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[Dean_the_Young]

I figured I might as well finally succumb. I have no interest in an outright story, but my Human Noble playthrough has generated a character I can see in a number of different (sometimes mutually exclusive) pieces. He isn't always good. He's very rarely evil. He is always thinking in terms of his country.

These will be short, possibly few and far between, and of varying type in quality. More of a writing experiment, really.

----

Codex 1: Hostage Taking

A copy of a handwritten letter from the Warden-Commander of Ferelden to his Amaranthine vassals following the assumption of Grey Warden control of the Arling.

---



Bann Esmerelle,

 

Greeting and salutations from the Vigil. I send this letter
to you as an offer of peace from myself: though pleasantries have never been
amiss, I fear that our first meeting was not a satisfactory one. Though in
these weeks no duty of yours has been anything less than appropriate, my order
and your house remain strangers, unfamiliar and unconnected despite our common
cause. As the Arl of Amarathine, and as the Warden-Commander, I fear what such
distance may lead to.

 

I understand the difficulties this situation places on you.
Though no crime lays connected with your name, you were once close associates
with Arl Howe, a man who was an open and vicious enemy of myself and my order. This,
unfairly, puts a certain distrust in the air between us, and between you and
those who had been vocal opponents of the late Arl. And I know that even the
Grey Wardens, which have so long tried to remain sincerely neutral, keep many
secrets that arouse suspicion.  I am not
so unfamiliar with these lands to know the divisions that linger between the
Banns who had or had not sided with Loghain, with the Wardens, or with the
previous Arl.

 

This suspicion of all our sincerities, this ignorance of each
other, must not be allowed to fester. Ignorance breeds suspicion, and suspicion
breeds conspiracies against one’s friends. I would be amiss in my duties if I
did not seek to redress this error for the sake of future generations.

 

You have a son, as I remember. Young, but not so young as to
not begin his training as a lord, and to succeed you one day. A fine boy,
similar in age to the progeny of some of your fellow Banns, though I doubt they
see much of each other these days. But of the age where many noble families
send them away to gain wisdom in this world.

 

My Lady, I have an invitation you cannot refuse. Send your
son to me, to Vigil Keep. There, with the rest of his peers from across the
Arling, I will see to his education, the tempering of his mind and discipline.
We of the Wardens will treat him as equal with Lord Eddelbrek’s daughter. We
will educate him of our common history. We will train him to be not only an
admirable warrior, but an admirable man as well. When his stewardship is
complete, which may take many years you understand, he will return to you as
one tempered and respected by the Grey Wardens. And, of course, we have every
incentive to look after him well: our fate is his fate, and we would no more
let harm come to him than have any come to ourselves.

 

This course, while perhaps imposing on your own plans for
his education, provides many benefits for us all. Your son will be provided a
superior education and training, and given a unique chance to be familiar with
the nature and necessity of the Grey Wardens in peace as well as war. He will
be well versed, even experienced, in the practical aspects of governing when he
returns and perhaps your next youngest comes to steward. His sword arm will be strong
and true, and as accustomed to fulfilling his duty as any who comes to us. And,
most importantly of all, he will spend many years in the presence of his peers,
befriending and learning to trust and rely on those who would be the next Banns
of this Arling, and in so doing be rid of all misplaced distrust and
superstition that the civil war has brought us. All this, and without him ever
leaving beyond the reach of your letters or occasional visits.

 

This is, I firmly believe, an ideal way to build trust amongst
us all in Amaranthine.  I have every, and
let me stress every, respect for your intelligence and foresight as to the
nature and necessity of this manner, Bann Esmerelle, for who benefits from
distrust amongst ourselves? None but the Crows.

 

A retinue of Vigil soldiers will arrive within a week, my
Lady, to escort the boy to his new place of learning. May you give him your
best, and I remind you of the invitation to write or visit him regularly.

 

With all due respect and honor,

 

Aedan Cousland



King-Consort

Commander of the Grey

Arl of Amaranthine

Hero of Ferelden

Modifié par Dean_the_Young, 19 septembre 2010 - 08:04 .

[Sarah1281]

Oh, nice. I love how polite and reasonable it sounds while he's essentially taking her son hostage and giving her no opportunity to say no.

[Dean_the_Young]

Not just hostage: he's pretty much admitting to intending to brainwash the kid's head with pro-Warden propaganda. I'd almost feel sorry for the kid, if it weren't for that I bet he'd grow up bad otherwise.



I almost see a sort of high-school fic in the making, only with the Awakening Wardens as the teachers and the Bann children as the high-school drama cast.

[Liliandra Nadiar]

Professor Sigrun: Ok kids, which one of you wants to explain how a darkspawn raiding party took all the small clothes from the girls dormitory.

[Dean_the_Young]

In my Nobless Oblige playthrough, I had the goal of not selling any unique equipment. It was more of a gamer challenge at the start (and it really made me hard for gold throughout the game), but it was interesting on how many trinkets I got to keep.

Then, of course, I had to justify keeping and carting around all the stuff. Here are ten reasons, as I progressed through the game.


---

Codex 2: King Cousland's Armory



The Hero of Ferelden’s
weapon and armor collection became famous in its own right as a testament to
his travels and connections. Myths about it grew faster than the collection
itself: a romantic Bard’s tale says he hoped to gather every weapon in the
world so that no one else might suffer as he had, an Antivan myth popular among
the Crows says that he never sold a single trophy from all the men he killed,
and the Qunari camp tale is that the future King began building his armory even
then, so long-sighted was he.



---

 

One: Greed

 

“No,” Aedan argued, appealing to Morrian natural sense of
self-interest. “If we sell such a relic here, we would only get a pittance
compared to what we could get elsewhere.”

 

---

 

Two: Bribes

 

After hearing of Loghain’s bounty, the last Cousland felt no
remorse about sending the Chantry-girl’s sticky fingers onto the greedy
merchant’s prized Tevinter crossbow.

 

Fergus had always been a stickler for quality pieces. Maybe
some guard with the same could be convinced to look the other way for such a
piece.

 

---

 

Three: Signet

 

The man’s eyes widened in recognition of the helm Aedan
wore. “Welcome back to Redcliffe, my Lord!” the peasant greeted, and Andean
returned it with a well worn grin as the man led him straight to Bann Teagan’s
current residence. Nearly half the village seemed to wait outside, awaiting
mediation following the tragic attacks, but to a child they parted for him at
the sight of his helm.  Ridcliffe’s
reward, while not his preferred helm, was always a quick pass to whatever and
whoever he needed to see. Sometimes, recognition helped.

 

---

 

Four: Leopard Spots

 

While no rogue himself, Aedan knew that the quickest route
to being discovered was in looking as if you were trying not to be seen.
Instead he strolled with a purpose, tipping a helmet he had never worn before
today to a guard passing by. Walking right under a wanted poster which had his
most distinctive Grey Warden helmet covering his face, Aedean’s pick-pocketing
of Master Tilver was lost for just another mercenary moving through the crowd.

 

---

 

Five: Identity

 

Let Oghren and Zevran make crude jokes about two men
polishing their swords together. Let Morrigan scoff, or the others stay
separate with looks of pity and unsought sympathy in their eyes.

 

Aedan and the Sten sit back to back, occasionally passing
materials but never talking as they clean their respective blades. Looking at
the Cousland relic he held, Aedan understood the solemn Qunari. If he were to
wake up one morning without knowing where his sword was, would he…?

 

---

 

Six: Gifts of Consequence

 

It is now-King Bhelen, of all people, who teaches him the
value of a personal gift.

 

“It was a maul favored by my Brother,” the Dwarven King had
said. “May it remind you of your time in Orzammar.”

 

Which brother? The one he framed? The one he had murdered?

 

At first he wants to throw it away in disgust. He didn’t
ally with Bhelen because he believed his words. But, with a pause, he realizes
that maybe that was the point. He hadn’t allied with Bhelen because he
believed in him. Bhelen wasn’t giving this to him because of either of them had
been fooled, but rather because neither of them were. And that really was
something to consider, an almost generous reminder.

 

Let it never be said that Bryce never tried to teach his
children to accept gifts in the spirit with which they were intended.

 

---

 

Seven: Gifts of Coercion

 

The Grey Wardens always have had a troubled relationship
with the Circle of Magi. It’s not so much that the Circle does not want to
help, but the Circle feels compelled to consider the Chantry, and thinks things
through a bit too long and often and against what the Wardens might like. While
the salvation of the Tower buys much good will and cooperation, it cannot last
forever on its own.

 

So Aedean doesn’t intend to let it.

 

The next time Gregoir is about to be reticent, the
Knight-Commander finds himself being returned a suit of Templar-Commander’s
armor, said to have been recovered from a smugger outside Orzammar. And the next
time Irving is a bit too cautious, the Wardens mysteriously find and return
another magical item lost to the Tower during the Horror.

 

They can hardly arrest him for returning things the
Abominations likely had destroyed.

 

---

 

Eight: Gifts of Apology

 

Some actions can never be taken back, and to apologize or
admit mistake undermines whatever good came out of it. You must, forevermore,
be committed, or else make the sacrifice truly meaningless.

 

For Andean, the Werewolf massacre is one such action.

 

He never loses much sleep over the loss of the Dalish. He
has sympathy, but no love, for the Dalish and their isolationist ways, he
perhaps hypocritically condemns the Dalish clan for never questioning or
challenging their leader despite their doubts of the true nature of the
werewolves, and to his dying day he counts the Werewolves as one of the only
ways Ferelden could have come close to matching the sheer numbers of the
Blight. Werewolf warfare is something that could change the balance of power in
Thedas forever, and in Ferelden’s favor if it could be managed just right.

 

But even so, he isn’t proud of it. As a Grey Warden, as a
Ferelden noble, he would do it again, but he isn’t proud of it. So when the
Lady of the Forest game him leave to scrounge through the Dalish Camp, to take
what he wanted, he does: Zathrian’s ring here, a Dalish artifact here. He
leaves with a chest full of guilty memories.

 

And when he encounters the Dalish, a Dalish, again, he isn’t
stingy about returning the belongings of her people. Not all at once, never
without reason, and never quite enough to cause them to forget or forgive, but
almost. And it almost soothes his conscious.

 

---

 

Nine: Gifts of Learning

 

“You want to spend half the treasury on what?"
King-Consort Cousland asks, not sure if he heard correctly.

 

“A University,” his wife repeats with all the confidence of
the first time, as if their pillow talk is the most common sort in the world. “I
believe we have the need, and the opportunity, to do so. It may not provide an
immediate investment’s return, but it will be advantageous to the nation in the
long run.”

 

She is set in her ways, as always. He’s begun to learn the
signs. And so has she. It won’t be the first time they’ve fought over domestic
spending priorities, nor will it be the last: he favors the martial, as
expected, and she the civil. But she holds her tongue when he steps out of the
bed, still unclothed, and walks to the wall where he keeps some of his war
trophies. Their location in the royal bedchamber was a concession on her part,
but the presence of naked steel close at hand comforts him.

 

Instead of a sword, though, he lifts down a crossbow she has
never seen him use before. Without a word he loads a number of bolts into the
weapon, aims at a well-damaged door, and pulls the trigger once, twice, three
and then even a fourth time, as bolts fly out faster than any many could crank
the a standard crossbow. She sees he is pleased that she did not once flinch at
the sound of the discharge.

 

He holds the repeating crossbow out, showing to her a piece
of technology beyond their ability to recreate.

 

“Study this,” he says simply, giving the condition for his
support.

 

---

 

Ten: The Gift of Legacy

 

The year, by the old Chantry calendar, is 15:31. Jamie
Cousland is a young child who will one day do great things. But today, she is
on a field trip.

 

Leading her classmates out of the air-wagon, she remembers
her mothers’ teachings enough to thank the mage who piloted them all this way.
She also thanks the Tranquil who assisted him, though that was a wasted effort
as always, but it has to be done.

 

As the teacher lines them up, she takes a look at Soldiers
peak. To be honest, it’s rather different than what the old story books portray
it as: a large number of renovations, and many more expansions, have pushed the
entire fortress from just the peak of the mountain to almost half the mountain
itself, with a good number of outposts visible on the next peaks on over. Such
outposts go across the Coastland mountain range: back in the last war, the
Marches had regularly sent our air-pirate raiders, and Soldiers Peak had been
the center of countering them.

 

But that’s all old history now: her uncle had married a
woman from the marches, and she loves her cousin very much. Instead, she and
the rest of the students are brimming with anticipation as a group of
tough-looking, but smiling, Ferelden Wardens emerge to guide their group
through the magical checkpoints that defend the Keep’s interior.

 

As they pass through the fortress, one of the Ferelden
Wardens, an elf (And when was the last time anyone had seen an elf? Hadn’t they
all bred out by now?) gave them the history of this and that, but Jamie barely
paid any mind. Like the rest of the children, her blood sang in anticipation of
why they were here. To see the Armory.

 

First it had been a war chest stored outside the Keep
itself, before it had been reclaimed. Then it had been one room, then two, then
the basement, then expansions.

 

Now, it had become a legend. The mountain, hollowed out by
the Ferelden Wardens’ Dwarven allies, had expanded the keep, but also given a
fitting place to store the legendary collection. And they were here now.

 

A cavern of many, many levels, descending farther down than
the eyes could see, each ‘floor’ capable of holding more than one above. More
armors, more swords, more crossbows and early Qunari arquebusiers and magical
rings and staffs and everything that had come to Ferelden and the Wardens’
possession since the King, all kept preserved by the magical fields strengthened
by the thin Veil to the fade.

 

And this was what they could see, a collection constantly
added to and organized. Elsewhere, everyone knew, the Wardens kept the really[/i] dangerous stuff, the magics
and technologies and things that would be studied in secret, understood, and
then one day stored for when they were needed.

 

Jamie Cousland would know this, because today she would be
told it. Separated from the group by chance and accident, lost on one of the
many levels awaiting her recovery, she realized she was not alone. A spirit, a
memory of the past echoing across the Veil, stood beside her, looking at the
armory. When she had overcome her fear, asked its purpose, it had smiled and
gestured to the rows and rows of materials of war and said one thing.

 

“I leave this to you,” Aedan said, “so that you will not
need it.”

Modifié par Dean_the_Young, 08 septembre 2010 - 04:11 .

[Sarah1281]

(And when was the last time anyone had seen an elf? Hadn’t they all bred out by now?)

That part was kind of depressing but not unexpected all things considered. I really liked how you managed to take a simple desire not to sell the cool things and turned it into such an integral part of his personality.

[Yankee23]

Wow, very good. I hope you do more.

[Dean_the_Young]

Codex 3: What He Was: Reaver

A largely forgotten piece of legend of the first King Cousland is the brief adbudction of the youngest child of the Teyrn of Highever at the age of two by maleficar. The Teyrn's frantic search through the countryside for his missing child soon climaxed with a swift and final dismemberment of the apostates, and was quickly and eagerly forgotten in light of the safe return of the child and the Templar conclusion that the Apostate's interrupted ritual had not  harmed the child.

Today, the only remaining references to this happening exist in an aside in the memoirs of Teyrn Fergus Cousland, and in a small and largely forgotten missive in the Templar Archives in Ferelden. At one time, however, the King-Consort faced dark rumors that his nature was one of an abomination, or worse, and that he was corrupted and twisted by more than just the dark taint of Grey Warden magics.

---

1. Devour: The reaver revels in death, absorbing the lingering energy of all nearby
corpses, each of which partially restores the reaver’s own health.

Fighting his way through Highever, fighting from the corpse of poor sweet Ionia to the main hall, fighting more and more of the treacherous Howe's men, Aedan was tired. His sword arm strained, his hastily worn armor sagged, and his wounds and bruises sang in discomfort. For all his relative skill, for all his willpower to remain standing and give something for the beleagered guards at the gate to rally to, he hurt as much as the rest of them.

And so while his mother hastily conferred with Sir Gilmore, he walked through the battleground that had just been their main hall, giving an arm in solidarity with the wounded, a reasurring word to the living.

But not a prayer to the dead. No, an apology. No matter how he had tried, no matter how much he was possibly the best swordsman in the keep, he hadn't been able to lead them, save them, as he was supposed to. They lay dead, the warmth of their corpses radiating throughout the room. Beside them lay Howe's men, men who he only regretted he had not killed faster.

He ignored them, and knelt beside a dying soldier. It was too late for the Teryn's man, but he, at least, died with the comfort of knowing he was not alone. His body joined the rest, eyes staring blankly into the ceiling.

Aedan put a hand on the man's face and gently closed the empty eyes. Closing his own eyes, he breathed deep, feeling all that remained of these corpses. Men, his men, and his enemies. They were his, not in some sense of slavery or possession but because he was theirs as well. Their leige's son, their leige's foe. Regardless of their side, they belonged to him. All the enemies he would kill from that day on would fall into that category. They belonged to him, and in death they would do as he required.

Inhaling deeply, Aedan Cousland smelled the ashes of the funeral pyres yet to be burned, tasted the blood of others that would drop on his lips. As he breathed, an unnatural shiver filled the room and its people, pausing preparations and last conversations, a moment that was almost forgotten as soon as it passed had it not been for the lingering chill in the air.

Aedan arose, showing no sign or hint of his injuries, and returned to his mother to plan how to fight again.

---

2. Blood Frenzy: Driven by pain, the reaver gains larger bonuses to damage whenever
health decreases. Because this mode also incurs a penalty to health
regeneration, the reaver flirts with death the longer the frenzy
persists.

Another Mabari dropped, it's entire leg removed with a sweep of the bloody sword. Arl Howe's man, who had taken the opportunity to slash at the Grey Warden's exposed back, couldn't even give a half-decent block before the sword returned with enough force to cut through the shield itself and remove half the man's head head.

"Howe!" Aedan roared as he fought through the Arl's estate in Denerim. "Howe!" he kept roaring, his one and only battlecry today.

No sooner had the foe dropped than the noble son rushed the next, intending to repeat the massacre. Beside him, his fellow Warden fought with concern.

It was almost as bad as a berserker, in Alistair's mind. The ruthlessness, the savagery, the ferocity, and only a hairs-breath from being turned against you. To the discipline and focus of the Templars, such barely controlled aggression were liable to be as much a threat to one's allies as anything else. That Alistair had fought many battles beside the nobleson, would trust his brother-at-arms with his life and more, never changed the unease with which he observed his friend and leader.

"Howe!" Aedan cried again, foes blood dripping down his face in a eerie resemblance to tears, as if begging the Arl to expose himself. Even though the battle had ended, their leader panted, not from exhaustion but from fury and bloodlust and who knows whatelse. Alistair traded concerned glances with another of their party, and Leliana only gave a short shake of her head. Whatever confort and soothing she might try to, want to, offer to her paramore, he was no in a state to accept it now.

And infront of them the last known Cousland charged forward, charging again and again each time more brutal and desparate than the last. It was almost a relief to his companions when Ser Cauthrien at lost cut him down as he bought time for their escape with the Queen. At least, for a moment, he was at peace.

---

3. Aura of Pain: Radiating an aura of psychic pain, the reaver takes constant spirit damage while this mode is active, as do all enemies nearby.

Howe

he had cried throughout the Arl's estate as he slaughtered his way through the guards.

Howe

had been his first and only concern and reaction to the tales of woe from the prisoners.

Howe

had been the demon who had haunted his dreams and mind more thoroughly than the Archdemon could ever hope to.

Howe

had been the start and cause of this all.

Howe

had been the source of misery that had tormented him all this time.

Howe

was the one man he wanted to confront more than anything.

Howe

he began, as he confronted his family's killer after all this time and bloodshed.

Howe

he repeated, bloodlust and rage fading into the aimless, purposeless hurt that radiated endlessly and pained not only him but others around him.

Howe

why did you do it?

We were your friends.

---

4. Frightening Appearance: This talent focuses the Reaver’s unsettling countenance into a weapon,
making a target cower in fear unless it passes a mental resistance
check. Frightening Appearance also increases the effectiveness of Taunt
and Threaten.

"I am a bit nervous as well," his wife-to-be admitted on his day of honor, shortly after the Blight had been ended. The topic was of their impending marriage. "You are a rather intimidating figure."

And so he was. He had made ogres cower, guardsmen abandon their post rather than try to arrest him, bandits and thives made way for him. A glimpse, a glare, a particular twist of an otherwise decent face, and he could spread terror through the ranks of his enemies, a terror only heightened and enhanced by the bloody effects of the powers of his tainted blood he had learned to tap at the Warden's Keep.

Looking back, as he remembered, his first true meeting with the Queen of Ferelden had been while he was covered in the gore of a dozen and more men.

Moving closer, he gave her a brief embrace, which she returned. While neither felt any close attachment yet, they had agreed that the appearance of such was just as important to their people. In that brief moment, though, he took the opportunity to whisper her one thing.

"You," he stressed, a distinction and a promise that would support their relationship for the rest of their marriage, "have nothing to fear from me."

Modifié par Dean_the_Young, 12 septembre 2010 - 01:33 .

[Dean_the_Young]

Codex 4: An Indispensible Companion, Part One

Although Sigrun seemed
intent on leaving for her Calling, departing for the Deep Roads to finish what
she started in Kal'Hirol, the Warden-Commander had a knack for finding
important and absolutely urgent things to occupy the dwarf. And so Sigrun
delayed her long walk into the darkness for several decades, even though she
never stopped cracking jokes about needing to throw herself at death.


---

 

The Commander of the Grey was a man as feared as he was
respected, and for good reason. With a long and well-earned history of willing
to go to whatever lengths he felt necessary to defend and protect his nation,
Aedan Cousland was a man who had paid steep costs, and like his father-in-law
was prepared to do whatever it took to protect the land from its foes, and
itself. Even if it was only as tears fell from his face, he would abandon love,
raze a city of his countrymen, or sacrifice his very immortal soul if that was
what it took for the greater whole.

 

Or, as now, manage two dormitories filled with the spoiled,
hormonal, self-important children of nobility who didn’t have the sense to know
that they were political hostages to the behavior of their parents.

 

Not all prices are so steep, though the regular headaches
begged to differ.

 

---

 

“I quit,” Velenna imperiously announced not three steps into
his office, and before the door had even been shut. It was an ominous start,
and already the Arl of Amaranthine felt another headache approaching as no
doubt rumors were already racing down the halls.

 

“Thank you for informing me,” Aedan replied without pause. “Will
you grant me the honor of telling me what obligation you have just renounced,
or shall I be forced to guess? Let me just remind you, in case you forgot, that
you remain bound to my service by your own word, and to the Grey Wardens by
your own blood.”

 

The tall, tanned elf looked offended at the insinuation that
her honor was in question, which was exactly what the Prince had intended.
Velenna was a woman who only had enough patience for once fury, and distracting
her with one gave some hope of reasonable compromise as to the other.

 

“It is the shemlen,” she said, the elven word for quick
children being an inadvertent pun in how appropriate it was. Aedan hadn’t even
concluded she hadn’t meant it until she was two sentences further in. “They are
weak and rude and annoying, and I refuse to be nursemaid to them anymore.”

 

“Velenna,” Aedan reminded promptly (after checking that the door
had truly closed), “the point of training them with the Wardens is so that they
won’t be as weak and rude and therefore annoying. If they are disrespectful to
you, then put them through another duel and remove their ego however you
please. That should teach them.”

 

“It is not enough,” Velenna dismissed. “I will not waste my
time with them.” She stared down at the nations highest-ranking male as if he
were no more than a clerk or scribe, existing only to meet her whims.

 

Of course, he was not. And he had not come to enjoy her
company because she was straightforward or easy to agree with.

 

“You’re a Keeper,” he returned, blurring the lines just a
bit in her favor. “You are a natural teacher by trade, and nearly jumped and
barked at the chance to teach all the human children about the true history of
the Dalish.”

 

And it was true: Velenna had taken a undisguised perverse
delight about listing to the horrified aristobrats every single atrocity humankind
had ever visted on the elves, and taken great pride in listing the specific
crimes of many of their forefathers. A few great grandsons of famous conquerers
had foolishly tried to dismiss her tales again their ancestors as lies, only to
be shown the magical scene of elven children being gutted and crushed to pieces
under the laughing visages of men they had once revered as ancestors.

 

Velenna was rash and impetuous, but she was also as sharp as
her tongue and the Dalish had fearfully excellent memories. It had been an…
educational experience, and one Aedan had tolerated and allowed repetition for
the hope that it might shock the future nobles of Ferelden for the better.

 

“That was then,” Velenna explained, brushing aside that
time. “No more.”

 

Aedan at last put down the letter he had been writing and
gave Velenna his full, undivided attention, looking at her face, and then
trying and failing to meet her eyes. She refused to give him the chance.

 

“Velenna,” he began slowly, realizing he may have already
jumped to a wrong conclusion. “are the children being disrespectful to
you?”

 

“Yes,” Velenna said, but even more pointedly refused to meet
her gaze.

 

He confronted her. “Are you truly going to lie to me,
daughter of the Dalish?” he demanded, challenging her pride of identity.

 

“No!” she returned, more empathetically than she meant. She
saw he did not believe, and as he intended she squirmed as she tried to be
honest and uphold her honor. Her face scrunched, her throat tightened as she
swallowed many times as she tried to craft the obstinate words that refused to
emerge, and in a concession that reminded him all too much of another beautiful
apostate of the forests, she gave one caveat 
as an embarrassed blush tried to rise.

 

“T’was not respectful at all,” she nearly muttered, blush
blooming evermore so.

 

Rather than drink in the sight and enjoy it, Aedan had mercy
and sighed as he looked back to his paperwork.

 

“Velenna,” he ruled, “I understand that the noble sons look
at you so, but they are but boys and you are an exceptionally beautiful
woman. With time they’ll learn not to look at their sisters-in-arms like that,
but until then you just have to focus your attentions on the females under your
tutelage.” Putting his head down, he made clear the matter was settled.

 

“It isn’t the boys,” Velenna nearly squeaked in a tone so
far from her usual boisterous self-confidence that she was infinitely glad that the human
infront of her could not tell just how flustered she really was.
 

Her tone must have conveyed what she felt, or maybe her
words had, but Aedan Cousland looked up sharply and had that epiphany.

 

“Oh,” he said, but it didn’t seem to capture the relevation.

 

“Oh.” seemed to catch it better.

 

Velenna nodded, now that her delima was clear.

 

“At least one of them has stolen my underclothes,” she
admitted. “I found them under her pillow. Moist,” she added as a much unneeded
point of emphasis.

 

“I… see,” Aedan agreed. “I understand. Yes, I certainly do
see why you would wish to be relived of those duties. Go on, then,” he waved,
as if her leaving would make it any less awkward to deal with later. “I’ll find
some substitute.”

 

Velenna actually showed gratitude with her thanks, and then
quickly fled. Aedan wished he could. How would he go about explaining to Lord
Eddelbrek about how his daughter- and with a Dalish apostate-

 

No, priorities. Always priorities. First find a replacement,
then deal with the fallout. Perhaps separate dorms would cause more trouble
than they hoped to prevent. But first and foremost, the females needed another
instructor.

 

But who among the Wardens would do? Anders was right out: a
kind soul, to be sure, but as an apostate he was bad enough. A charming
apostate who could wind half the Arling’s daughters around his fingers without
a single spell… the Keep would be overrun in a fortnight, for the calls of
blood magic and mind control.

 

Behind Anders were Oghren and Justice, for two different
reasons. Oghren had grown more responsible in recent years, but not that
responsible, while Justice remained, well, dead. And possibly an Abomination,
though the local Chantry studiously didn’t notice the peeling skin and stench
of death and Justice had never given the Templars cause for trouble.

 

Nathaniel would have been best, being a perfect gentleman,
but Nathaniel was still a Howe and, less importantly, currently out of country
on a task. Even if he had been back, too many memories from the civil war
lingered in the nobility, and even in Aedan Cousland himself: a Howe as a Grey
Warden was a cumupance, but Nathaniel was another man who was too charming for
his own good. A gentleman, no doubt, but it wasn’t his intentions which were
the problem. If another girl’s undergarments were found smuggled into his room….

 

Aedan struggled to come to terms with his delimma. If only
he hadn’t promised that all the children would be taught by Grey Wardens: the
promise and future prestige were all that kept some of the nobles tolerable. If
only he had the means, another sensible person who could endure through
whatever else might come, someone with more tact than a brick and willing to
sacrifice discomfort just a little bit longer, until more Grey Wardens could be
made…

 

A knock on his door startled him, and Aedan looked up as a
smiling, bubbly dwarf walked in, playing with a piece of string between her
hands.

 

“I still can’t get over it,” Sigrun said once again,
marveling at the toy in her hands. “Soap. On a rope. How quaint!” Putting it
away, she gave her commander a happy salute.

 

“I know you weren’t expecting to see me back,” she said, “what
with me leaving for my calling and all, but I realized I had left without
getting my weapons re-runed. Can you imagine that? Can hardly kill darkspawn to
my last breath without swords that blaze with fire and lighting now, can I? So
I thought I’d dart back in real quick, grab a few runes and a quick enchanting,
and get back to fighting my last fight. Have you seen Sandal around here
recently?”

 

Aedan looked at Sigrun, waiting so patiently and pleasantly
for an answer, and vowed to give a prayer to the Maker, the Stone, the
Creators, and even that corpse of a Dragon known as Andraste later on. Someone was looking out for Ferelden,
and him, today.

 

“Sandal isn’t here,” he began, “but I happen to have just
had a vital assignment come up that already one Warden has been unable to do…"

Modifié par Dean_the_Young, 09 septembre 2010 - 09:48 .

[TJPags]

I'm not usually a fan of fanfiction, but I like these.



Simple, yet moving.



Nice job.

[Dean_the_Young]

I'm not sure I'd call a comedy piece moving... but hey,Professor Sigrun. Always the most important tasks, right?

[TJPags]

Well, I didn't actually mean the Sigrun one there (you actually posted that while I was typing my post), but the reaver one.



However, Professor Sigrun made me LOL - for real.

[Dean_the_Young]

Marked H for Humor, A for Aimo, and T for Teen. And what's the spell? Hat. Which has nothing to do with anything, but I'm serious about the the later two. It's a bit mature, but then this is a rated-M game, and the idea is dedicated to Aimo, who I shall personally PM in dedication and thank once someone can help me find his/her profile on this forum.


Seriously, Aimo rocks. Go to her Deviant account.

And curse copy-paste formatting errors. Editing themm out as I see them.





***********************************


 

Codex 4: Sought and Unsought Advice



Roleplay can be a valuable bonding experience, especially if you let her take the dominant role.


-The sole intact sentence on a scrap of a torn letter
addressed to the King. Besides the familiar tone, it is unknown who sent the
letter, as the remaining scraps have been lost to history.

 

///

 

Her Majesty Anora, Queen Regent of Ferelden, was a brave
woman despite her lack of martial prowess. She had nerves of steel, a will of
iron, and some muttered a heart of ice.

 

Personally, she would have re-ordered the nature of the
elements: steel was stronger than iron, after all, and will more important than
nerves, but let the rest feel what they would like about her heart. The point
was, she was a brave woman, which is why she did not scream or panic as the
Royal bedchamber was opened by a cloaked figure at a time when she had left
firm instructions for only one person to be let past, a person who would not
have disguised himself.

 

Instead, she waited patiently and calmly, expecting some
kidnapper’s demand. She was rather pleasantly surprised when none came, and
instead the figure tisked loudly as he lowered his hood, exposing a distinctive
tattoo.

 

“Poor quality,” Zevran ruled, canting his head towards the
collapsed guards outside her doors. “Can you believe it? Not one of them, not one,
thought to check their helmets before changing the shift. Just wiping out the
old dust would have cleaned the powder, rather than let it react with their
sweat. These men, they must be new, yes?” he asked, giving a careless grin to
the Queen.

 

“You are… the elf, the Antivan Crow, are you not?” she recognized.
“Zevran, if I remember correctly?”

 

“Indeed you do, your Majesty,” the elf said, giving a
theatrical bow, “though admittedly the fact I am no longer an Antivan Crow
slipped your mind. Your good husband freed me of that life. Has he returned
from Amaranthine yet?” Zevran asked, making clear who his intended target of
intrusion had been.

 

“Not yet,” Anora confirmed, “though any hour now he should
return. I hear he has done great things in Amaranthine of late.”

 

“He is a great man,” Zevran praised easily. “Still, I had
come hoping to find him here. I apologize for the disruption, My Lady: I
promise your guards will recover their wits soon enough, and no harm to
anything but their own egos. I had just wished to pay a visit to my good friend
while I had the chance, and of course to see how the royal security measured.”
He paused, as if considering his words with great weight.

 

“Poorly, in my professional opinion. But again, I did not
mean to intrude. I will see to it that the guard is revived.” The Elf turned to
leave.

 

“Stay,” Anora interrupted. As Zevran turned to look at her,
she gestured a seat across from her. “If you don’t mind, I would have you keep
me company until he returns: I am waiting for him myself. But I would also like
to ask some questions of you, about my husband.”

 

“Well, of course,” Zevran obliged. “Though how much I can
share I am uncertain: you have had a much closer relationship with he than I,
married as you have been these last few months.”

 

“Most of which we have spent engaged or separated, I fear,”
Queen Anora admitted. “While we have come to terms with each other as partners,
we have not yet come to terms as people. I would like to hear more of the man
he is, from someone who has traveled with him for some time.”

 

“Well, I suppose I can oblige you there,” Zevran admitted. “As
I see it, you would like to see what makes him tick, yes? Well, let us pour a
glass of wine while I reminisce…”

 

---

 

Had Zevran still been a Crow, he could never have asked for
a better opportunity to wipe out the throne of Ferelden. Here he was, having
infiltrated the royal chambers. Here he was, pouring the Queen more than a few
glasses of wine, which he could have easily poisoned without her noticing. Or
he could have simply overpowered her. Here he could have lain in wait, placed
traps across the entire room, waiting to ambush the weary and exhausted King as
he returned.

 

Granted, this King would likely have found some way to
overcome. Wardens were tricky like that. But Zevran wasn’t still a Crow either.

 

Instead, he poured more than a few glasses of wine to the
Queen, and the only secret slipped in was to make the alcohol a bit stronger
than anticipated and watch as she tried to cover it. Harmless fun. He talked of
adventures, his friend, and his friend’s friends, of casual and intimate sorts.
That, perhaps, had been sobering to his partner, but she had proved flippant
about it.

 

“Cailan had his women,” she had admitted in a frankness only
driven by the drink, “and if I one day find that he has as well, I will not be
surprised. I know of his encounters during your travels.”

 

“No, no,” Zevran insisted. “He has none now, or at least,
none that I have ever met. Those lasses he traveled with, they are far and gone
now, and cleanly separated by his own hand. One now dares explore the Deep
Roads, and the other is Maker knows where. Your husband, I assure you, is a
loyal man: not only to his friends, to his loves, but to his country above all
else. And that, my Queen, means you, on all accounts.”

 

She was clearly not convinced, and again he wondered just
how drunk she truly was: not enough, never enough, to do something truly
damaging or publicly indiscrete, but far more honest than she likely ever was
otherwise.

 

Zevran thought on it, and struggled to find some way to
help: not for her sake, so much as for his friend’s. He truly did not know if
Aedan played around, though he suspected not, but regardless he wished to ever
so indirectly help his friend. He thought, and he twisted ideas in his twisted
little mind, and all the while Queen Anora stared into a wineglass, counting
the hours until her husband returned.

 

“You know…” Zevran began slowly, enticing her attention to
himself, “if you are uneasy, there may yet be a way to ensnare his mind so that
his eyes do not have any cause to wander…” he leaned forward, over the low
table that separated them, and his eyes gleamed with a hidden secret.

 

“Your husband,” he began in the strictest confidentiality, “has
nothing but the strongest respect for strong women. Strong of heart, strong of
mind, strong of body, strong of sword arm. He respects strength. But,” and he
leaned a bit further in, clear mirth in his eyes, and the regal Queen could not
help but listen closer, “he find the appearance of strength even more enticing.”
He leaned back, a fond remembering smile on his face.

 

“Every man has his guilty pleasure,” Zevran shared. “Some
significantly more guilty than others, but your husband’s is rather minor and
more amusing than wicked. He has, you see, a certain… fascination with arms and
armor. He eyes steel plates and leathers like I might admire my fine pair of
Dalish gloves, and while in battle it is nothing but business, in private…”

 

Well, it had been fortunate when the Darkspawn shrieks had
ambushed their camp that one late night, or else two and not just one of their
party might have been entirely unarmored during the sudden fight. And while Zevran
would have enjoyed seeing Leliana fighting with sundered armor as well, so to
speak, he would not regret the visions of that night.

 

Anora was beginning to realize just what he was alluding to,
and Zevran stood up. “I believe I can offer you more than just some words of
advice,” he began. “If you would just let me make some quick preparations…”

 

---

 

Aedan Cousland groaned as his mind fought to consciousness.
Darkspawn poison filled his blood as it always did, burning away other toxins,
but whatever Zevran had slipped in that welcoming gift of drink had been strong…

 

Zevran. Aedan’s eyes startled awake, looking for the elf-man
who had drugged him. But his search to throttle the assassin came to a quick
halt when he realized he could not move. He was, in fact, spread eagle on a
bed, arms bound to the four posts by chains of mail.

 

Beginning to struggle and thrash against his restraints,
Aedan felt fury. After a week’s hard march, to be ambushed in his own home
before he could even visit his own wife… “Zevran!” he began to roar.

 

“You have more pressing concerns, Ferelden mutt,” a familiar
voice in an Orlesian accent interrupted from outside his vision. Turning his
head, he caught a better glimpse of his leather-clad captor.

 

Anora sauntered towards him, no gentle smile of love or
welcoming on her face, but rather a frighteningly good imitation of her father’s
infamous sneer and disdain on her face.

 

“Anora,” he began to demand explanation, but a thin crop in
her left hand came down on his exposed sternum. It didn’t hurt him, per say,
but the shock shut him up as intended.

 

“I don’t recall giving you permission to speak,” Anora said,
tilting her head in faux consideration as one hand rested on the side of her
armor, a familiar armor, the Battledress of the Provocateur. “It appears you
won’t submit after all. More the pity,” she said, and then began to climb over
the bed, and over him.

 

“I have heard tales of the legendary obstinacy of the
Couslands,” she mused aloud as she straddled him, still voicing that fake
Orlesian accent. “I suppose you leave me no choice but to conquer you outright,”
she decreed, her father’s smug smile coming to her face.

 

Aedan, tied beneath her armored figure and utterly helpless,
felt his heart skip a beat.

 

///



Roleplay can be a valuable bonding experience, especially if you let her take the dominant role.  But you are permitted to draw the line should Orlesian Oppressors be suggested.

Modifié par Dean_the_Young, 10 septembre 2010 - 12:06 .

[Liliandra Nadiar]

Yay Sigrun. And Dominatrix Anora... o.O Aedan may walk oddly in the morning/afternoon/whenever he gets untied, but I doubt he'll complain overmuch. >

[Dean_the_Young]

Codex 5: Prisoner's Delimma


Fort Drakon Report
Priority Detention Wing

For the Eyes of the Regent Only
Transcript of Grey Warden Interrogation

---


 
The Warden is (Redacted), son of (Redacted) from (Redacted),
and will be noted as W.



 

Taking place of Chief Interrogator is (Redacted), and will
be noted as L.

 

Recorder is (Redacted)

 

The date is (Redacted)

 

---Transcript Begin---

 

Guard 1: Wake up, traitor. You have company who wishes to
speak to you. You will answer him. Even think of causing trouble, and I’ll
spear you in a heart beat. Am I clear?

 

W: …

 

Guard: I said am I clear?

 

W: Clearly.

 

*L enters.*

 

L: Guard, leave us.

 

Guard: My Lord.

 

*Pause*

 

W: You.

 

L: Yes, me.  You don’t
seem too surprised to see me here.

 

W: It wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility when I let
myself be captured.

 

L: From what I hear, you ‘let’ yourself be captured after attacking
two squads of guards, and crippled seven of my men before (Redacted) brought
you down.

 

W: It was always a possibility. I made the call, and I lost.

 

L: Indeed: the Wardens have never been as all-powerful as
they might like others to believe. But I am not here about that.

 

W: Then what do you want, (Redacted)?

 

L: What I want, Warden, is many things. I want
this needless Civil War to be over. I want darkspawn slain and gone from
these lands. And most of all what I want is to remove every last Orlesian
conspirator from this kingdom!

 

W: I am no Orlesian, (Redacted). You knew my father: (Redacted)
fought beside King Maric for years.

 

L: And in his later years he was fond of long, leisurely
trips to Orlais as well. Don’t think he was beyond being influenced, young man.
While I admit you may not be such a traitor sent on their behalf, your Order
certainly is. An order of knights does not keep the Empress of Orlais’ court
without taking on some of her interests as well.

 

W: I have never heard of such a conspiracy, or been part of
it, and neither have any of my companions. (Redacted) came looking for aid
against the Darkspawn, and nothing else.

 

L: Nothing, Warden? So you just chose to join in this
rebellion against the Throne, and for no other reason? If you wanted to prove
your loyalties, you should have joined my cause immediately afterwards: I would
have overlooked the failings of your Order.

 

*W visibly suppresses outburst.*

 

W: …what do you want, (Redacted)? Why are you here?

 

L: To offer you one last chance you do not deserve, Warden.
Regardless of what I feel, for the good of the country I can show you mercy if
you cooperate. You have something I want, and I am willing to show leniency if
you give it to me.

 

*W does not speak*

 

L: You’ve assembled an army, Warden. From the corners of
Ferelden, you’ve saved and scrapped together the forces that can stand not only
stand against the Blight, but end this Civil War once and for all. That,
Warden, is what I want from you.

 

W: I would not give you them even if they were mine to
trade. They unite behind the Wardens, not me.

 

L: And that, boy, is where you are mistaken. You are the
Warden: you, as an individual, represent all the presence and authority your
order retains at this point. Your friend, (Redacted)’s bastard? I know what
everyone else who has met him knows, that he is irrelevant to the larger game.
You lead, not him. So you go, so go the armies. And you would be best advised
to go with me, if you want to have any hope of seeing the light of day again,
let alone your friends.

 

W: What are you suggesting?

 

L: I do not suggest: I dictate the terms of your submission.
You will renounce whatever oaths bind you and publicly swear yourself to me. You
will come out in support of my Regency and throw your armies under my command
to face the threat to our nation. You will bid (Redacted) to withdraw his
challenge, and his puppet candidate, from the Landsmeet. You will return my
daughter from wherever you have hidden her, and support her assumption at the
Landsmeet. And then you will fight under my command, first against whatever
rebellion remains and then against the heart of the darkspawn horde you love so
dear.

 

W: You demand much, and offer little. Am I to expect the
executioners act as soon as I am finished speaking? Shall I speak as he places
on the hood, to save time?

 

L: Whatever you might think, I am not incapable of mercy. If
you cooperate, your friends will spared, free to leave or live in this in peace
so long as they never make themselves public again. The alternative, of course,
is the gallows once I get my hands on them, which in my opinion is better than
you deserve.

 

W: And myself?

 

L: Your fate, Warden, will depend on just how well you serve
me, and how long you remain useful to me. Make no mistake about that. Whether
that comes to be measured in years or days after this Blight will depend on
you.

 

*W does not speak. L rises.*

 

L: I have no time or interest in negotiating further, Warden:
you have taken enough of my time, and even that I only give because of the
trouble you have caused. I have listed my terms, and while you cooperation
would be helpful, it is not necessary. I will give you two days to consider. If
you have not agreed by then, I will see to it that we extract the information
we need out of you immediately after. I have spared you the rack this long only
because you might still be of use to me. Consider what I have said well, Warden.

 

---Transcript End---

[Dean_the_Young]

In Origins, my Cousland was a Reaver-Templar, in that order.
It made for... interesting roleplaying and narrative construction. I figure the
specializations make for good drabbles, and decided to re-word the ability
quotes to resemble an in-universe codex as well.

 

And remember, every time you read a story you like but don’t
review, a Sir Pounce-a-Lot gets kicked by a templar.

 

---

 

Codex 6: What He Was Also: Templar

 
 
Templars have existed
since the start of the Chantry, and have existed in some form ever since their schism
with the Chantry, as the necessity of dealing with maleficar, blood mages, and
abominations extends far beyond Chantry sway.



Once solely the
enforcers of the Chantry, Templar-trained warriors serve under many names, and
the independent Templar Order has  chapters for any nation which wishes them, following
the model of the Grey Wardens. The schism that made this possible came in the
later half of the Dragon Age as the Chantry monopoly on lyrium was broken, and no
ruler of the time was more necessary in shaping and secretly supporting the new
reality as King Aedan of Ferelden, remembered to the Order as the Templar King.



---

 

 Righteous Strike: The templars are enforcers
specifically designed control and slay mages. Through precision, control, and
means kept secret, each of the templar’s strikes against an enemy spellcaster interrupts
the flow of mana, draining its mana.



Alistair looked concerned as Aedan collapsed, clutching his
stomach. Concern turned to worry as the last known Cousland lost the remainder
of his previous meal.

 

“I really don’t think this is necessary,” Alistair repeated
once again, helping Aedan back to his feet. “This wasn’t what I intended when I
agreed to this, you know. I thought I would just show you some moves, run you
through a few exercises, and let you figure out the rest on your own with a few
pointers.”

 

Aedan shook his head. “I’d rather see it done first,” he
managed to get out, “and somehow I don’t think you’d agree to a more practical
demonstration.” Defiant of pain he might have tried to sound, he was leaning
more than a little on Alistair’s arm for support at this point.

 

“What, you mean on an actual mage? On one of our party?”
Alistair realized, and looked aghast. “I couldn’t do that to Wynn! She’s like
the mother I never had! Even if she does nag like the dickens about reminding
me to clean behind my ears. Sheesh…”

 

Aedan smiled at Alistair’s tone. “I would have thought you’d
like to try it on Morrigan.”

 

Alistair scoffed. “As if she would let me, even if you asked
her and batted your eyes at her. Oh, don’t give me that look, I know better
than that. And even if she did let me take just one hit, she’d probably try and
turn me into a newt once she realized how much it hurt, and then I really would
have to try, if you know what I mean. No thanks.”

 

Aedan grunted as he pushed himself off of Alistair’s
supporting arm, but he was smiling. Alistair had that affect on him, making him
feel as if he were back in Highever with his… his… it was still too hard to
dwell on willingly, but even dancing around the f- word Alistair was a sense of
home, a place of ease and trust that existed nowhere else.

 

“Well then,” he said, “I suppose I’ll have to make do as
your punching bag for demonstration purposes.”

 

“You might not be a mage,” Alistair reminded him once again,
“but you still can feel the effects of mana disruption through your body. Armor
might protect you for the most part in the fight, but…” it was obvious what he
meant, given that all Aedan was wearing besides bruises was a light pair of
pants. Alistair looked at the bruises, and was clearly worried. “Are you sure
you want to keep going like this?”

 

“A bit late to stop now,” Aedan said, giving a reassuringly
careless grin that hid just how much it really hurt. “Besides, all the more for
Morrigan to give her tending care and potions for.” He grinned even more at
Alistair’s fake gag reflex. “Hit me.”

 

“You asked for it,” Alistair said as he began to circle
around behind Aedan’s stance. “You’ll want to brace yourself for this one: even
for a non-mage it hurts like nothing else, but for a mage it can be devestating.
I approach like this and-“

 

Morrigan’s skills were well used that night indeed. Fortunately
for Aedan, she was very gentle indeed.

 

---

 

Cleanse Area: Through a release of inner energies, the templar purges the area of lingering magics.
Many enchanters and merchants hate this ability above all else, for enchantments
without enough expensive lyrium to bind them can also be erased in a moment.

 

Darkspawn, unfortunately, were not mindless beasts. It was
an undeserved reputation sprouting from their aggression and lack of speech: no
darkspawn yet captured had truly spoken, and even a single Genlock would fight
to the death in the face of an entire Legion.

 

Yet, they were not without thought. They could, in fact,
forge their own (crude) weapons. Under the smarter leaders, they could set
simple ambushes and traps. They would not blindly run into pits or chasms or
visible pikes. They even had the most basic of cultures, with the horned icons
they put up everywhere, and the weapons they decorated the ground with.

 

They had engineering. They had planning. They had the
elements of culture.

 

Therefore, it should have been no surprise that they could
build a bridge.

 

The Wardens had heard about it from a small village they had
passed through: how darkspawn on the far banks of a ravine broken by a swift
river were doing something about the problem to attack the settlement.

 

It was, as all things they did, a primitive design. Rotten
logs, trees, stone, whatever was at hand and could be bound together by more
limbs, rope… and magic.

 

A pity Aedan Cousland had not had the experience to think in
such terms, as any other Templar would have been. As it was, it was an error
more worthy of Alistair’s reputation. Trapped in the enemy shaman’s last spell,
the nobleson had released his latest mastered templar skill.

 

It was Alistair, fighting the first darkspawn crossers on
the near side, who first realized what had happened, a moment before the bridge
began to break in face of the current. “Run for it!” he yelled, even as both
sides raced for the nearest shore.

 

Aedan ran as fast as he could, cursing the weight of the
armor he wore. He was no Qunari like Sten, who was deliberately slowing down to
keep the closest darkspawn at bay and from overtaking them. Sten could easily
speed up whenever he wanted. Instead Aedan ran as he never had before, heart
pounding and eyes seeing only the far shore as arrows flew by. The sounds of
the breaking bridge crew closer, and in what little periphery he had he saw
Sten’s form lope by.

 

The bridge at last broke, and on the last bit of solid
footing he jumped, reaching for the land on the far side, where even Morrigan
looked to have fear in her eyes.

 

He fell short, naturally, and crashed into the raging water,
sinking like an armor-clad stone. Water poured into his helm, and into his open
mouth, and he barely touched the bottom before the water threw him tumbling
down the stream.

 

In something longer than a moment and shorter than an
eternity, another force hit him and he found himself dragged out of the water
and onto the rocks, gasping for air as water sloshed out of his armor. There
beside him, also gaping for air from his sprint, was Alistair, who had torn him
from the water with pure adrenaline.

 

“I can’t,” Alistair panted as the rest of their party drew
near, not giving any attention to his twisted arm, “I can’t believe you did that! What were you thinking, you…
you… you!”

 

Aedan, on his hands and knees, leaking like a punctured
water vase, looked at Alistair’s face and began to laugh. Soon enough, Alistair
joined him.

 

---

 

Mental Fortress:
Templars are both famous and feared for their unnatural dedication to duty.
More than just an emphasis of philosophy or ideology, this focus on duty and
strength of will is the cornerstone of all Templar abilities and magical
defenses, allowing them to push through whatever natural or magical distractions
that would befuddle their minds.

 

“What is your opinion on love?” Morrigan had just asked him,
and Aedan knew his answers would change his world.

 

As she spoke of her emotions with the awkwardness and unfamiliarity
of a child’s first crush, he knew what she was trying to say, and what she wasn’t.
She was in love... and she was afraid of it, for how it was affecting her.

 

He knew it, because it had been affecting him as well. What
had started as a dalliance with the exotic, a mutual arrangement of two strong
wills, had… softened into something else. She was no longer hard but functional
with her ministrations to his injuries, but nor was she gentle simply because
of their little games. She had become gentle, in some ways, because she wished
to be gentle with him.

 

And he, in turn, wanted to be gentle with her. Oh, he had
honestly agreed with some of her opinions on the nature of the chantry, on the
world, but on the matters of disagreement that had been half the fun. Yet now
he found himself inclined to compromise his views, his initial thoughts, to
make a happy middle. Because her approval mattered.

 

“I… do not think this is right,” she was more or less
saying, though in truth he never could remember exactly what she said, only the
intent. “I do not want to feel this myself, but also don’t want you to be so
distracted, because I respect you and-“ and however many ways she might have
worded it, said it, she sounded nothing more like a girl in love and who was
afraid it might be alright after all, that it wasn’t such a bad thing.

 

And on the tip of his tongue was that it wasn’t horrible,
that it was alright, and that nothing was stopping them from doing what they
wanted here, right now. Was he not a ruler, not to be ruled by the views of the
common people?

 

And then his father’s voice echoed through his mind. The
Couslands ruled, but only because they never neglected their duty. Love who you
wanted, do what you must, but do it for duty, because your duty is to who and
what you love.

 

If he told her that he loved her as well, crossed that one
line she thought she would never cross? What then? Would he give up his name to
follow her into the woods, as she would surely not follow him to his home?
Would he put her on a throne and rule beside her? Could he say that he would
give up his people for her? Being unable to say that, could he say she would
remain with him? What would happen, not today but tomorrow, and who would it happen
to?

 

Today was beautiful, desirable, but it had no future, for
either of them, or for his people, the people he had vowed he would return to.

 

And so he told her no, he didn’t love her, but that he did
respect her, and that at least was the truth, and what she wanted to hear.
While he left her tent alone, it was at least on good terms.

 

And as he sat, still alone, on a log outside his tent and
staring morosely into the fire as he tried to embrace the decision he had made,
a warm bowl of soup was placed into his hands and Alistair sat beside him much
as Fergus once had.

 

“Do you want to talk about it?” the man who might as well
have also been his brother asked. No, not really, but please stay just a little
longer.

 

---

 

Holy Smite: The most distinctive, and famous, ability of the Templars, and what marks them even
today as the enforcers of good, this is what blends the line between mortal and
mage, and what makes the Templars the guardians of that line. Who else, after
all, could call down heavenly fire out of the sky, stunning its targets with a
thunder clap and tossing man and mage alike down? Who else, except that no mage
can do it, but any elite warrior can train to it?

 

It is a fact that will become lost to history. Few saw it,
no one who did wanted to talk about what else had nearly occurred in that room,
and no bard worth his or her salt would ever have put it into song.

 

Aedan Cousland did not kill Arl Howe.

 

He alone fought him. He alone parried the blows, disarmed
the man, and got a decisive blow that sent the traitorous Howe to the ground,
defenseless, bleeding and awaiting the final blow as he spat last words.

 

But in his sorrow, his inability to understand the monster
beneath him, his rage and his anger and his revenge, Aedan Cousland did not
kill Arl Howe as he had intended to at that moment. If it could be called that:
death, after all, is final, and the darker spirits within the Reaver wanted
Howe’s fate to be anything but concluded for a long, long time.

 

For as Aedan Cousland stood above Howe, sword raised, ready
and eager to step beyond the pall of what was deserved and deserving of
himself, he was then knocked to the floor in a thunderous clap and Arl Howe
died and Alistair wouldn’t meet his eyes as he apologized for denying Aedan his
revenge, but bitterly whipered that he couldn’t stand by and watch Aedan do it
to himself.

 

No witness ever felt it proper to admit how close the later
King Cousland came to becoming a monster of and slave to his own emotions. No future
bard would ever want to tell conclude a revenge saga with a moment of revenge
denied and unmet expectations.

 

But Aedan would never be more grateful in the rest of his
life.

 

 

---

 

Regretfully, again.

 

---

 

Mental Fortress: The true Templar has learned to focus on duty to the exclusion of all else, from
fear to doubt to regret. This mindset, above all else, is what strikes fear
into the hearts of maleficarum and blood mages.



Choose, whispers Fate.

 

Loghain stands in front of him defeated, Alistair sands
behind him aghast that he considers the possibility, Anora stands to the left
awaiting her father’s fate, and Riordan stands to the right having given his
due.

 

Choose now, whispers his humanist emotions.

 

An antagonist and cause and creator of a thousand crimes and
atrocities, stands in front of him. A loyal Grey Warden stands behind him. A fiancé,
life-long admiration and respect, stands to his left. A stranger to his right.

 

Choose wisely, whispers his political mind.

 

A skilled general and the means to end this civil war once
and for all stands in front of him. One who wants nothing greater stands behind
him. A skilled governess stands to his left. One with no more counsel to give
stands to his right.

 

Choose what you want, whispers Morrigan.

 

A childhood hero and inspiration stands in front of him. A
brother of spirit and noble soul stands behind him. A beautiful, respected
partner stands to his left. A survivor who cursed him with this choice to his
right.

 

Choose your future, whispers Lelliana.

 

Glory and redemption and insight stand in front of him. Family
and companionship and joy stand behind him. Challenge and reward stand to his
left. A lifelong mission stands to his right.

 

There is power in choices, whispers Flemeth.

 

An antagonist stands in front of him, or was it a strong
ally? Is it family that stands behind him, or weakness? Is he flanked by
respect and dispassion, or ambition and opportunity? He doesn’t know, he can’t
separate emotion from logic any more, and now Morrigan’s last confession
returns to him and he sympathizes, but there is no one here to give him escape.
Pain and conflict roil within his heart and his mind, and bystanders flinch from
the waves of psychic pain coming from him as he struggles.

 

A Cousland always chooses his duty, whispers the ghost of
his Father.

 

And that, as it always has been, is that.

 

“Loghain will take the Joining,” Aedan Cousland rules, a
decision made on the advice of a breath of air.

Modifié par Dean_the_Young, 12 septembre 2010 - 01:35 .

[Yankee23]

Oh..I've really liked all of these but this has been you're best. Excellent!

[Dean_the_Young]

You've liked all of these, but just now reviewed?



How shameful.

[Yankee23]

Dean_the_Young wrote...

You've liked all of these, but just now reviewed?

How shameful.

Well, I haven't commented after every single one, but this is not my first review. See about 6 days ago after your second update.

[Dean_the_Young]

Codex 7: The Unforgivable Magic

---

Wardens have always had a special standing outside of conventional laws. An Order in and of themselves, throughought history they have escaped the normal scrutiny that Kings and Archons and even the Chantry itself have applied to others, not only because of their respected role and status but also on the cold, hard fact of the military prowess of the Wardens. It is much harder to impose one's will on another when the other is quite often as capable as five, ten, or even twenty men apiece.

For much of history, that understanding went by unchallenged. The Grey Wardens abstained from politics, and were therefore carefully overlooked. But in Ferelden after the Fifth Blight, that changed. The Wardens assumed political power in Amaranthine, becoming established political powers in thier own right, and the Warden Commander of Ferelden was also the King-Consort and Chancellor of the realm. With Grey Wardens and their behaviors in such high and visible places, however, it was inevitable that the Chantry could not continue to overlook their practices forever.

Of all the Grey Warden actions to at last trigger such a conflict, a conflict that spread across Thedas and in truth was a power struggle between the Chantry and the Wardens in the Orlesian imperial court itself, few could have been as less controversial or abhorrent as the one that eventually did.

---

Avernus,

 

I understand your research has been continuing on more
ethical tracks, but has not been progressing as fast as you would like. Do you
stand by your previous assessment as to the timescale of another advancement,
as we discussed prior? Or are you intending to switch to another line of
thought?

 

-Aedan

 

---

 

Warden Commander,

 

I am afraid I must. Without resorting to those extreme
avenues, the chances of my current research progressing any further during my
remaining lifetime is unlikely. Already I am focusing my efforts at documenting
my efforts for those who would follow me, though that will leave me time to
consider other matters. Is there something in particular you need?

 

-Avernus

 

---

 

Avernus,

 

Yes, though the specifics are something I trust only to word
by messenger. He will arrive with some material, as well as an assistant mage I
recruited from the Circle. Consider it the long-overdue assistant to help you
and carry on your work. Please send me a response on either course of action

 

-Aedan

 

P.S.: Please do be discrete about your past with the new
arrivals. He hasn’t had much experience as a Warden yet, and has a strong sense
of morality. I’d prefer he not be driven away

 

---

 

Warden Commander,

 

The first matter has already been recorded with the help of
your new mage, though research remains to be done to find… acceptable ways to
fortify our endurance to the taint. Not all Wardens should or even could become
like myself, but extending our limits to more normal lengths should be
possible.

 

On the other, I am unsure. I had not considered it before,
so preoccupied was I with ending the Demon threat: while the first had a
practical application, you can understand why the other did not.

 

With the help of the Warden’s new youngest mage, I suspect
we could attempt one or the other in my time. But my experience on the subject
can’t be taught so easily, and whichever one I do not could be left years,
decades behind the other. I cannot guarantee either, of course, would come
about in my life, but if you wish I would be glad to attempt either. Both are
noble fruits that might make up for my wrongs.

 

-Avernus

 

---

 

Avernus,

 

Focus all efforts on researching the second. I need
information as to all respects: the possibility, the implications for the
product, whether or not it can be replicated outside of the extreme
circumstances I mentioned.  

 

This could be major, Avernus. I do not exaggerate to say
this could be second only to the Blight. It could have extreme, diplomatic,
political, and other implications for the Grey Wardens and Ferelden. We Wardens
have accepted our lifespans already: we can accept them being shorter for a few
more decades if need be.

 

-Aedan

 

---

 

Warden Commander,

 

As loathe as I am to act in the name of politics, it will be
as you will.

 

The ritual is possible to modify, given time.  I will not ask as to how you received your
information as to the ritual, but it is clear enough to have something to start
on. For our case, I do not believe the lack of, ahem, ingredient should be much
of a problem.

 

In regards to the product: it should be viable, normal in
all respects minus the taint. Without further knowledge, however, I can not
promise health or long-term traits. There simply is too little known about such
things. The first generation will be the hardest, but will also be the ones
from which all others will learn.

 

I will contact you against when a breakthrough is made.

 

-Avernus

 

---

 

Warden Commander,

 

It is done, or as ready as I can make it in the time I have
left. My Calling cannot be denied any longer: the dreams too powerful.

 

I leave soon for Amarathine: my end will be to help the
Dwarves in their campaign to retake Kal’Sharok. I will be at the Vigil in a
week’s time. If you wish me any role in this, meet me there with the Queen. If
not, Maker watch over you, Commander, and I pray it works. It would be a better
end than I deserve if something so good comes out of my research.

 

For the Wardens,

 

-Avernus

 

//////

 

Loghain,

 

Greetings, Father-in-Law.

 

I suppose this missive has three roles. One, to rub in your
nose that I married your daughter without your consent. (Cue shake of head as
if I came out worse for it.) Two, to remind you that Anora will always welcome
your return, if only for a visit. I can find a reason the Orlesian Wardens will
have to accept whenever you’d like: recruitment hasn’t been the same since you
left.

 

But third, to inform you that as of about eight months ago
you are now technically the oldest Ferelden Warden alive. Avernus left for his calling,
but he left behind very valuable research into the Taint, and how to manipulate
it. This has promising applications in the future, but for now Avernus’s last
success has enabled a healthy twelve pounds, her fathers’ lungs, and somehow
still inherited the Grandfather’s nose. (Yours, I mean, not my father’s.)

 

If that doesn’t give you cause to return to spoil your
granddaughter, you truly are a horrible, horrible man.


Writing on the proudest day of my life,


Aedan

[Sarah1281]

I wonder what they named her. Was it the implication that blood magic was involved what caused problems with the Chantry? You wouldn't think an untainted child that wasn't even the product of two Wardens would be much cause for concern otherwise. How much does the Chantry know of GW secrets, anyway?

[Dean_the_Young]

Sarah1281 wrote...

I wonder what they named her.

I admit I'm open to suggestions about it, but Aedan already has a son and what are the chances he'd have two?

(Plus, future ideas and all that.)

Was it the implication that blood magic was involved what caused problems with the Chantry? You wouldn't think an untainted child that wasn't even the product of two Wardens would be much cause for concern otherwise. How much does the Chantry know of GW secrets, anyway?

Debatable to any extent: the Chantry and Wardens have co-existed for centuries, and by the history of the Blights the Wardens are an Andrastian Order (though not devout or ideological about it). If Anora can know about the Joining costs, I don't see why the highest of the Chantry can't know about the near sterility.

But yes, the implication is that the ritual involves 'blood magic' of somesort, and also that the child contains the taint. How did the Chantry find out? 

Well, I'd bet that the Orlesians read Loghain's mail.

Modifié par Dean_the_Young, 19 septembre 2010 - 11:03 .

[ryans1780]

I just found these & read them all. They are really good. I like your writing style.