39010 réponses à ce sujet

[Maria13]

Fyre, that's the idea... but you can actually do anything creative, some folks make pictures...

[megski]

fyreshadowes wrote...

In other news, all this talk of husbands is making me feel like a child... (doesn't help that I'm still not even allowed to ride public transportation without an adult escort... )

I wouldn't worry about that, didn't you say you were just a kid?  Don't mind me, I'm just kinda old. 
I did get married when I was just a kid though, I was 19.  Nerd boys are all over you like taint in the deep roads if you're decent at a first person shooter.  

[RagingCyclone]

I'm going to cheat here for the prompt since I have little time (going to a cousin's wedding) so here is one I had already written that fits this prompt nicely, I think.

Prompt! I Hate it When You Make Sense

Story: A Cup of Restraint:

A Cup of Restraint

The two wardens gazed over the ramparts to the barren landscape below. The old Tevinter ruins resembled the lands surrounding them. The grounds had once been fertile and covered with crops and villages. Now they were barren with little vegetation. The ruins themselves had once been a great castle with several towers overlooking the landscape, and Alistair placed his hand upon one of the remaining walls seemingly in the middle of nowhere. He imagined the old magister lords looking out over their subjects all those millennia ago. Lost in his thoughts, his finger traced one of the cracks scarring the once great tower they were standing on.
"What do you see?" asked Dan bringing Alistair back to reality.
"An old slab of rock," he joked back. "What am I supposed to see?"
"Depends."
"On what?"
"On your perspective. A positive man would see what could be. A negative man would see what was. And a realistic man would see the dangers of what happened here, and the consequences." Dan turned to walk toward the other side of the once majestic tower.
"Where did that come from? Are you deciding to become some deep thinker?" queried Alistair as he turned his gaze to follow his friend.
"I was just thinking, that's all. I remember my old teacher mentioning that a wise ruler would exercise with a cup of restraint. Looking out here across the land, I wonder if that would have helped here."
"I would guess so. The Tevinter mages were well known to use blood magic and thrived on power. Hence why these ruins are here. Restraint was not one of their strengths if I recall correctly."
"True," Dan replied as he reached the other side to look across the valley below. "But do we really know what happened here?"
"I suppose it was sacked much like the other ruins we have come across."
"Perhaps...if we apply the thought of restraint. It could have been from rebellion, or war, or even disease. Or perhaps it was because of something natural. Who knows."
Alistair rubbed the scruff on the bottom of his chin. He was perplexed by the questions Dan had posed, but also why it seemed to matter now. They were in the midst of a blight, and hunted men by the current regent Loghain. He looked back over the wall he was standing by, preferring to stay where he was instead of joining his friend on the other side. "What does it matter now anyway? The people who were here are long gone, and all that remains is this old..castle. I don't see how this would help with our current situation."
"But it does," was Dan's reply as he returned to Alistair's side. "No matter what happened here, it does matter." He looked over to Alistair. "Let us suppose that this was the result of rebellion due to what we can see. We are nowhere any other population centers judging by the lack of other ruins in the area, hence not a strategic place during war. And barring natural disasters which we can see remnants of this far in time, and disease would only be known through records kept which there are no signs of."
Alistair looked at Dan quizzically. "Ok, I'll buy that. So keep going, oh master of knowledge."
"Stop that."
"Stop what?" Alistair grinned. "You started this whole thing. I was just looking at nothingness around us. You were the one thinking something else."
"Fine. So you want to know how an old rebellion can help us now."
"I think that is what I asked."
"Very well," Dan sighed. "In the case of a rebellion, the mages had to have done something terrible to the people to make them want to retaliate."
"Why something terrible?"
"Because only the mages in Tevinter had power. And they were not afraid to use it to get whatever they wanted. You know as well as I that trying to fight magic when you are not a mage can be frightening. So for minor offenses the people would have grudgingly gone alone fearing worse appraisals from the mages who could inflict a lot of damage."
"True."
"So for them to rebel the offense must have been so great that the people would take up arms no matter how frightening the consequences. No longer fearing death or pain because they wanted justice."
Alistair rubbed his chin again in thought following Dan's logic. "I can see that, I suppose. And if the mages had used a 'cup of restraint' as your old teacher put it, then the rebellion would have been avoided."
"Correct."
"Ok...but that still doesn't tell me how that applies to us."
"What's to say that had the rebellion not happened, that this castle would still be in as good a shape today as it had been thousands of years ago? But because of the rebellion it's now a hollow ruin. So likewise if Cailan, Loghain, or even Duncan had used some restraint and more caution at Ostagar, we would not be on the run as we are now, nor Ferelden in the midst of a civil war, and we would have our warden brothers to help us fight the darkspawn."
"I get your point. Interesting. So what do you think caused the rebellion here?"
Dan looked at Alistair and grinned. "Oh, I really don't think it was a rebellion."
"What? Then why did we go through all of that rebellion process just now?" Alistair fumed. "Then just what do you think really happened?"
"Oh, I would guess natural disaster or over farming."
"But you just said earlier..."
"Would you build a castle in the middle of a barren wasteland?" Dan laughed as he turned to walk away. "Plus pulling pranks or telling jokes aren't the only ways to mess with your head."
"That's just rude."
"Maybe, but little exercises like this will help you when you become king."
"I don't want to be king!"
"As you say," Dan replied as he began to climb the ruined stairs to the ground, "Your Highness."
Alistair turned back to look over the barren landscape. As much as he didn't want to admit it, Dan was right. But as he pondered his future, he was sure of one thing...if he had to be king, then Dan would be there with him...and that wasn't such a bad prospect. At least his friend would be able to keep him on his toes.

[fyreshadowes]

A more angsty take on the prompt... because I've always wondered how my Warden would go about using that Master Persuasion of hers to convince Alistair to let her make the sacrifice, rather than just knocking him out with the help of mods. "I hate it when you make sense," indeed.

EDIT: Ugh, the formatting went all wonky on this. Give me a minute or two to fix it. There, that should do it.

----------------------------------------

It was raining on the day he didn't visit her tomb. Big, fat drops splashed against the high windows of the parlor where he took his breakfast in solitude, stabbing listlessly at the plates of expensive palace food with a fork, like he was trying to sink a blade into tainted flesh. Later, he went out into the courtyard, with a couple of servants scurrying behind him to hold the umbrella he'd left behind. He was tempted to make a game of it, do his best to evade them until he was soaked through, all the while maintaining the dignified posture and stride of a newly crowned king. But then he felt bad for the servants, and merely stood for a little while amongst the stones before going back inside.

The weather wasn't bad enough to keep him from her. To be honest with himself, truly, brutally honest, he didn't have a clue why he hadn't gone to the tomb. He had done so every day since the funeral, like a faithful worshiper at his god's altar, offering sacrifices of roses and tears. Leaving the true business of ruling to Anora was easy. She was the one who had wanted it in the first place. With nothing to keep him busy, Alistair was free to sink farther and farther into his grief, wondering all the while how long it would take before there was nothing of him left.

Two months. Had it only been two months? It felt like so much longer.

He was standing in the parlor again, too tired to sit down, when he heard a plaintive whine from outside the window. Her hound was standing with his paws against the glass, leaving muddy prints and little nicks where his claws dug in. His pelt was caked with mud, and for one moment, Alistair felt incredibly sorry for him without knowing him why. He opened the window and the dog scrambled inside, dripping rainwater and tracking mud all over Anora's precious imported rugs. Rain sheeted inside during the brief moment that Alistair left the window open, catching him full in the face and soaking the front of his tunic. He was tempted to walk away and leave it wide open; the room could flood, for all he cared. But the dog had huddled under the tea-table in an effort to escape the rain, so Alistair decided to let the inside and outside remain
distinct, and closed the window.

The servants threw a fit about the dog later, when it padded into the dining room at Alistair's heels like a panting, mud-soaked shadow. Alistair ended up bathing the dog himself, after he refused to let any of the maids take the “mongrel” back to the stables, “where he belongs.” It was too easy to grow attached to an animal, he thought later, when all it did was remind you of a person lost. Too easy to ignore reason and decorum in favor of some hollow sentimentality.

Anora would hear about it sooner or later, and it would probably lower him even more in her eyes. She had mourned her father openly for less than a week, with not a sign or signal of tears throughout, and she had watched Alistair's own demonstrations of grief with cold, judging eyes. Sometimes Alistair was sure that Anora wasn't really a woman; she must be a demon clad in a girlskin. The less deadly sort of abomination, wielding disapproving looks and haughtiness rather than magic.

Later that night, he took the hound into his quarters. The way the beast prowled up and down the room, whining mournfully at every closed window and door, nearly drove Alistair mad for want of sleep – but he had to admit that it was probably for the best. If he slept, he would dream. It was a toss-up whether it would be a dream or nightmare, really. If his lost Warden
came to him with a bloody sword, telling him that she was here to settle scores, to switch places, as things should have been to start with... well, that was a good dream. That was all he really wanted.

The nightmares were the memories. That hour at the top of Fort Drakon, fighting back to back, heart beating faster and faster because he knew there was only one way this could end – that whatever happened, this was his last day, his last few moments alive, because he would either die in battle or slaying the archdemon – his last few moments with her. The kiss she gave him, when the archdemon lay screaming on the stones, the kiss that tasted of blood and goodbye. Putting his hands on her waist, yearning to feel all of her, at least one more time – love, love and pain, all twisted up and becoming one and the same.

Then the argument. Oh, blessed Andraste, the argument.

"Going to be king,” she said, panting, fingers tracing his cheekbones like she was trying to memorize them by feel. “For Ferelden – oh, don't you see? Love, please – ”

He was still trying to make sense of it all, to reconcile his ragged breathing and pounding heart with the reality of the situation, of the archdemon dying there on the roof with them. Trying to understand that it was nearly over, but all he could do was wonder why she was stalling him. They'd agreed on this, hadn't they? After they had refused Morrigan, he had taken her into his bed and loved her for what they both knew was the last time – and in the moments just before falling asleep, he'd whispered his final decision into her ear.

And now she was... what? Trying to argue?

“Don't be a fool," she screamed, clutching at him as he tried to stagger away, toward the archdemon. “Don't you see, don't you understand? I can't let you. This is important, Alistair, more important than either of us. Than both of us. Please, love, listen to me...”

Listen? He could listen. By the Maker, with the few moments he had left, he could listen. If only to hear her voice, to hold the sound and timbre of it in his mind for all eternity.

“Ferelden needs you,” was the first thing she said, the first and most predictable. “Once this is over, they're going to need you more than ever – do you really think I could do it, Alistair? Keep on being a Grey Warden, be what they need? I couldn't. I would never be able to. You're the only one. Be king, Alistair. Be their king.”

He was unmoved, still. She took his face between her hands and kissed him, hard, trying to make him listen.

“You can stop me, love, I know you can."

He could – stronger, heavier, they both knew that. Why was she reminding him?

“But please, for the love of the Maker, don't.”

Then he saw it in her eyes – the kindling flame of a master manipulator, the cold light they both knew so well.

“This is about love. It's a test, don't you see? Which of us is stronger. Because you know the worst pain wouldn't be dying now. Dying now – that's easy. We're both of us strong enough for that.”

He was listening now – she had him in her grasp, helpless. She was a liar, a deceiver, a manipulator, and he'd known that all along, so why did he love her so much?

“The worst pain – would be living on. Knowing. Trying to move on.” Behind her, the archdemon twisted and screeched, ruined wings flapping ineffectually – and Alistair knew they didn't have much more time. She knew it too, because she kissed him again, for the third and final time. “I can't do it. I'm not strong enough. Would you put me through that, Alistair? Would you force that on me?”

“I,” he tried to say, but his tongue felt thick and useless.

“Let me go.” She twined his fingers through hers, pulling slowly away. “Let me do this. For both of us. I won't feel a thing – and all the pain will be yours. I promise.”

Was this logic? Was this sense? He hated it, with every fiber of his being. But he couldn't argue, couldn't think of a single thing to say. Persuasion – she'd always been good at that, at making sense.

He could handle pain. Couldn't he?


* * *


Two months later, in a darkened bedroom with only a gaunt mabari for company, Alistair would chuckle bitterly and answer his own question, a death and a funeral too late.

No. He couldn't handle pain. Not at all.

--------------------------------------------

And there we are. Hope I didn't ruin anyone's day!

Modifié par fyreshadowes, 03 septembre 2011 - 09:10 .

[rak72]

That Dan, always playing head games with Alistair.

Frey - *sniffles* Poor Ali

[Fata Morgana]

What is... happening to me. I have already played 2 1/2 times. I don't even enjoy the combat system at all. But I'm considering another playtrhough just to have a slightly different relationship with Alistair. What is wrong with me?!

[Maricsblade]

@fata—Situation normal. Carry on.

[Maricsblade]

@Rage—Sorry, I am new to your stuff but I really like the idea of someone like Dan being around to help Alistair through his kingly travails.

@Fyre—Enjoyed your fill very much.

[Maricsblade]

 "Well. That was interesting," Solona volunteered, striding through the door that the Lady of the Forest had indicated during her heartfelt plea on the werewolves' behalf. Their party had just crossed into the landing of a shortcut to the temple entrance when Alistair's voice cut through the gloom.


"Let's go kill him. Right now. I mean, what a nerve that guy has!" He wrapped his hand around the leather-wrapped hilt of his sword, making to pull it from its scabbard.


Solona placed her hand gently over his. "What will that accomplish?" she asked, her calm, blue eyes pleading with him to see reason. "We don't yet know the full part that Zathrian plays in this. We now have two sides of a story, and we still don't know which one is accurate. Or if either one is, really." She squeezed his hand momentarily, then let it fall, and turned to start up the stairs.


Alistair continued fuming, taking up the rear as their party made its way up the broken, moss-covered stone steps that seemed to stretch into infinity before them. "But he lied to us!" he argued. "Several times, through both commission and omission. He's lied to his own people, for Maker knows how long, about the source of this curse and about the evil of the werewolves. The whole thing is his fault! Instead of taking an eye for an eye, he took the lives of entire village—for hundreds of years. Surely a man like this doesn't deserve to continue to live?"


"Not if you ask me, he doesn't," Zevran chimed in, moving catlike up the stairs before Solona, whirling the daggers that he hadn't yet sheathed. "The Dalish have to endure enough without being deluded by their own leaders. A man like this, prolonging tensions at his people's expense to satisfy his own selfish desires…" He made a sudden arcing lunge into the air, mimicking a disembowelment.


Leliana had remained quiet, climbing quietly behind Solona, but she felt an irrepressible urge to speak rise in her throat. "There is still a chance at peace!" she insisted. "If Zathrian agrees that justice has been done and removes the curse, no one has to die. He should not remain their leader, of course; Lanaya can take his place. But why not let him live out his life and contemplate all the suffering he has caused?"


"He's already had several hundred years' worth of contemplation, hasn't he? And here we are!" Alistair protested. "What will twenty more accomplish?"


"The fact is that Zathrian is the only one who can remove the curse," Solana said firmly. "By killing him now, we ensure that it continues, possibly forever, and that the werewolves continue to attack the Dalish, also possibly forever. We must seek the longest-term solution. We are not going to kill Zathrian!"


Alistair recognized that tone—the one that said she'd thought about it, she'd decided, she was done.


"Sometimes I hate it when you make sense," he grumbled, letting his sword arm fall to his side.

Modifié par alisgirl, 04 septembre 2011 - 01:59 .

[RagingCyclone]

Fyre---that was very touching. I imagine he would feel that pain fro quite some time, probably the rest of his life.

alisgirl--isn't it funny he will listen to reason and although he might not like will follow the better path. Well done showing this.

[fyreshadowes]

Thanks for the kind feedback, everyone. It was a rather short fill, but I spent some time thinking about the premise... because really, which would be the worse fate? A quick death in the place of someone you love, or the rest of a lifetime spent grieving for that person? I wanted to explore what would happen if Alistair made that choice. In a way, his would be the selfless option; he would be sparing his love any more pain, while taking it all on his own shoulders. Fem!Warden's choice is almost easy in comparison - as well as more selfish. What's more, she wouldn't have any chances for regret, while Alistair would spend the rest of his life agonizing over what might have happened if he'd made the other choice. I think an internal conflict like that could drive a person mad without much difficulty.

I do have to wonder how much killing the archdemon would hurt, though. Taking another soul into your body and dying as a result - would you even feel it? Would it be physical pain? If so, how much?

Eurgh, enough of THAT for now. I really have to find more cheerful things to contemplate >.<

[fyreshadowes]

Oh, and the other two fills so far are great too! I'm really enjoying this prompt business so far. Feed me more!

[Maricsblade]

@fyre Don't worry too much about angsting us up. Many tragedy-loving souls around here, iirc. If we weren't, we'd be playing some other game…

[Maricsblade]

@rage Yeah, if he were too "stab, stab, kill, kill," he'd get on my nerves. Luckily he isn't, and is (usually) quite reasonable.

[fyreshadowes]

Hmm, the thread seems to have gotten a little quiet... I'll try my hand at uploading some screenshots, shall I? Let's see how this goes.

[fyreshadowes]

Yay, it worked!

[RagingCyclone]

Usually have the week to fill them.

[RagingCyclone]

Thanks, Ambra. And I like how you have Alistair flustered with Leliana putting him on the spot. Serves him right too since he does the same thing to her. lol

[rak72]

Those were really nice, Alis & AA, it great having the prompts back.

[Maricsblade]

Thanks, Rak. I agree, it's nice to have something besides squeeing and screenshots.

[RagingCyclone]

I don't have any new RDT pics, but here is a RDT story:

The Animal Side

Late at night Dan sat in the library of Arl Eamon's Denerim estate. He couldn't sleep after the day's events. The morning started well until Erlina, Queen Anora's handmaiden, had informed them of her capture at the hands of Rendon Howe. Dan took Alistair, Morrigan, and Lakota to free the queen. But Dan looked forward to more than that, he had a chance to enact his revenge upon Howe for the murder of the Couslands and all of their wards that fateful night in Highever. Leliana had not liked Dan leaving her behind, but he did not want her anywhere near Howe. Not close to what Dan might become when he saw the Arl. But things did not quite go as planned, and he was imprisoned with Alistair after rescuing the queen. Worse was that Morrigan and Leliana had broken them out of the prison at Fort Drakon. Things could have been worse, but Dan was now freed and sleepless.
He sat at the table pouring over the pages of the book he picked out. He was only half paying attention to the words...some story about Ferelden history...what he had done in the dungeon of the Howe's kept him distracted. He guessed it was somewhere around two in the morning, and he had been down in the library long enough that the candles had half burned out. But it was peaceful, and a chance to work things out in his head. He had not even bothered to put his shirt on when he came down here, and there was no one awake except the guards posted by the main doors. They had not even paid him any attention when he walked down the hall to the library. So he sat alone in the semi darkness. He was so entrenched in his thoughts that he did not hear her come behind him. Leliana was always quiet, and when she touched his shoulder, he half jumped out of the chair.
"What are you doing up at this time of night?" she yawned.
"I couldn't sleep."
"I noticed that when I rolled over to pace my arm around you, but you were not in bed. Why are you down here?"
"I didn't want to disturb you," he replied as he turned to face her. She was wearing her sheer nightgown he bought her the night before when they first arrived in Denerim. "I'm sorry."
"It's ok. " She sat in his lap and crossed her legs over so she could place her arm around his neck. He looked down into his eyes and saw he was troubled by something. Could have been their argument from earlier that morning, she could not say. "Are you troubled about something? If it's about this morning, I'm fine with why you did not take me."
"I am troubled...I guess I can't hide that...not from you. And it is about this morning, but not about our argument. I couldn't take you no matter what you said."
"Why was that?"
Dan could not look her in the eyes. His gaze wondered to the far wall just out of the light of the candle burning on the table beside them. "Because Howe was there. I couldn't take you."
"Dan, I know what he did to your family. You've told me several times about that night. I would have been safe...you were there...and I know you would have protected me."
"That was not the only reason, Leliana. There were other reasons...dark reasons...I just could not let you be with me there. And if he had been able to do something to you..." He closed his eyes not wanting to say what he was thinking.
Seeing Howe, and the man's reaction to Dan's presence, had brought a raging animal loose inside him. He cut down Howe faster than he had any other opponent. But he had not stopped when Howe was down. It had taken everything Alistair and Morrigan had to get Dan off Howe's corpse. He kept slashing and cutting with his sword, and when that flew from his hands he had grabbed an object...he didn't remember what is was...and kept bludgeoning. He remembered that night with his father and mother. With Oriana and Oren. With Iona and the others. Blood was everywhere that night. But Howe's threats to him in that dungeon...the taunts...Dan realized that most of all if Leliana was to ever be hurt by that man...and then the blood lust overtook him. Each stroke was for a person close to Dan that Howe had killed. Every innocent...every family member...every friend...anyone who had been close to Dan...every blow to Howe was for them. But he could not stop...he had new friends...new family...and every blow was then to prevent Howe from hurting them. At one point Dan knew Howe was dead...but he kept pounding away for the sheer rage that this man could not ever...even from the grave or beyond...hurt another person Dan cared for. Not ever again. So when Alistair and Morrigan had finally dragged him off the pieces of what remained of Howe's body to the wall at the far side of the room, he finally looked at his hands. Blood dripped from them, and as he looked further along his arms to his chest and legs, and then the trail along the floor to what remained of Arl Rendon Howe, Dan wept. He cried for his lost family and friends, for his loss of control, and for the loss of his humanity. He saw the shocked look of horror on Alistair and Morrigan's faces. Lakota even shied away from him. What had he become? Could Leliana still love him after what he had done? The torrent of tears consumed him, and he felt he was completely lost.
So when they had finally regrouped with Anora and Erlina, and when Cauthrien confronted them at the entrance of the Howe estate, Dan relented. He allowed himself to be taken prisoner. He felt no longer a man, and deserved to be caged like an animal. He had not expected Alistair to be taken to Fort Drakon with him. While in the prison Alistair tried to comfort him, and it worked to a degree. With Alistair's help he realized that he needed to get back to Eamon's and continue the struggle to end the blight. It had become his focus. The two wardens had just made a plan to escape when Leliana and Morrigan showed outside their cell. The two women had come to break them out. Seeing Leliana again made Dan feel human again, but his shame over what he had become in Howe's dungeon kept him distant from her the rest of that day. He couldn't face her after what he had done. He only half listened when the two women had told him and Alistair about the plan for the breakout that was happening at the same time that Zevran, Oghren, and Wynne had left to investigate the restlessness in the elven alienage. Even after reporting to Eamon the day's events at supper, Dan had left out on his own to be away from everyone else. He avoided Leliana until it was time for bed, and when she fell asleep he had left for the library and solace.
Her hand on his cheek brought him back to the present. He looked up at her, and felt tears running down his cheeks. She smiled sweetly at him, and he felt whole again. It was the effect she had him from the moment they had met in Lothering.
"I know what happened today," she said. "Alistair and Morrigan told me everything. And you don't have to worry about that man anymore. I am safe, and I will always be safe in your arms." She leaned in and kissed his lips. "And I still love you."
"Even after what I did?" he asked.
"You remember what you told me after we killed Marjolaine?"
"Yes."
"Good. That means I won't have to repeat to you. You are a good person, and I will always love you, Dan Cousland."
He looked at her eyes, and then embraced her burying his head into her chest. She hugged him back and rested her cheek on the top of his smooth head. He never wanted to let go of that moment. And neither did she.

[fyreshadowes]

Oh, it's Tuesday, isn't it? School starts tomorrow... *sigh*....

Not sure if this is "dismemberment-y" enough to count, but here's my latest Archdemon kill.



When does another prompt begin? I'm itching for an excuse to write more Alistair...