. He held it out for Varel to take and the once-seneschal replaced it with the new letter.
 
“That will be all,” Howe said. He recognized his eldest’s son’s writing on the letter and wanted to be left alone to read it.
 
Varel hesitated. “My lord, we haven’t discussed tomorrow yet.”
 
Howe glanced over at him in irritation. “What is there to discuss? Attend to me at your usual time.”
 
“But…” Varel trailed off. He started again, “Tomorrow is Christmas, my lord.”
 
“Is it?” Howe deadpanned. “I do so wonder how I could have missed that.”
 
“It’s customary to give non-essential staff the day off and as most lords and ladies take the day off themselves, I was hoping that I could take the day off as well,” Varel told him.
 
Howe considered the matter. On the one hand, he didn’t like Varel no matter how efficient he was and so he would rather not do anything to please him. On the other, he didn’t like Varel and would love to not have to see him. “Very well but I’m taking it out of your salary. Do make a note of that before you leave, will you?” Since Varel was the one to worry about the staff’s salary, Howe might want to check it over later to make sure that Varel really had reduced his own pay like Howe had bid him to.
 
“Yes, my lord,” Varel said, bowing his head before turning to go.
 
Once he was safely gone, Howe opened his son’s letter.
 
Dear Father,
 
I’ve been hard at work these past few months just as I have been for every month since I came to the Free Marches. I know that a common concern is that once sent out of the country, a young man will do nothing but drink and chase skirts but I assure you that I have diligently refrained and instead honed my skills. I’ve become a very good archer, I believe, and have numerous other talents that will be sure to come in handy.
 
That said, I was wondering if you had a return date in mind for me. Make no mistake, I am not complaining about this opportunity nor am I trying to pressure you, I just believe that it would be useful to get a better idea of what my future holds.
 
-Nathaniel
 
Howe snorted. Nathaniel wasn’t fooling him one bit. He wanted to return to Ferelden and he wanted to do it soon but he knew better than openly ask to be given leave to return home. Truth be told, Howe had been seriously considering it as of late. Thomas was turning out to be a disappointment and he’d need an heir at some point. It had been years since he had last seen Nathaniel; surely the boy had grown out of some of that ridiculous idealism. The only problem was the Couslands. Nathaniel had always adored them, particularly Fergus who he had been close with before he left for the Free Marches. Having Nathaniel around should he decide to have the Couslands all killed would be an unneeded complication and so his son’s return would have to be put off until he decided what to do about that situation and – should he kill them – until the inevitable scandal had died down.
 
He set aside the letter resolving to answer it properly in the morning when he had the energy to draft a reply denying Nathaniel’s unspoken request while still not alienating the boy in case he needed him later. As there was nothing else pressing he needed to do that night, Howe stood and made his way slowly to his master bedroom.
 
A few servants were still out and about but they weren’t seeking his attention and so he felt free to ignore them. Upon reaching his room, he was in for a surprise.
 
Riane sat stiffly on his bed and frowning at him, a sight he had seen far too many times back when she had still been alive. Her long dark hair was pulled behind her in that silly style that had been popular with the noblewomen in the years before her death and she was even paler than she’d been the last time he had seen her.
 
“Talk about déjà vu,” he murmured. He blinked. The image of his dead wife was still there.
 
“You’re late,” Riane said severely.
 
“I wasn’t aware that I had an appointment to meet my dead wife here,” Howe said calmly, wondering when exactly he had been drugged and who he should fire for it. Probably Varel.
 
“I know that look,” Riane said severely. “And you haven’t been drugged.”
 
“You do realize that given that I’m convinced that you’re a hallucination, I can’t really take your word that I haven’t been drugged,” Howe told her.
 
“Well, if I’m the only one here so no one else can try and confirm or deny my existence and I’m either real or you’re having several different types of hallucinations then we’ve reached an impasse. This would go far quicker if you just played along,” Riane advised.
 
“The less time spent with you the better,” Howe agreed. “So fine, I’ll play along…within reason. The minute I hear any nonsense about how if I touch your hand I can fly and so am asked to leap out the window, I’m done.”
 
Riane frowned. “I may need to speak to someone about that…”
 
Howe decided to ignore that, particularly since it contained an implication that she was changing the plan. “So if you’re not a hallucination brought on by Varel drugging me then what do you propose to be? A ghost?”
 
Riane nodded. “Exactly.”
 
“The fact that your explanation for what you are is the same as my first thought after ‘hallucination’ does not do anything to assure me that you are as you say,” Howe informed her.
 
“It doesn’t matter if you believe in me or not,” Riane said crossly. “You’ll see soon enough. I suppose I should just be grateful that you don’t think that I’m a bit of undigested meat or some gravy.”
 
“I find it much more probable that any food that could be causing this maybe-hallucination was drugged since I’ve eaten the kind of food I had tonight many a times before without seeing any spirits,” Howe replied. “Now what are you here for? A reunion? If so, let me assure you that you annoy me as much as ever.”
 
“And you disgust me more than you ever did,” Riane shot back. “Honestly, can’t you see that you’re turning into your grandfather?”
 
Howe’s fists clenched unconsciously. “I see no shame in the comparison, Madame. Despite my grandfather’s inability to see that times were changing, he was a good man.”
 
Riane laughed. It was a harsh, ugly sound. “Oh, you would think so, wouldn’t you? That explains why you’re not as horrified as you should be.”
 
“Enough of this,” Howe growled out. “Why are you here?”
 
“You will do a great deal of harm to a great many people who do not deserve it,” Riane said bluntly. “And one of them ended a Blight so the Maker took special notice of the injustice that led to that. I think it would be easier to just kill you but after that whole ‘turn the arrogant Tevinter mages into darkspawn’ thing, the Maker has decided to try to find less…severe methods of dealing with problems.”
 
“Wait, that’s actually true?” Howe asked, surprised. “I thought that was just Chantry propaganda in order to keep people afraid of mages and because Andraste herself sought to bring about the end of the Tevinter strength.”
 
Riane shrugged. “It might be true or I may just be messing with you. You won’t find out one way or another until you die…which may not be far off if I’m lucky.”
 
Howe raised an eyebrow. “Won’t you have to put up with me a lot more if I die soon?”
 
“The afterlife is a big place and where you’re going I doubt we’ll see much of each other,” Riane returned. “But anyway-”
 
“Wait, what’s this about a Blight?” Howe interrupted. That sounded serious, particularly if it was going to affect him in any way. He had never fought a darkspawn but he didn’t relish having an army of them crawling all over his land…and if he pulled off his Cousland massacre he’d have a lot more land for darkspawn to crawl over.
 
Riane waved a hand dismissively. “Some time next year a Blight will rise near Ostagar and it will take a year or so for it to be stopped in Denerim. You’ll be quite fortunate it can be stopped so easily considering how the great nation of Ferelden does virtually everything it can to prevent this from happening. But enough of that. All that you really need to know is that Grey Wardens really are necessary to stop a Blight and so outlawing them all is a really stupid idea.”
 
“I’ll make a note of that,” Howe promised. He hated Grey Wardens but if they could fight and end the Blight then their lives would be short, miserable, and actually useful for once. “Now as to why you’re here?”
 
Riane shot him a dirty look. “I’m getting to that. In order to try and get you to change your ways, you will be visited by three spirits. The first is at one, the second at two, and the third at three. There, that’s nice and easy enough for even someone as thick as you to be able to remember.”
 
“Fine, fine. Now, if that’s all then get out of my bedroom,” Howe ordered.
 
Riane didn’t move. “You aren’t even going to ask me if you can’t get all three ghosts at once or if this can’t wait until morning?”
 
As it happened, Howe thought that it was a much better idea to not have to deal with three ghosts all at once even if it did mean that the whole thing would take longer but he would prefer to do this later so he could get some sleep. Still… “If doing so meant spending more time with you then I honestly don’t care what the reasons are. Now OUT!”
 
“I know when I’m not wanted,” Riane said sourly as she slowly rose from the bed and walked right out the door.
 
Howe stuck his head out after her to see where she’d gone but no one was there.




Howe’s eyes snapped open when a cane hit his bed right next to his head.
 
“Such disrespect,” a terribly familiar voice was complaining. “It wasn’t like he wasn’t warned. ‘Expect the first at one’ she said and now it’s one but is he awake? Sometimes I wonder where Padric went wrong with that boy. Ah, it’s not his fault, I suppose. He was always a bit touched in the head even before he went off to join the Grey Wardens.”
 
“Grandfather,” Howe said almost reverently.
 
“Who else?” Tarleton Howe asked impatiently, looking every bit as ancient and yet lively as he did during life. Riane had died of an illness and so it was unsurprising that she looked unchanged but his grandfather had been hung so Howe was sort of expecting some sort of evidence of this on the ghost. “Now, I don’t have all night and, quite frankly, I have better things to do.”
 
“Then why are you here?” Howe inquired curiously.
 
“Because like it or not I was once the Arl of Amaranthine and the patriarch of the Howe family and I’ll be damned if I just sit idly by and watch you destroy us,” Tarleton thundered.
 
Howe thought it was a bit rich that the man who had to be hung as a traitor for not supporting Maric’s rebellion was lecturing him about destroying the Howes but knew better than to say anything. “I’ll try not to waste your time then,” he promised.
 
“You never tried to waste my time,” Tarleton said contrarily. “But you always did. No matter, I appreciate the thought. Now let’s go.”
 
“Go where, exactly?” Howe asked. “I told Riane that I’m not following anyone out of a window.”
 
“Of course you wouldn’t, that would be a damn fool thing to do,” Tarleton agreed. “Touch my hand and we’ll be off.”
 
Howe rather doubted it but as he didn’t see how doing as his grandfather asked would lead to him dying, he did as requested and was soon blinded by a flash of light.




“Alright, I don’t particularly care for these memories and so I’m going to run through them as fast as I possibly can,” Tarleton announced. “That’s not a problem, is it?” His tone indicated that it had better not be a problem.
 
“Of course not,” Howe said quickly, having to fight off the urge to call him ‘sir.’
 
“Then watch closely or you might miss something,” Tarleton instructed, gesturing to behind Howe.
 
Howe turned around to see his father and mother smiling happily down at what he was fairly certain was a young him. He cast his mind back, trying to remember when this was. Just as he thought he might have something, the scene changed abruptly. At least his grandfather had warned him that he was planning on doing that.
 
There was his father again with an older him. Unlike before, Howe knew exactly when this was.
 
“Merry Christmas, Father!” young Rendon said happily, beaming up at his father.
 
“Merry Christmas, Rendon,” Padric said, his own smile rather wistful.
 
Even at that tender age, Rendon was not an idiot. “What’s wrong?”
 
Padric shook his head. “Nothing’s wrong, it’s just…hang it all, you’ll have to find out sometime.”
 
“Find out w-what?” Rendon asked, swallowing nervously.
 
“Find out that your father loves adventure and Orlesians more than he loves you,” Howe spat.
 
“Don’t sulk,” Tarleton said idly.
 
“I have to go away for awhile,” Padric said gently. “I’m going to go off and be a Grey Warden. Since they were exiled from Ferelden almost two hundred ago, I’ll need to go to Orlais to join up.”
 
“Does this mean you don’t love me anymore?” Rendon asked tearfully, his voice cracking slightly.
 
Padric knelt down and gave his son a tight hug. “No! I could never stop loving you, my son. I’ll write and then come back and visit whenever I can…or maybe you could come visit me when you’re older.”
 
“But-but what will happen to mother and I after you’re gone?” Rendon demanded.
 
“Your grandfather will look after you both,” Padric promised.
 
“Don’t go!” Rendon begged him.
 
Padric looked pained. “I’m sorry.”
 
“ ‘Sorry’, he says,” Howe muttered. “Right. If he were so sodding sorry then why was that the last time I ever saw him?”
 
“Your father just wasn’t any good,” Tarleton declared. “I guess this explains why you hate Christmas so much, though.”
 
“What?” Howe asked, surprised. “I don’t hate Christmas, I just…don’t particularly care about it one way or another. It’s an Orlesian holiday, anyway.”
 
“Whatever you say,” Tarleton said, sounding like he didn’t believe him. “And just so you know, you sounded just like Loghain when you said that. I suppose that makes sense given that…but you’ll find out soon enough.”
 
“Given what?” Howe demanded as the scene changed again but Tarleton didn’t respond.
 
“Bryce Cousland,” a far younger version of the current Teyrn of Highever introduced with a grin and a proffered hand.
 
“Rendon Howe,” Rendon said curtly as he shook Bryce’s hand.
 
Bryce’s eyebrows rose. “Howe? But isn’t your Arling supporting the occupation?” The word sounded dirty and vile the way Cousland said it.
 
Rendon couldn’t stop a small wince. “My grandfather does, yes, but I cannot. I don’t know if this Maric can really pull this off but it looks like we’ve got about as good a chance as we ever did. Besides, we really do deserve more than to have some poncy Orlesian noblemen telling us how to rule our land.”
 
Bryce’s grin became an approving smile. “I couldn’t agree more. You know, I think we’re going to get along just fine.”
 
“Oh, you two ‘got along’ all right,” Tarleton grumbled. “You got along and abandoned your family just as surely as your father did.”
 
Howe flinched. “Don’t say that!” he shouted. “We were on different sides and I couldn’t stop it but I never turned my back on our family or on Amaranthine!”
 
“Oh no?” Tarleton asked dryly. “Next memory.”
 
This time the scene was of Bryce pacing and looking very much like he was dreading something. The door slammed open and Bryce sighed in resignation.
 
“How could you?” Rendon demanded, his eyes wild. “Of all the…I thought we were friends!”
 
“We are friends,” Bryce insisted. “This isn’t about that. You know I wouldn’t have done it if there had been any other choice.”
 
Rendon laughed incredulously. “Do you really mean to tell me that you had ‘no choice’ about publically executing an eighty-seven-year-old man? That’s absurd.”
 
“He wouldn’t surrender the Arling,” Bryce said, keeping calm with visible effort. “And you know just how much we need Amaranthine. You’re his heir and you support the rebellion. It had to be done.”
 
“He had to be removed from the Arling, yes,” Rendon conceded grudgingly. “But that could have easily been done without killing him! You know that this is the man that raised me after my own father up and abandoned us for Orlais. To have him meet such an ignoble end…he deserved better.”
 
“I’m sorry,” Bryce said, sounding sincere if nothing else. “We couldn’t afford to risk it. The rebellion is fragile enough as it is and if he could rally the people to him then-”
 
“By the Maker, Bryce, the man was nearly ninety! He couldn’t walk briskly without assistance!” Rendon cut him off.
 
“I’m sorry,” Bryce said again.
 
Rendon shot him a look of disgust and stormed out.
 
“Oh, it’s all well and good to get sentimental about me after the deed’s been done and the Arling is yours,” Tarleton said, his tone every bit as disgusted as Rendon had been back there. The scene changed again.
 
“And this lovely battle-maiden is my betrothed, Eleanor,” Bryce told Rendon proudly. He could barely take his eyes off of her.
 
Rendon could hardly blame him. He hadn’t known it was possible for someone to be that beautiful. “How do you do, my lady?” he asked once he’d found his voice.
 
Eleanor smiled. “How do you do…Arl Howe, was it?”
 
As had always been the case when he’d heard those words, Rendon felt a simultaneous burst of pride and resentment at the title and it flashed briefly across his face before he smiled. “Indeed. So tell me, Bryce, how ever did you manage to convince such a lovely lady to marry you?”
 
“He always gets everything,” Howe seethed.
 
“You sound like a child,” Tarleton sniffed.
 
The scene changed again.
 
“Oh, just what I wanted to see,” Tarleton grumbled. “The Cousland’s wedding.”
 
“It’s not like I want to see it either,” Howe protested. “I’m not the one controlling this.”
 
“No,” Tarleton allowed. “But it’s your life we’re following and you were the one standing up as best man all the while wishing that it could have been you in Bryce Cousland’s place.”
 
“If you don’t want to see the wedding then I recommend moving to the next memory,” Howe advised shortly.
 
Tarleton nodded and the scene changed.
 
There was Riane, looking every bit as put-upon and unimpressed as she had in life. “Rendon Howe, I presume?”
 
Rendon had nodded nervously. “I am. You are Lady Riane?”
 
“Obviously,” Riane said, her voice dripping with disdain. “Your predecessor was a collaborator.”
 
Rendon’s knuckles whitened. “I was not.”
 
Riane’s eyebrows were raised skeptically. “We shall see.”
 
Tarleton began tapping his foot impatiently.
 
Howe, grateful for the distraction, turned to him. “What’s the matter?”
 
“I’m bored,” Tarleton complained.
 
“I’m sorry?” Howe said for lack of a better response.
 
“Here’s the thing: we’ve only gotten through a little less than half of the memories I was supposed to show you. We could keep going if you want but I think that you’ve really grasped the point by now,” Tarleton told him. “So if you’d like, we can just stop.” That was one of the nice things about his grandfather: he always got right to the point instead of dragging things out unnecessarily.
 
“Stopping sounds good,” Howe agreed. Those memories were mostly unpleasant anyway. “But I really don’t get the point of all of that.”
 
“I was supposed to remind you of who you used to be and how events in your life shaped you into the man you are today,” Tarleton explained.


“Oh. Well, it’s not like I ever didn’t know how I became the me I am today,” Howe declared. “So stopping sounds good.”
 
“Thank the Maker,” Tarleton said, relieved. “Now touch my hand and you’ll be back in bed, asleep.”
 
Howe did so.




“Arl Howe?” a soft voice called out.
 
Howe opened his eyes slowly, realizing that this was probably his next ghostly visitor and not really wanting to deal with whoever it was, particularly if his new visitor was anything like the previous two. Still, they were unlikely to just give up and go away just because he wasn’t pleased to see them and so he might as well face this and try to salvage as much of the night as he could for sleeping. It was really a good thing that the next day was Christmas and he wasn’t expected to wake up any time before noon.
 
Howe froze in surprise when he saw who the next ghost was, despite the fact that the first two had obviously been dead as well. “Maric.”
 
King Maric smiled. “Hello, Howe.”
 
“Why are you here?” Howe asked, stunned.
 
“I’ve always been fond of the Couslands-” Maric started to say.
 
“Of course you have,” Howe muttered darkly.
 
Maric gave him a pointed look. “And of the Howes. I really don’t think that this plot of yours is to your own advantage either.”
 
“And just how do you propose to show me that?” Howe challenged.
 
“I don’t,” Maric replied simply. “That is for the final spirit. I am here to show you the lives of the people you know and love right now. Well, right now it’s two in the morning and so most of them are asleep so technically I’ll be showing you them tomorrow.”
 
“You know, if I wanted to see what these people would be up to tomorrow, I’d go see them in person,” Howe claimed.
 
“Does this mean that you don’t have any requests about where we go?” Maric asked him.
 
“If I had it my way we wouldn’t be going anywhere at all,” Howe confirmed.
 
“Well…we have to go somewhere,” Maric reasoned. He brightened. “I know! Let’s go check in on my family since you don’t want to see your own.” He grabbed Howe’s hand and there was a flash of light.
 
King Cailan, Queen Anora, and Teyrn Loghain were in a small room in the palace, probably a study.
 
“Christmas always reminds me of our friends in Orlais,” Cailan said dreamily.
 
“I find that I must agree,” Loghain said rather sourly. “It is such an Orlesian holiday, why must we celebrate it? No one in Ferelden celebrated it before the occupation. It’s just one more bit of them that we can’t get out of our nation.”
 
“I understand that you feel that way, Father,” Anora said patiently. “But despite its origins Christmas is very important to the well-being and stability of Ferelden.”
 
“Everyone likes presents,” Cailan agreed. “I wonder what Celene is getting me…”
 
“Are you on a first-name basis with the Empress of Orlais?” Loghain demanded. “Oh, honestly!”
 
“What?” Cailan asked, confused. “Our arguments with Orlais are in the past, Loghain. I know that you find this concept a little difficult to grasp but it was nearly thirty years ago! Before Anora and I were even born! There is such a thing as holding onto a grudge for too long and you are the living proof.”
 
“Oh, are you acknowledging that we were occupied for eighty years of brutal Orlesian rule today?” Loghain asked archly.
 
“Cailan, Father, please!” Anora cried, looking a little annoyed.
 
“Do tell me how this ‘Christmas’ is good for the people of Ferelden,” Loghain prompted her.
 
“In addition to the fact that everyone needs a Christmas tree and they all want that tree to be from Gwaren thus enriching the teynir, Christmas is a huge economy stimulator between all the presents, decorations, and feasts,” Anora told him. “When enough time passes, no one will even remember that it was originally an Orlesian celebration anyway.”
 
“Christmas was an Orlesian celebration?” Cailan asked, blinking.
 
Loghain stared at Cailan for a full minute. “I don’t know whether to be relieved that the populace is already forgetting that or disturbed that our king had no idea about that.”
 
“As its Christmas, I’d suggest going with the former,” Anora advised.
 
Maric covered his face with his hand.
 
“And just like that I remember why I wanted Bryce Cousland to rule Ferelden instead,” Howe remarked.
 
“It’s really not that bad,” Maric claimed. “I mean, he lost his mother too early and I never spent enough time with him and…at least he has Anora and Loghain. They’d never steer him wrong. Well…unless you count what happens at Ostagar but I firmly believe that nothing more could have been done.”
 
“Ostagar,” Howe repeated. “That’s where the Blight will be next year. Are you saying that Cailan’s going to fall from power?” There was an opportunity there.
 
“I can’t really talk about that…” Maric told him. “Maybe I should see if I can find a way to get into contact with Loghain. Hey, could you deliver a message to him for me?”
 
“That depends on what the message is and whether or not I can think of a way to explain it without making him think I’ve gone mad,” Howe answered honestly.
 
“I’m just really concerned by my son’s interest in the Empress Celene. He should probably look into that and keep the boy away from Eamon,” Maric advised.
 
“I’ll see what I can do,” Howe told him. “Now is that all or-”
 
“It’s not all,” Maric interrupted. “We’ve only been to one place. Why don’t we look in on your family?”
 
It sounded like a question but somehow Howe knew that they were going to be doing just that no matter what he might have thought about it. “Lead on,” he said tiredly.
 
The scene changed and suddenly he saw Delilah and Thomas sitting around a small table in a room that looked vaguely familiar. “Is that part of the Keep?”
 
“It’s the kitchen, yes,” Maric said, looking surprised that Howe didn’t know that already.
 
“Let’s not eat just yet,” Thomas implored. “We have to wait for Father.”
 
“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, dear brother, but I’m nearly positive that Father’s forgotten about us. Again,” Delilah said softly.
 
“But…it’s Christmas!” Thomas cried out.
 
“There was a Christmas last year and the year before that,” Delilah pointed out. “And he didn’t spend the day with us then. In fact, we haven’t celebrated a proper Christmas since Nathaniel left.”
 
“He always was the favorite, wasn’t he?” Thomas asked rhetorically. “It really makes you wonder why Father sent him out of the country.”
 
“I don’t really think I want to know,” Delilah said, shuddering a little.
 
“You’re always so cynical, Delilah,” Thomas complained. “Come on, this is Father. What’s the worst he could possibly do?”
 
“I don’t know,” Delilah confessed. “Lately it feels like I don’t know him at all anymore…”
 
Thomas looked at clock. “Well…can we at least wait until the hour to start eating? Maybe he’ll have come down by then.”
 
Delilah gave him a sad smile. “Alright, Thomas. We can wait another half an hour.”
 
“I don’t show up by then, do I?” Howe asked.
 
Maric shook his head. “No, indeed. You don’t put in an appearance all day and Thomas is very upset about it. At least Delilah is there to comfort him. She’s a very smart girl.”
 
“Meh,” Howe said noncommittally. “So now that we’ve checked in on my family and discovered that they honestly have nothing better to do than to wait on me to appear, are we done?”
 
“We haven’t checked on all of your family yet,” Maric protested. “What about Nathaniel?”
 
“What about Nathaniel?” Howe asked innocently.
 
Maric just sighed and the scene changed.
 
“I don’t know about you but I absolutely love Christmas!” a young woman was exclaiming brightly.
 
“I’ve always been a bit wary of its Orlesian roots,” Nathaniel began, “but I will concede that I’ve come to appreciate its charms in the last few years.”
 
“And if you hadn’t then I would have absolutely made you love Christmas about half as much as I do,” the woman assured him.
 
Nathaniel raised an eyebrow. “Only half?”
 
“Bethany says that it’s not actually healthy to love Christmas as much as I do,” the woman confided. “And since she’s a healer so she knows these things.”
 
“And what makes you so sure that if I hadn’t developed an appreciation for Christmas that you would have been able to change my mind?” Nathaniel asked with a teasing grin.
 
The woman struck a dramatic pose. “Because I, my dear Nathaniel, am Aurelia Hawke and I can do anything!”
 
“It’s good to see that your rising fame isn’t going to your head,” Nathaniel deadpanned.
 
“Varric says that it’s inspiring how level-headed I am,” Aurelia said modestly.
 
“It’s good to see that his regard for the truth is as high as ever,” Nathaniel said dryly.
 
“It is, isn’t it?” Aurelia agreed. “Now come on, we’re going to be late for meeting the others and Isabela said that the last one to show up has to pay and I’d really hate to have to foist the bill on you.”
 
“…And why would you feel the need to do that?” Nathaniel asked her. “You have more money than anyone except maybe Varric and Isabela.”
 
“Yeah, but that’s my money,” Aurelia explained. “It’s for me to have kind of as a collection and occasionally blow on really expensive items that I probably don’t need but have fallen in love with just the same. I don’t want to have to spend it on my friends.”
 
“You’re a giver,” Nathaniel quipped.
 
Aurelia laughed. “And don’t I know it.” She peered closely at him. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
 
Nathaniel winced. “Am I that transparent?”
 
Aurelia chose not to answer that.
 
Nathaniel sighed and ran his fingers through his long hair. “It’s just…I miss Ferelden. I miss Amaranthine.”
 
“Your dad still won’t let you come home?” Aurelia asked sympathetically. “How many years has it been?”
 
“Too damn many,” Nathaniel said grimly. “I’m just not quite sure what I’ve done wrong. Why doesn’t he want me anywhere near him?”
 
“I’m sure it’s not you,” Aurelia said loyally. “It’s probably just his issues. You’re absolutely great and you know that we all love you. You can stay with us for as long as you need to.”
 
Nathaniel managed a small smile. “Thank you. It’s nice not to have to be alone on Christmas.”
 
“This is one of his friends in Kirkwall?” Howe asked distastefully. “Is he sleeping with her?”
 
Maric practically choked. “What a question!”


“Well, is he? I’m not sure that I approve,” Howe said, frowning. “Where does she even get off telling me that I have issues? She’s never even met me!”
 
“I’m sure that’s none of my business,” Maric said delicately. “And she was probably just trying to make Nathaniel feel better. Why don’t you let him come back anyway?”
 
“Nathaniel’s too much of an idealist,” Howe explained. “And the events that are shaping up are really not the kind of thing he’s well-suited for. It’s for his own good, really, but obviously I can’t actually tell him that. Now that we’ve seen how my eldest son has far more of a life than my younger children even if he really should find some more appropriate friends, are we done here?”
 
Maric looked a little awkward. “About that…”
 
“What?” Howe demanded, finding himself suddenly filled with trepidation.
 
“I’m not actually allowed to leave you until we go see the Couslands,” Maric revealed. “It wasn’t my idea, believe me, but rules are rules…”
 
Howe sighed. The last thing he wanted to see just then was the perfect Couslands with their perfect family in their perfect castle having their perfect Christmas when he himself had far less than he deserved on all fronts, even if he didn’t particularly care about that last one. “Fine…” he said, resigned. If nothing else, maybe this would help convince him to do what he felt must be done.
 
The scene changed. The Couslands were seated at a very large, crowded table and there was food and decorations everywhere.
 
“So Arl Howe couldn’t make it again this year?” Eleanor was asking.
 
Bryce sighed. “Indeed not. Still, we’ll try again next year. One of these days he’ll accept my invitation, I just know it.”
 
“Why do you keep bothering with him?” one of the guests asked. “He’s rather obnoxious, don’t you think?”
 
“No, I don’t think,” Bryce said severely. “Arl Rendon Howe is a good man and a valued friend.”
 
“Feeling guilty?” Maric asked hopefully.
 
“Not particularly,” Howe said flatly. “He’s probably just using me to make himself feel better. I know that if I had all of his blessings and he had all of mine then I’d keep him around so I could constantly be reminded of how much better I was than him.”
 
“It hasn’t occurred to you that he might just be a good person who genuinely likes you?” Maric inquired.
 
“Oh no, it has,” Howe corrected him. “I just dismissed that possibility as highly unlikely.”
 
“I like him,” little Oren declared. “He has a funny nose!”
 
“Oren!” Oriana cried out, half-laughing, half-horrified.
 
“Well he does,” Oren pouted. “And didn’t you and father say that we should always be honest?”
 
“Well, until you’re old enough to realize what should and should not be said in front of company than yes,” Fergus agreed. “For all that it might embarrass us, we don’t want a pathological liar in the family. Well, a pathological liar besides Anastasia.”
 
“Fergus!” Anastasia exclaimed, swatting him playfully on the arm.
 
“Ow!” Fergus clutched at the spot where she had smacked him and pretended to be wounded. “Did you see that, Oren?”
 
“Yeah, hitting isn’t nice Auntie Anastasia,” Oren told her seriously.
 
Anastasia winced. “Don’t call me Auntie.”
 
“But you are my Auntie,” Oren said, sounding like he’d had this same conversation with her many times before.
 
Anastasia rolled her eyes. “Oh, never mind. You’ll understand soon enough anyway.”
 
“You hear that, ‘Auntie’?” Fergus teased smugly. “Hitting is bad, you know.”
 
Anastasia made a face at him.
 
“You know, I’m actually kind of worried about him,” Bryce confessed. “He’s been so withdrawn lately. I do wonder if anything’s the matter.”
 
“Have you tried talking to Howe himself about it?” Eleanor asked, biting her lip in what appeared to be honest concern.
 
Bryce nodded. “A few times, yes, but I always get the same answer. ‘Everything’s fine, Bryce’, ‘I’m just a little tired, Bryce.’ That was one of the reasons I was hoping this year he’d actually accept my invitation.”
 
“Well, you know Howe,” Eleanor remarked. “He’s never been all that fond of Christmas.”
 
“Still, I think I’ll write to him in the morning,” Bryce decided.
 
“Still not feeling guilty?” Maric pressed.
 
“Feeling guilty for what?” Howe asked rhetorically. “I haven’t done anything.”
 
“No, but you’re plotting to kill them all,” Maric reminded him. “And they do clearly care about you.”
 
“So they say and nothing decided yet,” Howe retorted. “Besides, if that information I found is interpreted in the right way then getting them out of the way would be outright patriotic.”
 
Maric shook his head in exasperation. “You know that it’s not true.”
 
“I know nothing of the sort,” Howe claimed.
 
“I-” Maric started to say but he jolted. “Damn.”
 
“What?” Howe asked a little nervously. Whatever problems Maric was having might affect him.
 
“I’m sorry but my time is going to be up in less than a minute,” Maric apologized. “I don’t have time to get you back to your Keep but the final spirit should be able to do that once he’s done.”
 
“You can’t just leave me here!” Howe protested.
 
Maric was already translucent and continuing to fade from sight. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I really hope you do the right thing and deliver that message to Log-”
 
He was gone.
 
“Maric always did have a problem with punctuality,” a distinctly familiar voice noted.
 
Howe’s eyes widened as he saw someone that looked suspiciously like him materialize in Maric’s spot.
 
“W-what?” he cried, startled.
 
The new ghost smirked. “You look like you’ve just seen the ghost of your future self.” He paused. “Hm, I suppose that’s not too surprising all things considered.”
 
“You’re me?” Howe asked, just to make sure.
 
The future Rendon Howe rolled his eyes. “I did just say that, didn’t I?”
 
“But…you’re dead,” Howe protested.
 
“Everyone dies at some point,” Rendon said dismissively. “Although you don’t necessarily have to die in the next two years if you could just manage to avoid a few…missteps, shall we say and that’s what I’m here to do. Unlike Maric, I don’t expect you to really feel guilty for any of this or to want to ‘change your ways’ and become a better person.”
 
“Then what do you expect?” Howe asked curiously.
 
“Excellent question,” Rendon said approvingly. “I expect you to see what a mess the future is and do what is necessary to avoid it. This first scene is my death, hopefully not your death as well.”
 
Suddenly the pair were standing in what appeared to be a dungeon although it wasn’t any dungeon Howe had ever stepped foot in. There was a third Howe lying on the floor, bleeding heavily from a stomach wound.
 
Anastasia Cousland, her dog, and a boy that looked a great deal like Cailan stood before him with an assortment of other people (many of them not even human) standing further back to give them a little privacy.

“Maker spit on you!” dying-Howe snarled. “I deserved more!”
 
Anastasia laughed at him, a far harsher sound than he’d ever heard her make. “That depends on what you mean by ‘more’, doesn’t it? You obviously mean that you deserve better but I think that even this death is too good for you. It’s the death your men gave my father, after all. Still, as long as you die I suppose I must be satisfied.”
 
“Killing me won’t bring back your traitor parents or worthless nephew, you know,” dying-Howe coughed out.
 
“It won’t,” Anastasia acknowledged. “But it’s my duty all the same.”
 
“Are you okay?” the Cailan-esque man asked hesitantly.
 
Anastasia nodded. “Of course. Now let’s get out of here before I start hacking him to pieces.”
 
Howe drew back. “She wants to hack me into pieces?!?!”
 
“She doesn’t,” Rendon assured him. “There is a rumor that goes around that she does, however. There must have been a hidden witness somewhere who heard her say that.”
 
“I can’t believe that that little girl managed to kill me,” Howe marveled, shaking his head. “I mean, she had a golem with her, I suppose, but still.”
 
“She didn’t even really need the golem,” Rendon admitted, looking rather embarrassed. “She was better than I expected and rather motivated. Having her family massacred would do the trick, I suppose.”
 
“So what happened? I had her family killed and then…what? She quickly kills me? And how does she survive?” Howe demanded.
 
“I’m not sure how she managed to escape,” Rendon confessed. “I think that Grey Warden who just happened to be staying at the castle might have helped. She becomes a Grey Warden, you become the Teyrn of Highever as well as Arl of Denerim, and eventually she kills you in the dungeon of the Arl of Denerim’s estate.”
 
“What happens to her then? Does she get arrested?” Howe asked angrily.
 
“For about an hour before she and Maric’s bastard break out of Fort Drakon,” Rendon replied. “And as for the nobility…well, listen to this.”
 
Suddenly they were at the Gnawed Noble Tavern in Denerim.
 
“Have you heard the news about Howe?” Ceorlic gossiped.
 
“Everyone in the city has. Bryland must be pleased,” Sighard remarked.
 
“That half-blood is as cold as the mountains,” Ceorlic said reprovingly. “Did they not serve together in the war?”
 
“Oh, I can hardly speak ill of the sense or conscience of any man simply for wishing Rendon Howe dead. You've met him. The man made vipers seem personable,” Sighard said dryly.
 
“Hmph. Well, I-I didn't say I was shedding any tears over his passing. He never was any friend of mine,” Ceorlic quickly backtracked.
 
“Besides, Bryland was kinsman to Eleanor Cousland and we all know that he was behind her death,” Sighard continued. “What my sister ever saw in his Arling, I’ll never understand.”
 
“Speaking of, they say that Anastasia Cousland was the one to actually kill him,” Ceorlic said conspiratorially. “Do you think it’s true?”
 
“I could believe that she ended him but do I believe that she hacked him into pieces for hours while he yet lived?” Sighard asked rhetorically. “I think not. I haven’t seen her in a few years but her parents would have raised her better than that.”
 
“What do you think is going to happen to his collection of titles?” Ceorlic asked eagerly.
 
“Well that I think depends on who wins the Landsmeet tomorrow,” Sighard said reasonably. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Highever goes back to the Couslands. Still, Amaranthine and Denerim are up for grabs.”
 
“It’s nice to be appreciated,” Rendon said rhetorically. “And it’s not like Sighard grew any fonder of me when he found out what I did to his son…”
 
“So I’m to be murdered in my own home and nobody even cares,” Howe said bitterly. “Oh, I really wish I could say that I was surprised. And even this can be traced back to the Couslands!”
 
“It gets worse,” Rendon said grimly.
 
Howe groaned. “How much worse?”
 
“I won’t show you all of it as it’s just too enraging but…” Rendon trailed off.
 
Anastasia stood before them in the crowded Landsmeet chamber. “Alistair will take his father’s throne and I shall rule besides him.”

“You will?” Maric’s bastard – apparently Alistair – asked, stunned. He cleared his throat. “I mean, she will! Definitely.”
 
The scene faded.
 
“I think I just threw up a little in my mouth,” Howe complained, disgusted.
 
“I know the feeling,” Rendon agreed, the look on his face pretty much identical to the one Howe was sure that he had. “And did I mention that they’re disgustingly happy together and rule over a golden age? Plus her brother wasn’t even dead so he retook Highever. As for Amaranthine…”
 
“What happens to Amaranthine?” Howe asked fearfully.
 
“I don’t even have the words to describe it,” Rendon said and suddenly they were standing in the Keep’s throne room. Virtually every inch of the room was covered in some sort of Christmas-y decoration. “I know,” he said. “It’s very tacky.”
 
Anastasia was seated in the throne and that made Howe’s blood almost boil over and Varel was standing beside her. What would it take to get rid of that man?
 
“It’s not enough that she’s the Queen of Ferelden?” Howe raged. “She has to take Amaranthine, too?”
 
“Technically, Amaranthine belongs to the Grey Wardens,” Rendon explained. “And for awhile she was the Warden-Commander. I actually would have preferred the Orlesian that was going to be sent if Anastasia didn’t take the job for awhile but at least when she left Nathaniel took over. On the other hand…”
 
“Let me guess, it gets worse,” Howe said sarcastically.
 
“Oh so very much worse,” Rendon agreed. He pointed. “Look.”
 
Howe turned to see his eldest son on bended knee in front of some half-dressed elf with a mage’s staff and stupid-looking tattoos on her face.
 
“Will you marry me?” he asked nervously.
 
The elf looked pained. “I never thought I’d see the day when a stupid shem would propose to me but…yes, yes I will.”
 
Howe started screaming then and he didn’t stop until that horrible scene faded away.
 
“I know,” Rendon soothed him. “Trust me, I know. Still, could you try to cut that out? You’re giving me a headache.”
 
“Future-me…I have to know,” Howe said desperately. “What was the point of all of this? Are these the things that are going to happen or just the things that might happen if I massacre the Couslands? Can I avoid this? Can I stop Anastasia Cousland from stealing my Arling and my son from marrying an elven ****?”
 
Rendon rolled his eyes. “If you couldn’t change the future then what would be the point in us showing it to you? I don’t know if you can stop Anastasia from becoming queen but without the massacre there’s no need to take your Arling…but you might want to distance yourself from the slavers, maybe blame Vaughan.”
 
“Slavers? What slavers?” Howe asked blankly.
 
“Oh, you’ll see,” Rendon said vaguely. “Seriously, as tempted as you might be to lock Vaughan up and fake his death to steal his Arling, don’t. Instead, ally with him and blame him for locking up and torturing that templar and that noble as well. He’d make a wonderful scapegoat, much as I did once Anastasia started feeling guilty for stealing Teyrna Anora’s throne and she decided to work to restore Loghain’s name.”
 
“I won’t allow any of that to happen!” Howe promised. “And if that means that the Couslands don’t die then I suppose I can live with it.”
 
“That’s the spirit,” Rendon said cheerfully. “And if nothing else, there’s every chance they’ll die at Ostagar or in the civil war that follows. Remember: scapegoat!”




Howe’s eyes snapped open. That had been the most horrible nightmare he’d ever had and the worst part was the he really doubted that it had just been a nightmare.
 
He knew what he had to do. He had gone to bed mostly convinced to massacre the Couslands but now he knew that if he did that his life would be basically forfeit since that girl of Bryce’s just wouldn’t die. And he needed to get Nathaniel home straightaway before he could meet any elven ****s he might fancy himself in love with. He couldn’t send a letter today, of course, but that would be the first thing he did come tomorrow. And he really should think about appreciating Varel more; the man clearly knew how to keep his head above the water no matter what was happening to anyone else and that would be a useful skill to learn.
 
Since he was no longer planning the destruction of the Couslands, he supposed it was back to trying to stay on their good side so he might as well head to Highever after all.
 
He hurriedly dressed and went downstairs to get a horse to take him to the Couslands’ castle.
 
“Father!” Thomas cried out, happily. “I knew you’d get here soon!”
 
Delilah looked surprised but said nothing.
 
Howe had honestly forgotten all about them (and for that matter, hadn’t thought to ask future-him about their fates but he was sure they couldn’t have ended up as misguided as Nathaniel) but he was not about to have his children sitting around pathetically waiting on him. That kind of neglect might get them interested in elves, after all.
 
“Come, we are going to the Couslands,” he said curtly.
 
Really, his two youngest children looked far too thrilled for such a simple invitation.




“So Arl Howe couldn’t make it again this year?” Eleanor was asking as Howe and his two present children were shown into the dining hall.
 
“I could, actually, but I beg your pardon for arriving so late,” Howe spoke up.
 
“Joy,” one of the guests muttered darkly. Howe thought perhaps that that was the same guest who had wanted to know why Bryce wasted his time with him. He would certainly bear watching.
 
“Oh, it’s no trouble at all,” Bryce said, getting to his feet and gesturing them over. “We’re glad to have you. I had been led to believe you weren’t coming?”
 
 
“I wasn’t feeling well yesterday but I’ve well and truly recovered and it is Christmas so my children and I decided to make the journey anyway,” Howe lied smoothly.
 
“I’m glad that you could make it, Arl Howe,” Anastasia said warmly before beckoning Delilah to come sit by her.
 
Howe made sure to smile at her and he was reasonably sure that it looked sincere. Oh, she had better be glad to see him, especially if she was going to end up Queen in the future. He had learned quite a bit last night even if it might not have been the lesson Maric would have liked him to learn and so he’d need to consider his future plans quite carefully.
 
After all, he really did deserve more and he had every intention of getting it.

[Sarah1281]

This week's Anders prompt is 'Morrigan.'


Anders might have had no idea where he was but as he was reasonably sure that the templars didn’t either, he was perfectly fine with that. It was just that he was in a distinctly wild-looking area and who knew what he’d find out there? He may have had more experience with the outside world do to his years of hiding his magic but he had never really spent much time in the wilderness. Maybe he’d meet a Dalish clan who would shun him – or worse – for ‘choosing’ to imprisoned in a tower by the Chantry. He’d seen a Dalish girl once, her face was covered with tattoos and she hadn’t seemed to know where she was either. Given that he was lost as well and didn’t appreciate it, he rather hoped that she had made it out okay.
 
“What have we here?” a drawling voice called out from behind him. “An intruder? Mother would know just what to do with you…”
 
Anders started and spun around to face the woman the voice belonged to. She was…damn, she was the best-looking girl he’d seen in quite some time and her shirt – if it could be called that – left little to the imagination. Her long dark hair was tied up in a bun and her milky skin was unmarred. “An intruder, fair lady? I didn’t mean to be one, if I have wandered somewhere I shouldn’t be.”
 
“A likely story,” the woman said skeptically. There was this feeling that he was getting from her…was she a mage as well? She wasn’t carrying a staff or dressed in robes but then, neither was he. It would make him far too obvious of a target for even the most idiotic of templars or other Chantry zealots.
 
“No, it’s true,” Anders insisted. “I’m afraid I’m terribly lost. Perhaps you could help me…I’m sorry, I don’t believe I caught your name.”
 
“That would be because my name wasn’t thrown,” the woman retorted sharply but she looked a little amused. “’Tis no great importance what my name is and why should I tell you mine if you haven’t even told me yours?”
 
“Right, my name is Maric,” Anders introduced. It was never smart to give out his real name while escaping or using the same alias too often.
 
The woman raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Maric?”
 
Anders shrugged. “It’s a surprisingly common name. My mother, like most Fereldens, was very grateful to King Maric for having delivered us from the Orlesian occupation and so it was either that or Loghain. She felt that I looked more like the king’s portrait than the Teyrn’s so there you have it.”
 
“How very unoriginal,” the woman remarked dryly. “Then again, I have reason to believe that if my mother had any daughters before me than they were all named ‘Morrigan’ as well so perhaps ’tis not as unbelievable as I thought.”
 
Something told Anders that being compared to Morrigan’s mother wasn’t a good thing. He coughed. “I see. Well I, for one, feel that Morrigan is a beautiful name and a fitting one.”
 
A smirk flitted across Morrigan’s face. “Such a charmer! Oh, I just know that I could have fun with you.”
 
Anders definitely liked the sound of that. “I like fun.”
 
The smirk widened. “I’m sure you do. Of course, my mother would probably be able to have even more fun than I would…”
 
Anders definitely didn’t like the sound of that. And anyway, threesomes were only interesting if both parties were in some way appealing. Morrigan’s mother had to be at least fifty and, to Rylock’s eternal frustration, even he had standards. “As intriguing as that sounds, Morrigan, I really should be going. I don’t even know where I am, you see, or how to get out of here and I’d rather not have to try to spend the night in a strange wilderness.”
 
“You are in the Korcari Wilds,” Morrigan informed him. Impulsively, she added, “And I will lead you out.”
 
Anders nodded his gratitude and began to follow her, hoping that she was really leading him back to civilization and not to her apparently horny mother. He was definitely appreciating the view as she led him to wherever, though.
 
“You are a mage?” Morrigan asked suddenly.
 
“I’m about as much of a mage as you are,” Anders said simply.
 
Morrigan nodded, accepting that. “I suppose you live in that ‘Circle Tower’ then?”
 
Anders twitched. “Not voluntarily.”
 
“Perhaps you could try to clear something up for me,” Morrigan said slowly. “ ’Tis something that I’ve been wondering about for quite awhile and something on which my mother has proven most unhelpful.”
 
“I’d be happy to help if I can,” Anders offered.
 
“I know that the Chantry takes all the mages that they can find and they lock them up in the tower. Tell me this, Maric: Why do the mages consent to live that way? Are they really so weak and stupid?” Morrigan demanded.
 
Anders shrugged. “I myself was only brought to the Circle a few years back and since my Harrowing-” he stopped at the confused look on her face. “Since I became a full mage and can no longer be executed or have my connection to the Fade and consequentially all of my emotions stripped from me, I’ve spent more time outside of the tower than inside. The templars try to track you down, of course, and have a vial of your blood with which to do it. Once they catch you, they drag you back and punish you for your escape.”
 
“So many mages try to escape then?” Morrigan inquired.
 
Anders frowned. “Not many, no. I don’t even think most of them think about escaping. They’ve just been there for so long that they really don’t know any better. They don’t understand what a dreadful fate being a non-apostate mage in Ferelden is and some of them don’t even like to be outside.”
 
“Weak sheep,” Morrigan spat. She gestured in front of her. “Keep going for maybe five minutes and you’ll find your way out. I’m glad to know that at least some mages aren’t as pathetic as I had believed.” With that, she turned into a bird and flew away.
 
Huh, he’d never seen that before. Too bad he hadn’t gotten a chance to sleep with her. On the other hand, he hadn’t been called upon to sleep with her mother, either, so perhaps he should just consider himself fortunate and move on.

[Sarah1281]

This week's Alistair prompt is 'Splitting Hairs.' 


“Loghain,” Alistair announced one morning just after breakfast, “is the single most evil and irredeemable creature that I have ever had the misfortune to meet…nay, that has ever existed.”
 
Aunn Aeducan raised her eyebrows at that. Personally, she was still withholding judgment on the matter until they knew more but her initial opinion was that he wasn’t nearly as bad as Alistair kept insisting. Alistair had picked up on this and was doing his utmost to convince her otherwise. “Don’t you think you’re exaggerating just a little?”
 
“Not even slightly,” Alistair said stubbornly. “In fact, I almost feel like I’m understating it but I don’t know how to possibly make my meaning any more clear without resorting to metaphors.”
 
“So you’ve decided that Teyrn Loghain is more evil and irredeemable than even the darkspawn?”
 Aunn asked, sounding surprised. “You know, I don’t often agree with my evil brother – if only on principle – but I must say that it does sound like you’ve forgotten your training.”
 
Alistair flushed. “Okay, maybe he’s not as evil as the darkspawn themselves but that wasn’t what I meant and you know it.”
 
“Do I?” Aunn asked rhetorically. “You did say ‘creature’ and not ‘person.’ Had you used the word ‘person’ then of course I never would have assumed that you were taking the darkspawn into account.”
 
“Fair enough,” Alistair grumbled. “But it’s not like saying that Loghain is less evil than the darkspawn is really saying all that much.”
 
“Perhaps not,” Aunn acknowledged.”But it is important that we remember these things in case it ever comes down to killing Loghain or ending the Blight.”
 
Alistair looked baffled. “Why ever would it come down to killing Loghain or ending the Blight?”


Aunn shrugged. “I like to be prepared for all eventualities. Not doing so put me in a rather bad position, if you’ll remember.”
 
“Well, I guess that I can’t fault you there,” Alistair admitted. “But make no mistake, it will not come to that. You know how evil Loghain is! He deserves justice!”
 
“ ‘Justice,’” Aunn repeated. “I do not think that words means what you think it means.”
 
Alistair rolled his eyes. “Now you sound like Morrigan. Of course I know what justice means!”

“Not to sound like Morrigan – because believe me, I’m really not trying to – but prove it,” Aunn requested. “What do you think would count as ‘justice’ for Loghain.”
 
“Having everyone denounce him as a traitor and watching him get his head cut off,” Alistair said promptly. “Preferably by me but I am willing to compromise on that point.”
 
“Do you really think we’ll have time to deal with his trial before dealing with the Blight?” Aunn asked him. “He’s not without his allies, you know, and a trial would surely divide the nobility.”
 
“Why would the nobility be divided?” Alistair demanded. “He’s obviously guilty! I mean…he killed Duncan and King Cailan! And he poisoned Arl Eamon!”
 
“Technically, he didn’t kill them,” Aunn pointed out. “He merely left instead of reinforcing them like he was supposed to do and thus enable the darkspawn to have an easier time killing them. We don’t even know that if he did charge either would still be alive. And he hired Jowan to poison Arl Eamon, which there’s really no proof of so good luck convincing any of the nobles.”
 
“Now you’re just splitting hairs,” Alistair accused.
 
“True,” Aunn agreed. “But do you really think the defense will be any less prone to hair-splitting at his trial?”
 
“Why would he even need a trial?” Alistair wanted to know. “Telling everyone what he did if they don’t already know and I guess finding irrefutable evidence of it or a witness if we must should be more than enough! If we all know he’s guilty, there’s no need to drag things out.”
 
Aunn shook her head. “See, that’s why I’m not convinced you’re entirely clear on the word ‘justice’ because what you just described sounds a lot like ‘vengeance.’ I’m not judging either way but you really should use the correct word.”
 
“Sometimes justice is vengeance,” Alistair argued.
 
Aunn nodded. “Sometimes, yes, but only after there is a trial. I’ll confess that I don’t know how things work with commoners here in Ferelden but there is no way that you can just execute a noble without giving him a trial.” She paused. “Preferably one that the noble is actually present at but I’ve learned that people are willing to compromise on that point.”
 
“That’s ridiculous!” Alistair protested.
 
“Ridiculous or not, it is the law and the law is there to protect us unless it gets circumvented by evil siblings,” Aunn explained patiently.
 
“But he’s evil,” Alistair insisted.
 
“Then you’ll have to prove that in some form of a legal trial,” Aunn said flatly. She wasn’t quite sure that she believed in absolute evil but Alistair didn’t seem to be big on moral relativism. He’d shown himself willing to look the other way when called upon to do so in the name of being a Grey Warden and stopping the Blight but he’d always been quite put-out about it.
 
Alistair groaned. “Nobles make everything too damn complicated. Is it any wonder that I don’t want anything to do with…” He stopped, remembering that he hadn’t actually told Aunn about that yet.
 
Aunn looked at him curiously. “What? Is it any wonder that you don’t want anything to do with what? Nobles?”
 
Alistair forced a smile. “Y-yes, that’s exactly it. Now, um, I just remembered that I need to talk to Leliana about something very important. We can continue this some other time if you’d like.”
 
With that, he ran off leaving Aunn to shake her head in confusion as she stared after him.

[Sarah1281]

No prompt this week but another Alistair guest prompt 'There is no love without sacrifice.'


Alistair gazed at his wife mournfully across the dinner table. “It’s just who I am. I thought that you understood that.”
 
“I’m not trying to change you,” Anastasia argued. “I just-”
 
“Really?” Alistair cut her off. “Because it sure seems like it. I never thought I’d say this but…I’ll bet that Anora wouldn’t have asked me to make this kind of sacrifice.”
 
Anastasia’s jaw dropped. “Oh you did not just imply that you would have been better off marrying Anora because of this!”
 
“Inferences are subjective,” Alistair said innocently.
 
“Either way, there’s no way this wouldn’t bother her!” Anastasia declared. “In fact, she would have probably mentioned it a long time ago.”
 
“Just because you turned out to have a problem with this part of my life doesn’t mean that everybody would,” Alistair disagreed. “I really think that you’re projecting here.”
 
“You know, Anora’s in Denerim right now,” Anastasia told him. “And she’s coming in for an audience tomorrow. Why don’t we ask her then if she’d have a problem with it.”
 
“Fine,” Alistair agreed coldly. “But don’t be surprised when you hear that not only would it not have bothered her in the slightest but she might not even have noticed.”
 
Anastasia rolled her eyes. “Please. The only way the Teyrna says that is if she’s trying to be diplomatic and wants something from you.”
 
“Must you always think the worst of everyone?” Alistair demanded.


“Since when do I ‘always’ think the worst of everyone?” Anastasia asked, surprised.
 
Alistair raised an eyebrow pointedly.
 
Anastasia flushed. “Oh, you cannot possibly use this situation right now as an example of me always doing something! And besides, I’m the one who actually likes Anora; you’re perpetually on the lookout that she’s secretly evil.”
 
“Well, she is Loghain’s daughter,” Alistair said reasonably. “And if only someone were on the lookout for him being secretly evil, think how much trouble we could have avoided a few years back. I’ll bet my father did that, you know, but Cailan sadly neglected his duties.”
 
“You’re completely overreacting anyway,” Anastasia told him flatly, changing the subject.
 
Alistair barked out a laugh. “Overreacting? Me? You can’t just ask a man to make this kind of a sacrifice and then say that he’s ‘overreacting’ when he doesn’t leap at the chance! Sometimes, I wonder if you ever really knew me…”
 
Anastasia just stared at him. “You really don’t think you’re overreacting?”
 
“Not even in the slightest,” Alistair confirmed.

“You not only implied you might have been better off marrying Loghain’s daughter but you also verbally doubted how much we know each other,” Anastasia pointed out.
 
“I remember that,” Alistair said dryly. “I was the one to just say that just a few minutes ago. I still maintain that the first one is just your interpretation of what I said, though.”
 
Anastasia threw her hands up in the air. “By the Maker, Alistair, I’m not asking you to starve yourself!”
 
“You might as well be,” Alistair sniffed.
 
“Alistair, you have had cheese – and a lot of it – with every meal you’ve had for at least three months now,” Anastasia said, exasperated. “I’m not even asking that you completely stop consuming it, just perhaps that you eat a little less.”
 
“Why would you even think of asking that of me?” Alistair asked, hurt. “You know how much I love cheese!”
 
“Oh, I do. Believe me, I do,” Anastasia muttered. “And normally I would just keep on ignoring it as just one of your quirks – and it’s not like I don’t have plenty of my own – but it’s kind of getting ridiculous.”
 
“Just because you’ve never loved a food as much as I love cheese is no reason to try to punish me,” Alistair declared dramatically.
 
Anastasia shook her head incredulously. “I can’t believe that I’m even having this conversation.”
 
“Neither can I,” Alistair said seriously. “It’s just so uncalled for.”
 
“It’s hardly uncalled for,” Anastasia countered. “Nan always used to tell me when I was little to be careful not to eat too much of one food or there may be some negative side-effects and you can’t deny that this is the case here.”
 
“Of course I can deny it,” Alistair scoffed. “I refuse to believe that anything negative has happened from my cheese consumption except you trying to get me to stop.”
 
“Well, you couldn’t if you were being reasonable,” Anastasia said with a sigh. “Apparently when I was just a baby, I refused to eat anything but mashed-up sweet potatoes and carrots so I starting turning orange. My parents had never heard of such a thing and they were really worried for awhile but after taking me to see a healer, they were advised to just stop feeding me exclusively orange food and sure enough I was back to normal within a few days.”
 
“I don’t see what that has to do with me,” Alistair insisted.
 
Anastasia raised an eyebrow. “Oh now? You haven’t noticed that your migraines and constipation have only started since you started going overboard with the cheese?”
 
“It’s a coincidence,” Alistair claimed. “Correlation does not equal causation, you know.”
 
“And the sleepiness is a coincidence as well?” Anastasia asked skeptically. “You’ve been passed out by nine for weeks now!”
 
“Yes,” Alistair answered shortly.
 
“What about the flatulence?” Anastasia challenged. “Last time Oghren was here, even he was impressed!”
 
Alistair looked a little embarrassed. “Okay, so maybe that is the result of the cheese. But a little extra gas is hardly reason enough to start demanding that I stop eating my beloved cheese!”
 
“What about the acne and weight gain?” Anastasia demanded. “Are they enough?”
 
“I don’t know what you’re talking about?” Alistair said virtuously.
 
“Would you like me to bring a mirror?” Anastasia asked sweetly. “I can be sure to point it out to you.”
 
Alistair cleared his throat. “That won’t be necessary.” He paused. “Exactly how much cheese would we be cutting out of my diet anyway?”
 
“According to the healer, it would be easier to wean you off of your excess slowly,” Anastasia responded. “I can send for her after dinner and we can work out a comprehensive plan then.”
 
“You’re lucky I love you,” Alistair told her, a slight grin playing on his lips.
 
“Indeed,” Anastasia agreed. “Just remember, dear husband: There is no love without sacrifice.”

[Sarah1281]

This week's Anders' prompt was "After Anders first escaped from the Circle Tower, he saved the life of Bann Ferrenly. This enchanted amulet was a reward for Anders's service and friendship."


The blonde boy looked up at him. “Well, that was embarrassing.”
 
Anders wrung the water out of his hair. “Yes, I imagine it was. I don’t even know what you thought you were doing and already I’m a little embarrassed on your behalf.”
 
“I was attempting to teach myself to swim,” the boy said, not quite able to meet Anders’ eyes.
 
“You were barely conscious at the bottom of a lake when I happened upon you,” Anders pointed out.
 
“I-I wasn’t quite sure how one went about learning how to swim and so I thought that I could try to practice holding my breath first,” the boy explained. “Only I had to be under water otherwise I’d just end up cheating. I guess I should have known my limit better.” He sheepishly pushed his went bangs out of his face.
 
“Why didn’t you ask someone to teach you how to swim?” Anders demanded. “Or had someone watch you while you practiced so this kind of thing didn’t happen. Or even just ask for some advice on how to start!”
 
“I couldn’t do that,” the boy protested immediately.
 
“And why not?” Anders asked, crossing his arms and staring down at the shorter boy.
 
“Because if I had then one of my guards would have insisted on going with me,” the boy explained. “Well, they’re probably all tearing out their hair because they don’t know where I am right now but had I asked they would have had a much better idea of what I was doing and thus where to search for me.”
 
Anders started. This boy was clearly far more important than he had thought. “Your what? Who are you, anyway?”
 
“Oh, my apologies,” the boy told him. “I am Bann Ferrenly. My mother died in childbirth but you can tell she hated me as she gave me this name.”
 
Anders wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that and he had far more pressing concerns anyway. “You’re a member of the nobility.”
 
Ferrenly nodded. “And you’re a mage.”
 
Anders froze. “I…what?” He forced a laugh. “What a thing to say!”
 
“It’s true,” Ferrenly insisted.
 
“What makes you think that?” Anders asked, hoping his nervousness didn’t show.
 
“My leg was bleeding and now you can’t even tell I had hurt it,” Ferrenly said matter-of-factly.
 
Anders winced. Damn his healer’s impulse to fix all wounds he came across! He would have to remember this and be more careful on his next escape. “I do? Huh.”
 
“Oh, I’m not going to turn you in if that’s what you’re worried about,” Ferrenly assured him.
 
Anders’s eyes widened and he stared suspiciously at the bann. “You’re not?”
 
“Of course not. Mage or not, you saved my life and it would be awfully ungrateful for me to turn you in to the Chantry for that. Maker knows that that might just encourage you to leave the next sorry bastard you find sitting at the bottom of a lake down there to drown,” Ferrenly replied.
 
Andes knew that he shouldn’t question his unexpected good fortune. Well, that would be another lesson for his next escape. “But…it’s the law.”
 
Ferrenly shrugged. “Yes, well Father used to say that the Chantry was a very Orlesian institution and my family suffered greatly under the occupation they endorsed. Truthfully, I’m not very fond of them although I know better than to spread that around.”
 
Anders raised an eyebrow. “And yet you’ll tell me?”
 
Ferrenly smirked. “Yes, wanted apostate, I do think that somehow telling you will not really negatively impact me. You know, it’s convenient that I don’t like the Chantry because I’m not even sure that I like the Maker.”
 
Anders blinked. That wasn’t the sort of thing he heard every day. “What do you mean?”
 
“You would think that the Chantry would be the Maker’s greatest advocate, yes?” Ferrenly asked rhetorically. “And that they would try to present the Maker in the greatest light?”
 
“That does stand to reason, yes,” Anders confirmed.
 
“Well, if the Maker’s own devoted honestly believe that he cursed all of Thedas with the darkspawn centuries ago because a handful of mages dared to visit his Golden City, that he wrote off all of Thedas until Andraste caught his attention, and then decided to write us all off again because a handful of people killed her, etcetera then I’m not sure that I’m a fan,” Ferrenly said bluntly.
 
“Well, when you put it that way…” Anders trailed off.
 
“Oh, it’s not me that’s putting it that way,” Ferrenly corrected. “That’s the Chantry’s own position.”
 
“So…now what?” Anders asked uncertainly. “Should I just leave?”
 
“And go where?” Ferrenly asked, amused. “You’re a wanted apostate, remember?”
 
“I certainly can’t stay here,” Anders objected.
 
“And why not?” Ferrenly inquired. “Come and stay at my estate for a few days. I daresay it’s been some time since you’ve had a proper meal.”
 
“The Circle wouldn’t know a ‘proper meal’ if it bit them on the ass,” Anders agreed.
 
“There’s just one catch,” Ferrenly said, looking serious.
 
Anders frowned. “Catch?” He didn’t like the sound of that.
 
“I can’t very well have a guest under my roof whose name I don’t know!” Ferrenly exclaimed. “In fact, I don’t even care if you give me your real name or not, I just need something to call you and obviously ‘wanted apostate’ will be out unless I want to cause a commotion.”
 
As it happened, Anders had not been intending to give his real name but he changed his mind at the last second. “Anders. My name is Anders.”
 
“Well, Anders, something tells me that you’re going to make my life interesting for the next few days,” Ferrenly declared, pleased. He reached up and removed a chain from around his neck and held it out. “Here, have an amulet.”
 
Anders blinked. “…Just like that you’re giving me an amulet?”
 
Ferrenly shrugged. “Eh, why not? Are you going to take it? It would be most inconsiderate of you to refuse a gift.”
 
Reluctantly, Anders took the amulet in his hand. “This just seems a little spontaneous and I wouldn’t want to…is this enchanted?”
 
“It is,” Ferrenly confirmed. “I don’t remember what the enchantments mean, however.
 
“This will help with my healing and mental fortitude,” Anders explained.
 
“Does this mean that you’ll accept it?” Ferrenly pressed.
 
Anders smiled. “Yes, I’ll accept it. Although that is such an odd way to give a gift.”
 
Ferrenly shrugged again. “I’m a noble. A little eccentricity is almost expected.”

[Sarah1281]

This gues Alistair prompt is 'Love Means Never Having to Say You're Sorry.'


Alistair’s nine-year-old daughter Moira had been sent to him by her exasperated nanny after the child had knocked over her little brother’s blocks and refused to apologize.
 
She stared at him defiantly. “I’m not going to say I’m sorry!”
 
“Moira, you know that you made Teagan cry,” Alistair told her, a hint of disapproval in his voice.
 
“I didn’t mean to!” Moira objected. “I didn’t even mean to knock over his stupid blocks, anyway. He just built them too close to the door and I didn’t see them.”
 
“If you didn’t mean to knock them over and didn’t want your brother to cry then why won’t you apologize?” Alistair asked reasonably. “You can apologize for accidents, too, you know.”
 
“I know,” Moira said solemnly, nodding. “But…I can’t apologize to him. I just can’t.”
 
“Why not?” Alistair asked patiently. “I promise you that he’ll forgive you if you do.”
 
Moira looked at the floor. “That’s not it.”
 
“I’m not a mind-reader, Moira,” Alistair told her. “I can’t help you until you tell me what’s wrong.”
 
“I can’t apologize to Teagan ’cause I love him!” Moira burst out.
 
Alistair blinked. “I…don’t quite follow. Shouldn’t loving him mean that you’d want to make him not upset at you anymore?”
 
Moira looked torn. “Well, yeah…except that I need some other way to get him to not be mad anymore.”
 
“What’s wrong with apologizing?” Alistair inquired.
 
Moira huffed. “I just told you! I can’ts ’cause I love him!”
 
“Why can’t you apologize to Teagan and love him?” Alistair asked her, feeling a little out of his depth.
 
“Because I heard mommy say that love means never having to say you’re sorry,” Moira explained. “And I love Teagan so I can’t tell him that I’m sorry.”
 
Alistair tried very hard to keep a straight face and though he managed not to chuckle, he couldn’t help the small smile tugging on his lips.
 
Moira’s face crumpled. “And now you’re laughing at me and Teagan will probably never forgive me and…and I don’t know what to do!”
 
“Easy, Moira, I’m not laughing at you,” Alistair was quick to reassure his daughter. He placed a hand on her shoulder.
 
“You’re not?” Moira asked uncertainly, her eyes scanning his face for any hint of deception.
 
“I would never laugh at you,” Alistair promised. “I just realized that you got the wrong idea from what your mother said. You’re allowed to apologize to someone that you love.”
 
Moira’s eyes widened. “You are?”
 
Alistair nodded. “Towards the end of your mother’s pregnancy with Teagan, I was apologizing to her at least a half dozen times a day, you know. And then when she got a little…upset while your brother was being born, she apologized to me afterwards as well.”
 
Moira’s forehead scrunched up in confusion. “So…was mommy lying, then?” The very idea seemed inconceivable to her.
 
“She wasn’t lying,” Alistair corrected her. “The expression ‘love means never having to say you’re sorry’ means that you’re not supposed to hurt the people you care about on purpose and knowing that they will always forgive you, no matter what…or at least that’s how I’ve always understood it.”
 
“So Teagan will forgive me for knocking over his blocks because he loves me, even if I don’t apologize?” Moira asked hopefully.
 
“Eventually, yes,” Alistair confirmed. “But I think that we can speed that process up if you did apologize to him.”
 
“Why?” Moira asked, puzzled. “You just said that he would forgive me anyway.”
 
“Yes, but if you apologize then he’ll know that you’re sorry about what happened and it would be easier to forgive him,” Alistair explained. “You know how I apologized to you last year when I accidentally stepped on your favorite toy?”
 
Moira nodded slowly, a flash of sadness dancing across her face at the reminder of her broken toy. “Yeah.”
 
“Well, if I hadn’t said I was sorry, would you have forgiven me by now?” Alistair asked.
 
Moira thought about it. “Hm…I don’t know. But I guess a year is kind of a long time so maybe yes.”
 
“Was it far easier to forgive me since I said that I was sorry?” Alistair asked pointedly.
 
“Yeah because then I knew that you cared that you made me cry-Oh!” Moira realized. “Thanks Dad, I gotta go!” She ran for the door.
 
“Where?” Alistair called after her.
 
“I gotta go tell Teagan I’m sorry about his blocks before he forgives me!” she shouted back over her shoulder.
 
“And so another crisis is successfully dealt with,” Alistair mused. “I can’t wait until they’re old enough to have serious problems…”