Modifié par Face of Evil, 01 janvier 2011 - 07:07 .
This One I Protect (PG-13 for violence, mild sexual references)
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Face of Evil
, janv. 01 2011 06:22
#1
Posté 01 janvier 2011 - 06:22
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#2
Posté 01 janvier 2011 - 06:23
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“The most important thing when handling mabari,” the older man said, “is to demonstrate that you are not a threat.”
Marten nodded, his gaze still fixed on the wooden gates of the pen. Sweat was beading on his forehead and his heart was racing. In the back of his mind, he was screaming at himself not to cry in front of his father, but it was all he could do to keep himself from breaking down in tears.
His father, standing behind him, placed his hands on Marten’s shoulders and bent down to whisper in his son’s ear.
“Put away your fear, Marten. It is important that you do not show fear. Do not be over-confident, but do not be cowed by them. That is the only way you will gain their respect. Will you remember that, pup?”
The young boy glanced back at his father. A warm smile greeted him, and in that moment, Marten felt some of his confidence return.
“Y-Yes, Pa, I’ll r-remember,” he said.
“You’ll do fine,” Marten’s father replied, patting his shoulders. “You are a brave boy.”
With that final reassurance, Marten’s father gently pushed him towards the pen.
Though his hands were shaking, he was able to undo the metal latch. He placed a hand on the frame and slowly swung the wooden gate open. With a deep breath, he stepped inside, listening to the bed of straw crunching under the soles of his boots.
The mabari immediately stood up to greet the intruder, her ears flattening against her skull. She brandished her fangs at Marten and let out a protective growl, readying herself to tear the stranger apart. Around her, the litter of puppies broke into a chorus of inquisitive yelping and fearful whimpering.
Though he was shaking terribly, Marten did not turn away. After brushing the long black hair that had fallen in front of his eyes, he crouched down and held out his hands for the mother to inspect.
The mabari’s growling softened and then faded as she understood the gesture. Slowly, carefully, she padded forward to give the boy’s hand an inquisitive sniff.
Once it seemed she was satisfied, the mabari let out a bark that sounded like a stern but not unfriendly welcome to Marten. She then trotted back to her pups and laid down in their midst as they yapped happily at her return.
“Good, pup,” his father said calmly, his hands clutching the posts of the gate so hard his hands were turning white. “You’re doing very good. Just stay in there a little longer. See if one of them takes to you.”
Marten took two steps forward. A few of the bigger pups came forward to investigate the newcomer, scurrying about his ankles and sniffing his boots. Most of them grew quickly disinterested and turned away to find something worthy of note elsewhere in the pen.
Except for one. One of the pups continued sniffing his boots. It was light brown in colour and already bigger than most of its fellows despite being a few weeks old.
Marten bent down and petted the puppy. Its stubby tail wagging furiously, the dog tried to jump up on Marten’s leg but not quite manage it, barely getting past his shins.
Marten suddenly remembered the treat his father had given him, and he reached into his pocket. He produced the mabari crunch and laid it on the ground before him; the puppy snatched it up in his jaws and chewed on it noisily.
Once it was done, Marten kneeled down and scratched the pup behind the ears. It rolled on its back to let him rub its round belly, all the while barking happily.
“This one seems different than the others,” Marten said, the anxiousness he felt earlier draining from him completely.
Marten felt a sudden impulse to back away from the dog. He stood up and took a step backwards. The puppy rolled to its feet and followed, its eyes fixated on him.
He took a step to the side and the puppy hopped in the same direction. Quietly. Obediently.
“Maker’s breath,” Marten’s father said behind him. “I did not expect an imprinting on your first visit.” The older man shook his head in amazement. “Well done, my boy.”
The puppy rolled on its back again, inviting Marten to give it more belly rubs. When he turned to his father, the boy was grinning widely.
“Am I done now, father?” he asked. “Is this my dog now?”
“Not yet. We shouldn’t take him from his mother just yet; he’d do well to stay with the litter for a while longer. And we’ll have to make sure the imprinting is taking hold. But soon enough, we’ll be able to take him home.”
Marten nodded, keeping his eyes fixed on the dog.
“You are very lucky, Marten,” his father continued. “If the imprinting holds, that hound will follow you now until the day he dies.”
“He’s too tiny to protect anyone now.”
“But he will get bigger. He’s already huge for being so young; by the time he comes of age, he’ll be a beast half your size, Marten.”
Marten’s father stroked his beard thoughtfully. “You are very lucky, son. I did not have my own mabari until I was twenty.”
“Thank you, father,” the boy replied. He stood and opened the gates to the dog pen; as he walked out, the mabari followed him with its gaze. “But what should I call him?”
Marten’s father crouched down and scratched the pup behind the ears, which set him to barking happily.
“He’s your dog, Marten. What do you want to name him?”
The boy thought for a moment, then gestured towards the puppy, still starting at hims. “I’m not sure just yet, but … I kind of like what you said about him being a beast. Maybe that would work.”
Marten’s father arched an eyebrow. “You want to call him ‘Beast’?” he asked, somewhat incredulous. “Are you certain?”
“Sure, if he likes it.” The boy leaned over, placing his hands on his knees. “How about it, boy? Does Beast sound good to you?”
The mabari let out an appreciative bark and bounded around in a circle. Beast it would be.
Marten nodded, his gaze still fixed on the wooden gates of the pen. Sweat was beading on his forehead and his heart was racing. In the back of his mind, he was screaming at himself not to cry in front of his father, but it was all he could do to keep himself from breaking down in tears.
His father, standing behind him, placed his hands on Marten’s shoulders and bent down to whisper in his son’s ear.
“Put away your fear, Marten. It is important that you do not show fear. Do not be over-confident, but do not be cowed by them. That is the only way you will gain their respect. Will you remember that, pup?”
The young boy glanced back at his father. A warm smile greeted him, and in that moment, Marten felt some of his confidence return.
“Y-Yes, Pa, I’ll r-remember,” he said.
“You’ll do fine,” Marten’s father replied, patting his shoulders. “You are a brave boy.”
With that final reassurance, Marten’s father gently pushed him towards the pen.
Though his hands were shaking, he was able to undo the metal latch. He placed a hand on the frame and slowly swung the wooden gate open. With a deep breath, he stepped inside, listening to the bed of straw crunching under the soles of his boots.
The mabari immediately stood up to greet the intruder, her ears flattening against her skull. She brandished her fangs at Marten and let out a protective growl, readying herself to tear the stranger apart. Around her, the litter of puppies broke into a chorus of inquisitive yelping and fearful whimpering.
Though he was shaking terribly, Marten did not turn away. After brushing the long black hair that had fallen in front of his eyes, he crouched down and held out his hands for the mother to inspect.
The mabari’s growling softened and then faded as she understood the gesture. Slowly, carefully, she padded forward to give the boy’s hand an inquisitive sniff.
Once it seemed she was satisfied, the mabari let out a bark that sounded like a stern but not unfriendly welcome to Marten. She then trotted back to her pups and laid down in their midst as they yapped happily at her return.
“Good, pup,” his father said calmly, his hands clutching the posts of the gate so hard his hands were turning white. “You’re doing very good. Just stay in there a little longer. See if one of them takes to you.”
Marten took two steps forward. A few of the bigger pups came forward to investigate the newcomer, scurrying about his ankles and sniffing his boots. Most of them grew quickly disinterested and turned away to find something worthy of note elsewhere in the pen.
Except for one. One of the pups continued sniffing his boots. It was light brown in colour and already bigger than most of its fellows despite being a few weeks old.
Marten bent down and petted the puppy. Its stubby tail wagging furiously, the dog tried to jump up on Marten’s leg but not quite manage it, barely getting past his shins.
Marten suddenly remembered the treat his father had given him, and he reached into his pocket. He produced the mabari crunch and laid it on the ground before him; the puppy snatched it up in his jaws and chewed on it noisily.
Once it was done, Marten kneeled down and scratched the pup behind the ears. It rolled on its back to let him rub its round belly, all the while barking happily.
“This one seems different than the others,” Marten said, the anxiousness he felt earlier draining from him completely.
Marten felt a sudden impulse to back away from the dog. He stood up and took a step backwards. The puppy rolled to its feet and followed, its eyes fixated on him.
He took a step to the side and the puppy hopped in the same direction. Quietly. Obediently.
“Maker’s breath,” Marten’s father said behind him. “I did not expect an imprinting on your first visit.” The older man shook his head in amazement. “Well done, my boy.”
The puppy rolled on its back again, inviting Marten to give it more belly rubs. When he turned to his father, the boy was grinning widely.
“Am I done now, father?” he asked. “Is this my dog now?”
“Not yet. We shouldn’t take him from his mother just yet; he’d do well to stay with the litter for a while longer. And we’ll have to make sure the imprinting is taking hold. But soon enough, we’ll be able to take him home.”
Marten nodded, keeping his eyes fixed on the dog.
“You are very lucky, Marten,” his father continued. “If the imprinting holds, that hound will follow you now until the day he dies.”
“He’s too tiny to protect anyone now.”
“But he will get bigger. He’s already huge for being so young; by the time he comes of age, he’ll be a beast half your size, Marten.”
Marten’s father stroked his beard thoughtfully. “You are very lucky, son. I did not have my own mabari until I was twenty.”
“Thank you, father,” the boy replied. He stood and opened the gates to the dog pen; as he walked out, the mabari followed him with its gaze. “But what should I call him?”
Marten’s father crouched down and scratched the pup behind the ears, which set him to barking happily.
“He’s your dog, Marten. What do you want to name him?”
The boy thought for a moment, then gestured towards the puppy, still starting at hims. “I’m not sure just yet, but … I kind of like what you said about him being a beast. Maybe that would work.”
Marten’s father arched an eyebrow. “You want to call him ‘Beast’?” he asked, somewhat incredulous. “Are you certain?”
“Sure, if he likes it.” The boy leaned over, placing his hands on his knees. “How about it, boy? Does Beast sound good to you?”
The mabari let out an appreciative bark and bounded around in a circle. Beast it would be.
Modifié par Face of Evil, 01 janvier 2011 - 07:58 .
#3
Posté 01 janvier 2011 - 06:28
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Beast dozed lightly, his head resting on his outstretched paws. There was no fire in the corridor or window to lay by and bask in the sun, but he didn’t care. It was enough that he’d gotten the opportunity to rest, tired as he was.
His great brown body was parked in front of a small wooden door that marked the entrance to his master’s bedchambers, with so little room between him and the door that one would have to roll the latter out of the way to open the former. Little chance of that anyone attempting such a thing with a mabari warhound … unless they were willing to lose a few fingers.
Of course, that was the idea. Marten was having a “private audience” with a dark-haired elven girl who’d arrived at his chambers a few hours before. Her name was that of a flower, but to tell the truth, Beast could not remember which one.
Ah well. He was only too happy to rest. It had been a long day, preparing for Marten’s trip down south. There was packing and much more to do, and all of it had to be done in secret.
So he slept. His legs and his ears would twitch at the occasional excited giggle or soft moan that wafted out of the bedchamber and into the hallway, but otherwise, his rest remained undisturbed.
For a time.
The torches in the corridor had nearly burned out when the bellowing voice of Marten’s father woke Beast. He opened his eyes to see the old man marching down the passage, a grim look on his face and a black cape streaming behind him.
Beast immediately rose and began barking happily, as though he were glad to see the old man. He ran up to him halfway down the corridor and stopped him in his tracks, arching his hind quarters in the air, wagging his tail furiously.
However, Marten’s father dismissed him with an angry wave of his hand.
“Out of my way, hound. You’ll not keep me from seeing my son.”
With that, Marten’s father stalked around Beast, not sparing him a second glance. Beast watched him go, his ears flattening against his head. He began to whimper nervously.
Marten’s father banged on the door. “Andraste’s flaming sword, open up, Marten! I want to speak with you now!” he shouted.
There was a sound of soft footsteps, and the door creaked open a little. Marten peeked his head through, enough for Beast to see that he wasn’t wearing a shirt. His forehead was beading with sweat as well and his long dark hair looked wet, although it wasn’t particularly warm in the castle.
In the years since they met, Marten had become a handsome young man. In truth, his face had a sad look about it, but Marten was near constantly cheerful, a smile never leaving his face. If you watched him enough, you’d see a glint of mischievousness in his silver eyes; time had only cultivated a wicked streak in Marten that gave his parents no end of grief.
Marten’s trademark snide grin came out to shine now. “Ah, Father, wonderful to see you,” he said. “I can’t imagine what brings you here at this hour. Are we under attack? Orlesians at the gate? Avvar barbarians storming the walls? Tax collectors?”
The older man crossed his arms. From his vantage point, he could not see the expression on his face, but the coldness in his voice was unmistakable.
“I wish to speak to you about your trip to Ostagar, son,” he said.
The grin vanished. “Oh,” he muttered, his gaze suddenly turning to the floor. “You heard about that, then.”
“So when were you going to tell me that you were running away to fight darkspawn in the
south? Was I not going to get the news until the King’s soliders brought back your body on a litter?”
Marten had no answer. He kept his eyes on the floor.
“L-look, father,” he stammered. “The hour is late. Can’t we discuss this in the morning?’
The old man stamped his foot impatiently. “I’d rather we discuss it now, Marten. So go rouse
whoever you have in there with you and send them out. I’ll wait,” he said
firmly.
Beast’s ears twitched. Though he’d been present for many of Marten’s scoldings, the old man’s words carried a weight that he’d never heard before. He was afraid to approach his master, fearful that Marten’s
Marten seemed to recognize it as well. He nodded once to acknowledge his father's order and disappeared inside.
Beast listened to a brief flurry of excited chatter from within the chamber before the elven girl that had covertly visited Marten several hours before came running out, wearing only her smallclothes and clutching a blue dress to her mid-section. She barely looked at Marten’s father as she bounced by … or perhaps she was too afraid to look.
In any case, she was swiftly gone, leaving only Beast and Marten’s father standing in the hallway.
“Son,” he called into the chamber, “I really wish you would leave the help be and find your pleasures somewhere else. I’m not so eager for another grandson that I need a bastard by a chamber maid.”
Marten returned to the entrance, having hurriedly thrown on a shirt. He seemed to have regained his composure along with it.
“All right, father, you wanted to have it out now, we’ll have it out. Yes, I intend to go to Ostagar to join the king, and why bloody not? The darkspawn threaten us all.”
Beast could practically hear the old man’s teeth grinding. “Son, I forbid it.”
Marten nodded knowingly. “I suspected you would object, which is why I didn’t tell you. But may I ask why you’re so dead set against my serving our country?”
“Your brother is enough.”
“My brother is the heir. All the more reason that I should be the one to go.”
“You are the youngest of my sons and the less experienced warrior. Damn it, Marten, I’ll not lose you to your fool dreams of glory!”
They argued back and forth for a time, with the exchange growing ever more heated. Beast only watched from a distance, remaining silent.
After a few minutes, they moved into Marten’s chamber, with his father closing the door behind them. But even through the door, Beast could hear their muffled shouts growing louder and louder.
Time creeped forward until finally the shouting stopped. There was a sharp crack, followed by a pained gasp. Beast moved closer to the door and listened intently, but heard no more.
Suddenly, the door came flying open, slamming loudly on the stone wall beside it. Marten’s father came storming out, his lined features red with rage and his hands trembling. He did not even look at Beast as he brushed past the mabari hound.
Beast watched him leave, then slowly crept through the open door.
Marten was there, sitting on the edge of his large bed, his hands clasped over his face. Beast could see that he was shaking terribly and went to him, whimpering softly.
Marten’s hands fell away and Beast could see the swelling around his right eye, the start of an ugly bruise. He was trembling as though he were fighting down the urge to cry.
Beast’s heart went out to him, and he laid his head on Marten’s knee and whimpered. He hoped that Marten would understand the gesture, and it would provide him some small solace.
It seemed to work, as Marten’s lips curved into a small, sad smile.
“Good boy,” he said, scratching the hound behind his ears. “At least you believe in me, even if no one else does.”
Beast’s tail wagged a little.
They sat there together for a time, simply content to be in each other’s presence. Finally, Marten rose and moved over to the chest in them corner, flipping open the lid. Inside were his weapons and armor. He lifted out
one of his axes and ran a finger along the edge as though to test its shaprness
“I’m sorry, Beast,” he said, turning to his pet. “I’m afraid you’re not getting any more rest tonight. We have to leave the castle before Father thinks to put guards at my door.”
He gestured toward Beast with the axe, his cheerful grin now fully returned. “Unless you’d rather stay here and miss out on all the fun?”
Beast barked happily, indicating his answer.
His great brown body was parked in front of a small wooden door that marked the entrance to his master’s bedchambers, with so little room between him and the door that one would have to roll the latter out of the way to open the former. Little chance of that anyone attempting such a thing with a mabari warhound … unless they were willing to lose a few fingers.
Of course, that was the idea. Marten was having a “private audience” with a dark-haired elven girl who’d arrived at his chambers a few hours before. Her name was that of a flower, but to tell the truth, Beast could not remember which one.
Ah well. He was only too happy to rest. It had been a long day, preparing for Marten’s trip down south. There was packing and much more to do, and all of it had to be done in secret.
So he slept. His legs and his ears would twitch at the occasional excited giggle or soft moan that wafted out of the bedchamber and into the hallway, but otherwise, his rest remained undisturbed.
For a time.
The torches in the corridor had nearly burned out when the bellowing voice of Marten’s father woke Beast. He opened his eyes to see the old man marching down the passage, a grim look on his face and a black cape streaming behind him.
Beast immediately rose and began barking happily, as though he were glad to see the old man. He ran up to him halfway down the corridor and stopped him in his tracks, arching his hind quarters in the air, wagging his tail furiously.
However, Marten’s father dismissed him with an angry wave of his hand.
“Out of my way, hound. You’ll not keep me from seeing my son.”
With that, Marten’s father stalked around Beast, not sparing him a second glance. Beast watched him go, his ears flattening against his head. He began to whimper nervously.
Marten’s father banged on the door. “Andraste’s flaming sword, open up, Marten! I want to speak with you now!” he shouted.
There was a sound of soft footsteps, and the door creaked open a little. Marten peeked his head through, enough for Beast to see that he wasn’t wearing a shirt. His forehead was beading with sweat as well and his long dark hair looked wet, although it wasn’t particularly warm in the castle.
In the years since they met, Marten had become a handsome young man. In truth, his face had a sad look about it, but Marten was near constantly cheerful, a smile never leaving his face. If you watched him enough, you’d see a glint of mischievousness in his silver eyes; time had only cultivated a wicked streak in Marten that gave his parents no end of grief.
Marten’s trademark snide grin came out to shine now. “Ah, Father, wonderful to see you,” he said. “I can’t imagine what brings you here at this hour. Are we under attack? Orlesians at the gate? Avvar barbarians storming the walls? Tax collectors?”
The older man crossed his arms. From his vantage point, he could not see the expression on his face, but the coldness in his voice was unmistakable.
“I wish to speak to you about your trip to Ostagar, son,” he said.
The grin vanished. “Oh,” he muttered, his gaze suddenly turning to the floor. “You heard about that, then.”
“So when were you going to tell me that you were running away to fight darkspawn in the
south? Was I not going to get the news until the King’s soliders brought back your body on a litter?”
Marten had no answer. He kept his eyes on the floor.
“L-look, father,” he stammered. “The hour is late. Can’t we discuss this in the morning?’
The old man stamped his foot impatiently. “I’d rather we discuss it now, Marten. So go rouse
whoever you have in there with you and send them out. I’ll wait,” he said
firmly.
Beast’s ears twitched. Though he’d been present for many of Marten’s scoldings, the old man’s words carried a weight that he’d never heard before. He was afraid to approach his master, fearful that Marten’s
Marten seemed to recognize it as well. He nodded once to acknowledge his father's order and disappeared inside.
Beast listened to a brief flurry of excited chatter from within the chamber before the elven girl that had covertly visited Marten several hours before came running out, wearing only her smallclothes and clutching a blue dress to her mid-section. She barely looked at Marten’s father as she bounced by … or perhaps she was too afraid to look.
In any case, she was swiftly gone, leaving only Beast and Marten’s father standing in the hallway.
“Son,” he called into the chamber, “I really wish you would leave the help be and find your pleasures somewhere else. I’m not so eager for another grandson that I need a bastard by a chamber maid.”
Marten returned to the entrance, having hurriedly thrown on a shirt. He seemed to have regained his composure along with it.
“All right, father, you wanted to have it out now, we’ll have it out. Yes, I intend to go to Ostagar to join the king, and why bloody not? The darkspawn threaten us all.”
Beast could practically hear the old man’s teeth grinding. “Son, I forbid it.”
Marten nodded knowingly. “I suspected you would object, which is why I didn’t tell you. But may I ask why you’re so dead set against my serving our country?”
“Your brother is enough.”
“My brother is the heir. All the more reason that I should be the one to go.”
“You are the youngest of my sons and the less experienced warrior. Damn it, Marten, I’ll not lose you to your fool dreams of glory!”
They argued back and forth for a time, with the exchange growing ever more heated. Beast only watched from a distance, remaining silent.
After a few minutes, they moved into Marten’s chamber, with his father closing the door behind them. But even through the door, Beast could hear their muffled shouts growing louder and louder.
Time creeped forward until finally the shouting stopped. There was a sharp crack, followed by a pained gasp. Beast moved closer to the door and listened intently, but heard no more.
Suddenly, the door came flying open, slamming loudly on the stone wall beside it. Marten’s father came storming out, his lined features red with rage and his hands trembling. He did not even look at Beast as he brushed past the mabari hound.
Beast watched him leave, then slowly crept through the open door.
Marten was there, sitting on the edge of his large bed, his hands clasped over his face. Beast could see that he was shaking terribly and went to him, whimpering softly.
Marten’s hands fell away and Beast could see the swelling around his right eye, the start of an ugly bruise. He was trembling as though he were fighting down the urge to cry.
Beast’s heart went out to him, and he laid his head on Marten’s knee and whimpered. He hoped that Marten would understand the gesture, and it would provide him some small solace.
It seemed to work, as Marten’s lips curved into a small, sad smile.
“Good boy,” he said, scratching the hound behind his ears. “At least you believe in me, even if no one else does.”
Beast’s tail wagged a little.
They sat there together for a time, simply content to be in each other’s presence. Finally, Marten rose and moved over to the chest in them corner, flipping open the lid. Inside were his weapons and armor. He lifted out
one of his axes and ran a finger along the edge as though to test its shaprness
“I’m sorry, Beast,” he said, turning to his pet. “I’m afraid you’re not getting any more rest tonight. We have to leave the castle before Father thinks to put guards at my door.”
He gestured toward Beast with the axe, his cheerful grin now fully returned. “Unless you’d rather stay here and miss out on all the fun?”
Beast barked happily, indicating his answer.
Modifié par Face of Evil, 01 janvier 2011 - 06:34 .
#4
Posté 01 janvier 2011 - 06:35
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“So, boy,” Marten exclaimed, “ready to slay some darkspawn?”
Beast barked excitedly as he hopped around in a circle. Marten laughed and ruffled the top of Beast’s head with his fingers.
“Oh, you’re a fearsome one, you are,” he said. “Just wait ‘til those beasties get a load of you. We’ll end this Blight on our own!”
Beast barked approvingly. Marten smiled and then turned his attention back to strapping on his armor.
All around them, the camp at Ostagar was buzzing with activity as men and women rushed back and forth, hurriedly grabbing weapons. Chantry sisters were hurriedly administering rites and blessings to groups of praying warriors, and amidst the chaos a few commanders stood on crates or small hills, shouting out orders.
It was not long after sunrise and the sun was still creeping over the horizon, cloaking Marten and Beast in the shadows of the Tevinter ruins surrounding them.
Beast sat on his haunches and watched Marten as he prepared for battle, wondering what he was thinking about. He seemed excited and confident, but Beast had been around his master long enough to know when he was putting on a brave front. He was worried.
He remembered the conversation Marten had the day before with the kennel master. The older man had taken Marten aside into a side of trees, but Beast could still hear their conversation.
“You have to be prepared for this, lad,” the kennel master had said. “You have to be ready to lose him if you take him into battle. Darkspawn blood is poisonous, and the second he bites one of those beasties, he’ll be gulping it down.”
Marten had gotten angry and moved close to the kennel-master, looking as though he might grab the man by the front of his shirt.
“There has to be something you can do! If it’s a matter of paying for some damn potion, it’ll come out of my own pocket! I don’t care!”
The kennel master backed a step away, holding his hands out in a conciliatory gesture. “There’s a poultice I’ve been reading about that could protect your mabari from the darkspawn corruption, but I don’t have the right ingredients. It requires a flower from the Wilds, for one thing …”
“Then I will go into the Wilds to retrieve this flower!"
“I’m sorry, lad,” the man replied. “But no one except the Grey Wardens are allowed into the Korcari Wilds without a battalion behind him. And even then …”
The two argued back and forth for a time before Marten stormed away, cursing. He kicked off a stand of halberds leaning against a pillar as he went, drawing the stares of his comrades across the camp.
Beast wished he could ease Marten’s anxiousness. He shouldn’t have been worried. Beast was not afraid to die. He would gladly sell his life if it meant saving Marten.
leather armor, Marten procured a tin filled with a black substance and knelt down beside Beast, gesturing at him to come closer. He rubbed his two fingers on the surface and began to dab the kaddis on Beast’s fur, leaving long dark stripes along his body.
“We’ll show those monsters a thing or two, eh boy?” Marten said, rubbing Beast’s neck. The mabari barked approvingly.
A long silence passed between them, broken only by the noise of their fellow soliders preparing for battle.
“So, I heard there’s more than darkspawn in these woods,” Marten said. “The night we arrived at Ostagar, I listened in on a conversation between a few soliders who were talking about something called ‘the Witch of the Wilds.”
Beast whined disapprovingly.
“Shut it, you. Anyway, there used to be a witch named Flemeth in these parts who had dozens of beautiful daughters. It’s said that these witches could entrance a man with a single look, and they would select the strongest of their victims to haul off in the woods to ravish them. I don’t suppose we’d be lucky enough to wander into one of those witches, do you think?”
Beast began bobbing his head up and down, pretending to retch. Marten frowned as he dabbed the kaddis on Fang’s haunches.
“Bah! You never like any of my girlfriends! Remember how you scared Sarah with all your growling Or how you tried to bite Eliza?”
The name invoked another growl from the mabari, and Marten threw up his hands in exasperation.
“See? Case in point! Now, Eliza and me, we had something special! So what if she was a pickpocket? She just needed some cash to pay off a debt, that’s all. You never gave her a chance!”
Beast growled at the mention of her name, drawing a sour look from Marten.
“Oh, stop lecturing me. I never comment on your taste in women, now do I? You’re worse than father.”
Marten finished applying the kaddis and stood up, looking off in the distance. Beast turned around and gazed up at his master, waiting patiently.
Trumpets began to blast somewhere in the camp. The darkspawn horde was soon upon them.
“ Come on, boy,” Marten said, gesturing to a nearby group of soliders. “We’d better report for duty.”
Beast barked excitedly as he hopped around in a circle. Marten laughed and ruffled the top of Beast’s head with his fingers.
“Oh, you’re a fearsome one, you are,” he said. “Just wait ‘til those beasties get a load of you. We’ll end this Blight on our own!”
Beast barked approvingly. Marten smiled and then turned his attention back to strapping on his armor.
All around them, the camp at Ostagar was buzzing with activity as men and women rushed back and forth, hurriedly grabbing weapons. Chantry sisters were hurriedly administering rites and blessings to groups of praying warriors, and amidst the chaos a few commanders stood on crates or small hills, shouting out orders.
It was not long after sunrise and the sun was still creeping over the horizon, cloaking Marten and Beast in the shadows of the Tevinter ruins surrounding them.
Beast sat on his haunches and watched Marten as he prepared for battle, wondering what he was thinking about. He seemed excited and confident, but Beast had been around his master long enough to know when he was putting on a brave front. He was worried.
He remembered the conversation Marten had the day before with the kennel master. The older man had taken Marten aside into a side of trees, but Beast could still hear their conversation.
“You have to be prepared for this, lad,” the kennel master had said. “You have to be ready to lose him if you take him into battle. Darkspawn blood is poisonous, and the second he bites one of those beasties, he’ll be gulping it down.”
Marten had gotten angry and moved close to the kennel-master, looking as though he might grab the man by the front of his shirt.
“There has to be something you can do! If it’s a matter of paying for some damn potion, it’ll come out of my own pocket! I don’t care!”
The kennel master backed a step away, holding his hands out in a conciliatory gesture. “There’s a poultice I’ve been reading about that could protect your mabari from the darkspawn corruption, but I don’t have the right ingredients. It requires a flower from the Wilds, for one thing …”
“Then I will go into the Wilds to retrieve this flower!"
“I’m sorry, lad,” the man replied. “But no one except the Grey Wardens are allowed into the Korcari Wilds without a battalion behind him. And even then …”
The two argued back and forth for a time before Marten stormed away, cursing. He kicked off a stand of halberds leaning against a pillar as he went, drawing the stares of his comrades across the camp.
Beast wished he could ease Marten’s anxiousness. He shouldn’t have been worried. Beast was not afraid to die. He would gladly sell his life if it meant saving Marten.
leather armor, Marten procured a tin filled with a black substance and knelt down beside Beast, gesturing at him to come closer. He rubbed his two fingers on the surface and began to dab the kaddis on Beast’s fur, leaving long dark stripes along his body.
“We’ll show those monsters a thing or two, eh boy?” Marten said, rubbing Beast’s neck. The mabari barked approvingly.
A long silence passed between them, broken only by the noise of their fellow soliders preparing for battle.
“So, I heard there’s more than darkspawn in these woods,” Marten said. “The night we arrived at Ostagar, I listened in on a conversation between a few soliders who were talking about something called ‘the Witch of the Wilds.”
Beast whined disapprovingly.
“Shut it, you. Anyway, there used to be a witch named Flemeth in these parts who had dozens of beautiful daughters. It’s said that these witches could entrance a man with a single look, and they would select the strongest of their victims to haul off in the woods to ravish them. I don’t suppose we’d be lucky enough to wander into one of those witches, do you think?”
Beast began bobbing his head up and down, pretending to retch. Marten frowned as he dabbed the kaddis on Fang’s haunches.
“Bah! You never like any of my girlfriends! Remember how you scared Sarah with all your growling Or how you tried to bite Eliza?”
The name invoked another growl from the mabari, and Marten threw up his hands in exasperation.
“See? Case in point! Now, Eliza and me, we had something special! So what if she was a pickpocket? She just needed some cash to pay off a debt, that’s all. You never gave her a chance!”
Beast growled at the mention of her name, drawing a sour look from Marten.
“Oh, stop lecturing me. I never comment on your taste in women, now do I? You’re worse than father.”
Marten finished applying the kaddis and stood up, looking off in the distance. Beast turned around and gazed up at his master, waiting patiently.
Trumpets began to blast somewhere in the camp. The darkspawn horde was soon upon them.
“ Come on, boy,” Marten said, gesturing to a nearby group of soliders. “We’d better report for duty.”
Modifié par Face of Evil, 01 janvier 2011 - 07:31 .
#5
Posté 01 janvier 2011 - 06:40
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As they marched through the Korcari Wilds, Beast silently dreaded what was coming.
It wasn’t the darkspawn he feared. Unlike the callow soliders around him, he never grew up on stories of darkspawn boogeymen that lurked in the shadows and carried off children to the Deep Roads.
No, what turned Beast’s heart to ice was the prospect of the bath Marten would have to give him later. There was mud everywhere in the Korcari Wilds, and already he was covered in it. The muck squished under his paths and oozed between his toes with every step, and he was dreading the rather thorough cleaning that Marten would need to give him later just to get all of the filth off of him.
Provided he was still alive later on, of course. But maybe death would be preferable to a bath.
The sun was now hanging low in the sky, though it seemed that even the sun’s warmth could not penetrate the dank cold that hung over the Korcari Wilds. In the distance, banks of fog shrouded the edges of the forest, making it impossible to see for more than a few hundred yards.
Beast did not know exactly where they were marching, but only that they were setting out to face a horde of darkspawn were somewhere in these Wilds. The main bulk of the army were elsewhere, hoping to draw the horde into a confrontation on a narrow spit of land ringed by marshes; Marten’s group was entrusted with circling around it and cutting off their escape.
Beast could not tell how many soliders there were with them, but there were enough for the thunder of their footsteps to ring in his ears. None of the other troops had mabari with them; these were all common men, unlike Marten.
Not for the first time, Beast thought back on his master’s holdings in the highlands, located hundreds of miles away from Ostagar. He wondered if he would ever see them again; even if he survived Ostagar, there was no telling if Marten could ever reconcile with his father. Not after what passed between them.
The thought saddened him. If only his father understood. Marten was no glory-seeker. He was there because there was a need, because of the danger the darkspawn posed. He may have been irresponsible at times, but Marten was not the type to stand idly by while evil threatened the land …
Suddenly, there was a blast of horn in the distance. An officer raised his hand, and their group came to an immediate halt.
Again, the horn sounded. An inhuman cry echoed throughout the marsh.
Beast could feel Marten tensing around him. He growled nervously as Marten pulled out his twin handaxes and dropped into a half-crouching stance.
A wind came blowing out of the opposite direction, bringing with it the smell of something unbelievably foul. The darkspawn were near.
All around them, soliders drew their swords and unslung bows. The officer at the front began barking out orders, shouting for the men to ready themselves.
Nothing came, at first. Seconds turned to minutes, and at one point Beast wondered if anything was coming at all.
Finally, a figure appeared in the fog ahead of them.
He was tall, covered in thick armor from head to toe. The warrior was incredibly tall, but not bulky, and its armour looked heavy on its narrow frame. It raised a two-handed greatsword above its head, let out a guttaral cry as it defiantly shook the blade.
For a moment, Beast wondered why they should be fearful of a single darkspawn. Then more appeared beside him, slowly creeping out of the fog.
“Andraste’s blood,” Marten whispered as the creatures came into full view.
The darkspawn reminded Beast of rotted corpses, all covered in and brown withered skin. There were dozens of them, all clad makeshift armour and swinging crude weapons in the air while howling in fury. Their mouths were like wounds, black and lined with needle-like teeth. And the smell …
Beast looked up at Marten again. He could see that Marten was afraid, but he could also see that he had no intention of running. Beast’s heart swelled with pride and he bared his teeth at the oncoming horde.
The soliders held their ground as dozens of darkspawn streamed out of the fog, charging their lines. The sharp singing of arrows filled the air, and dozens of their opponents fell as they ran across the field.
Finally, the lines clashed, and steel rang on steel. Beast stayed close to Marten, fighting in tandem with his master; as the darkspawn approached them, he snapped at their arms and legs, allowing Marten to bring an axe across the creature’s throat.
Darkspawn blood filled his mouth, an unspeakable foulness that was even worse than rotten meat set to spoil in the sun. He tried not to swallow it but it was too late; drops of corrupted blood burned the lining of his throat as they slid down to his stomach.
Marten brought down darkspawn after enough, cutting a swath in their ranks. Some of these creatures were tall, others were short enough that Beast met them at eye level. And there were others that had heads like jackals and let out piercing shrieks.
They fought them all, but none of them could slow down Marten. He lopped off darkspawn heads with blow after blow, leaving a trail of bodies in his wake. He grinned as he slew them, letting himself go in the excitement of the battle.
As Marten dispatched a genlock, Beast spotted another odd creature: another hurlock, but this was one was carrying a blackened stick and adorned his head with a head-dress of feathers. He appeared to carry no weapons except the staff.
Beast let out a warning back to Marten, who halted in his bloody work to turn for a moment. When he spotted the hurlock, his eyes went wide.
“Maker help us!” he shouted at Beast. “An emissary!”
Beast looked back at him, worried. He did not know what an emissary was, but the fear in Marten’s voice told Beast all he needed to know.
A hurlock engaged Marten, keeping him from attacking the emissary. Beast left his master’s side, hurrying towards the darkspawn as it waved its crooked staff in the air.
Beast bounded forward, leaping over the bodies of the fallen. He heard Marten shout at him to stop, but there was no time.
As he neared the emissary, a flaming orb emerged from the tip of its staff, burning bright like the sun. It flew over Beast’s head and passed him, hurtling through the air even as Beast bore the emissary down and tore into it.
The orb lazily crashed into the earth somewhere behind Beast and exploded outward, sending out a massive shockwave that tossed solider and darkspawn alike through the air like ragdolls.
Even as he landed a mortal wound on the emissary, Beast could feel the impact of that fireball and the heat. He felt the magical flames engulfing his body, sending him spinning head over heels.
When he came down, he landed with a wet thud on the marsh ground. He bounced a few times, then skidded to a halt.
Pain wracked his entire body, waves of agony that were too much for his conscious mind to bear. Mercifully, darkness enveloped him.
It wasn’t the darkspawn he feared. Unlike the callow soliders around him, he never grew up on stories of darkspawn boogeymen that lurked in the shadows and carried off children to the Deep Roads.
No, what turned Beast’s heart to ice was the prospect of the bath Marten would have to give him later. There was mud everywhere in the Korcari Wilds, and already he was covered in it. The muck squished under his paths and oozed between his toes with every step, and he was dreading the rather thorough cleaning that Marten would need to give him later just to get all of the filth off of him.
Provided he was still alive later on, of course. But maybe death would be preferable to a bath.
The sun was now hanging low in the sky, though it seemed that even the sun’s warmth could not penetrate the dank cold that hung over the Korcari Wilds. In the distance, banks of fog shrouded the edges of the forest, making it impossible to see for more than a few hundred yards.
Beast did not know exactly where they were marching, but only that they were setting out to face a horde of darkspawn were somewhere in these Wilds. The main bulk of the army were elsewhere, hoping to draw the horde into a confrontation on a narrow spit of land ringed by marshes; Marten’s group was entrusted with circling around it and cutting off their escape.
Beast could not tell how many soliders there were with them, but there were enough for the thunder of their footsteps to ring in his ears. None of the other troops had mabari with them; these were all common men, unlike Marten.
Not for the first time, Beast thought back on his master’s holdings in the highlands, located hundreds of miles away from Ostagar. He wondered if he would ever see them again; even if he survived Ostagar, there was no telling if Marten could ever reconcile with his father. Not after what passed between them.
The thought saddened him. If only his father understood. Marten was no glory-seeker. He was there because there was a need, because of the danger the darkspawn posed. He may have been irresponsible at times, but Marten was not the type to stand idly by while evil threatened the land …
Suddenly, there was a blast of horn in the distance. An officer raised his hand, and their group came to an immediate halt.
Again, the horn sounded. An inhuman cry echoed throughout the marsh.
Beast could feel Marten tensing around him. He growled nervously as Marten pulled out his twin handaxes and dropped into a half-crouching stance.
A wind came blowing out of the opposite direction, bringing with it the smell of something unbelievably foul. The darkspawn were near.
All around them, soliders drew their swords and unslung bows. The officer at the front began barking out orders, shouting for the men to ready themselves.
Nothing came, at first. Seconds turned to minutes, and at one point Beast wondered if anything was coming at all.
Finally, a figure appeared in the fog ahead of them.
He was tall, covered in thick armor from head to toe. The warrior was incredibly tall, but not bulky, and its armour looked heavy on its narrow frame. It raised a two-handed greatsword above its head, let out a guttaral cry as it defiantly shook the blade.
For a moment, Beast wondered why they should be fearful of a single darkspawn. Then more appeared beside him, slowly creeping out of the fog.
“Andraste’s blood,” Marten whispered as the creatures came into full view.
The darkspawn reminded Beast of rotted corpses, all covered in and brown withered skin. There were dozens of them, all clad makeshift armour and swinging crude weapons in the air while howling in fury. Their mouths were like wounds, black and lined with needle-like teeth. And the smell …
Beast looked up at Marten again. He could see that Marten was afraid, but he could also see that he had no intention of running. Beast’s heart swelled with pride and he bared his teeth at the oncoming horde.
The soliders held their ground as dozens of darkspawn streamed out of the fog, charging their lines. The sharp singing of arrows filled the air, and dozens of their opponents fell as they ran across the field.
Finally, the lines clashed, and steel rang on steel. Beast stayed close to Marten, fighting in tandem with his master; as the darkspawn approached them, he snapped at their arms and legs, allowing Marten to bring an axe across the creature’s throat.
Darkspawn blood filled his mouth, an unspeakable foulness that was even worse than rotten meat set to spoil in the sun. He tried not to swallow it but it was too late; drops of corrupted blood burned the lining of his throat as they slid down to his stomach.
Marten brought down darkspawn after enough, cutting a swath in their ranks. Some of these creatures were tall, others were short enough that Beast met them at eye level. And there were others that had heads like jackals and let out piercing shrieks.
They fought them all, but none of them could slow down Marten. He lopped off darkspawn heads with blow after blow, leaving a trail of bodies in his wake. He grinned as he slew them, letting himself go in the excitement of the battle.
As Marten dispatched a genlock, Beast spotted another odd creature: another hurlock, but this was one was carrying a blackened stick and adorned his head with a head-dress of feathers. He appeared to carry no weapons except the staff.
Beast let out a warning back to Marten, who halted in his bloody work to turn for a moment. When he spotted the hurlock, his eyes went wide.
“Maker help us!” he shouted at Beast. “An emissary!”
Beast looked back at him, worried. He did not know what an emissary was, but the fear in Marten’s voice told Beast all he needed to know.
A hurlock engaged Marten, keeping him from attacking the emissary. Beast left his master’s side, hurrying towards the darkspawn as it waved its crooked staff in the air.
Beast bounded forward, leaping over the bodies of the fallen. He heard Marten shout at him to stop, but there was no time.
As he neared the emissary, a flaming orb emerged from the tip of its staff, burning bright like the sun. It flew over Beast’s head and passed him, hurtling through the air even as Beast bore the emissary down and tore into it.
The orb lazily crashed into the earth somewhere behind Beast and exploded outward, sending out a massive shockwave that tossed solider and darkspawn alike through the air like ragdolls.
Even as he landed a mortal wound on the emissary, Beast could feel the impact of that fireball and the heat. He felt the magical flames engulfing his body, sending him spinning head over heels.
When he came down, he landed with a wet thud on the marsh ground. He bounced a few times, then skidded to a halt.
Pain wracked his entire body, waves of agony that were too much for his conscious mind to bear. Mercifully, darkness enveloped him.
Modifié par Face of Evil, 01 janvier 2011 - 06:44 .
#6
Posté 01 janvier 2011 - 06:43
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Somewhere nearby, someone was screaming.
It was muffled, as if Beast were lying at the bottom of the lake. The sound of it was only barely penetrating the depths of the water, but still it went on, tugging at the edges of his consciousness. Finally, Beast became aware of dim light piercing his eyelids, trying to force them open.
He suddenly became aware of the pain of his wounds, and the sensation brought him out of the depths of his unconsciousness.
His eyes fluttered open. The stench of blood and death was thick in the air; as far as he could tell, he was lying in a patch of grass ringed by corpses, both human and darkspawn.
Beast’s flesh felt raw, as though he’d been stuck through with a sharp stick and set to roast over an open flame. The screaming that once seemed so far away had now become deafening, and Beast looked over to see a solider lying a few feet away clutching at the left side of his face, now a sickly red mass of burn tissue.
Beast’s body was covered in similar wounds, and his gut was full of the darkspawn corruption. He would have been happy to die then and there, but for a nagging thought that began clawing at the back of his mind.
Marten. Where is Marten …?
Suddenly, a genlock’s boot stomped in front of him, splashing drops of mud up on his face. Beast’s gaze flickered up to the genlock standing above him, his back to the mabari. He watched as the monster shoved a black scimitar into the throat of the wounded solider, silencing his cries.
The solider choked as blood bubbled out of his mouth and the gaping hole in his neck. He began to shake, then quickly grew still.
Anger at the solider’s death gave Beast the strength he needed to rise. In an instant, Beast was up and lunging at the darkspawn. His jaws clamped on the hurlock’s ankle and he pulled with all his strength.
The genlock was thrown off its feet, and as it lied there helplessly, Beast lunged at its neck and bit deeply. The thing gurgled horribly as Beast tore away a chunk of flesh and muscle, clutching at its wound.
Darkspawn blood rushed into Beast’s mouth and down his throat, and he quickly spat out the remains of the genlock’s throat. He felt as if he would be sick, but forced himself not to vomit. He had more pressing matters to attend to.
Beast looked around him. The sun had not moved far in the sky, so he knew that he had not been unconscious for long. There were corpses all around him, dead soliders and darkspawn with their limbs intertwined. It was impossible to know how the battle went, as there were no other survivors in sight.
Somewhere in the distance, he thought he heard the sounds of steel ringing on steel. He guessed that the main battle was over, but there were still skirmishes going on throughout the Korcari Wilds. The genlock he had slain was likely a straggler from the main horde.
The one thing he was looking for, however, was not in sight. Marten was nowhere near.
A panic began to rise within Beast as he scanned the battlefield. How far could Marten have gotten? They’d only breaking away from each other for a moment.
He began sniffing the ground, frantically searching for any trace of Marten’s scent. The stench of death filled his nostrils, but amidst the overpowering smells of the battlefield, he found a faint trace of his master, like a threat winding through the swamp.
As he ran across a landscape, he saw shapes moving through the thick fog in the distance. Were these darkspawn? Or something else? He could only guess, but none of those indistinct forms leapt out at him or impeded his search.
The scent grew stronger as Beast raced through the marsh. As he ran, his heart began to pound with fear. How did Marten get so far away from the battlefield? How did he lose track of him? How could he fail so completely?
These thoughts tore at him, shredding his resolve. If he didn’t find Marten soon, he felt like his heart might burst with worry.
At last, the trail ended at a clearing ringed by banks of mist. He broke through the fog with a leap, as though he were smashing through a solid glass window …
And at last, he found his master.
Marten was lying on the ground in the centre of the clearing, amidst a puddle of water that had turned crimson. His face and his hands were caked in blood, and he was writhing in pain.
His hands were frantically clawing at a greatsword jutting out from his torso.
Above him stood the tall darkspawn in heavy armour and a full helmet, along with a pair of fellow hurlocks flanking it. The creature was laughing in sadistic glee as it gripped the hilt of the sword in both hands, pushing down with all its strength in an effort to push the blade completely through Marten’s body. Though Fang couldn’t see its face, the joy in its mad eyes was unmistakable.
At Beast’s entrance, the emissary glanced in his direction, then motioned to its fellows. They advanced on Beast, chortling madly.
He froze. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t move All he could do was watch Marten die
Beast watched as the hurlocks marched toward him He watched the alpha grip the sword in Marten’s guts and twist it violently He watched as Marten’s mouth split open in a scream of pain that lasted seconds then minutes then hours then days then months then years then all of eternity until finally
Beast’s mind
broke
in
two
It was muffled, as if Beast were lying at the bottom of the lake. The sound of it was only barely penetrating the depths of the water, but still it went on, tugging at the edges of his consciousness. Finally, Beast became aware of dim light piercing his eyelids, trying to force them open.
He suddenly became aware of the pain of his wounds, and the sensation brought him out of the depths of his unconsciousness.
His eyes fluttered open. The stench of blood and death was thick in the air; as far as he could tell, he was lying in a patch of grass ringed by corpses, both human and darkspawn.
Beast’s flesh felt raw, as though he’d been stuck through with a sharp stick and set to roast over an open flame. The screaming that once seemed so far away had now become deafening, and Beast looked over to see a solider lying a few feet away clutching at the left side of his face, now a sickly red mass of burn tissue.
Beast’s body was covered in similar wounds, and his gut was full of the darkspawn corruption. He would have been happy to die then and there, but for a nagging thought that began clawing at the back of his mind.
Marten. Where is Marten …?
Suddenly, a genlock’s boot stomped in front of him, splashing drops of mud up on his face. Beast’s gaze flickered up to the genlock standing above him, his back to the mabari. He watched as the monster shoved a black scimitar into the throat of the wounded solider, silencing his cries.
The solider choked as blood bubbled out of his mouth and the gaping hole in his neck. He began to shake, then quickly grew still.
Anger at the solider’s death gave Beast the strength he needed to rise. In an instant, Beast was up and lunging at the darkspawn. His jaws clamped on the hurlock’s ankle and he pulled with all his strength.
The genlock was thrown off its feet, and as it lied there helplessly, Beast lunged at its neck and bit deeply. The thing gurgled horribly as Beast tore away a chunk of flesh and muscle, clutching at its wound.
Darkspawn blood rushed into Beast’s mouth and down his throat, and he quickly spat out the remains of the genlock’s throat. He felt as if he would be sick, but forced himself not to vomit. He had more pressing matters to attend to.
Beast looked around him. The sun had not moved far in the sky, so he knew that he had not been unconscious for long. There were corpses all around him, dead soliders and darkspawn with their limbs intertwined. It was impossible to know how the battle went, as there were no other survivors in sight.
Somewhere in the distance, he thought he heard the sounds of steel ringing on steel. He guessed that the main battle was over, but there were still skirmishes going on throughout the Korcari Wilds. The genlock he had slain was likely a straggler from the main horde.
The one thing he was looking for, however, was not in sight. Marten was nowhere near.
A panic began to rise within Beast as he scanned the battlefield. How far could Marten have gotten? They’d only breaking away from each other for a moment.
He began sniffing the ground, frantically searching for any trace of Marten’s scent. The stench of death filled his nostrils, but amidst the overpowering smells of the battlefield, he found a faint trace of his master, like a threat winding through the swamp.
As he ran across a landscape, he saw shapes moving through the thick fog in the distance. Were these darkspawn? Or something else? He could only guess, but none of those indistinct forms leapt out at him or impeded his search.
The scent grew stronger as Beast raced through the marsh. As he ran, his heart began to pound with fear. How did Marten get so far away from the battlefield? How did he lose track of him? How could he fail so completely?
These thoughts tore at him, shredding his resolve. If he didn’t find Marten soon, he felt like his heart might burst with worry.
At last, the trail ended at a clearing ringed by banks of mist. He broke through the fog with a leap, as though he were smashing through a solid glass window …
And at last, he found his master.
Marten was lying on the ground in the centre of the clearing, amidst a puddle of water that had turned crimson. His face and his hands were caked in blood, and he was writhing in pain.
His hands were frantically clawing at a greatsword jutting out from his torso.
Above him stood the tall darkspawn in heavy armour and a full helmet, along with a pair of fellow hurlocks flanking it. The creature was laughing in sadistic glee as it gripped the hilt of the sword in both hands, pushing down with all its strength in an effort to push the blade completely through Marten’s body. Though Fang couldn’t see its face, the joy in its mad eyes was unmistakable.
At Beast’s entrance, the emissary glanced in his direction, then motioned to its fellows. They advanced on Beast, chortling madly.
He froze. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t move All he could do was watch Marten die
Beast watched as the hurlocks marched toward him He watched the alpha grip the sword in Marten’s guts and twist it violently He watched as Marten’s mouth split open in a scream of pain that lasted seconds then minutes then hours then days then months then years then all of eternity until finally
Beast’s mind
broke
in
two
Modifié par Face of Evil, 01 janvier 2011 - 06:48 .
#7
Posté 01 janvier 2011 - 06:49
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It is hard to say what happened next.
Centuries ago, the mabari were bred by a mage who sought to protect his homeland from a scourge of werewolves. The first mabari were wild creatures, barely easier to control than the werewolves they were created to fight. Time has not completely dulled those bestial instincts.
As Beast’s rational mind reeled from the sight of Marten’s murder, those instincts came boiling to the surface, filling Beast with rage. He knew only one overwhelming need: bloody, violent revenge.
As the darkspawn advanced, he let out one thunderous bark, a single warning. Then he lowered his head and opened his mouth to let out a slathering, ferocious growl.
The darkspawn stopped in their tracks and glanced at each other, and then back at the alpha. Both hurlocks stared blankly at the dog, as though they were uncertain what was happening.
In the background, the alpha angrily shook its fist, urging them forward. But its thralls were no longer certain of their actions. One hurlock took a step backward, raising its shield.
No. No escape.
Beast slammed into the hurlock, using his bulk to simply knock it over. As it thrashed in the mud, desperately trying to bring its shield up, he sank his fangs deep into its flesh. More darkspawn blood rushed down his throat, but he ignored it.
The other darkspawn moved forward and landed a glancing blow with its axe across Beast’s flanks. Anguished, he turned on it and sank his fangs into its wrist, forcing it to drop the weapon and sink to its knees. He then ended its life with another snap of his jaws.
The alpha watched the death of its fellows and stepped away from Marten, who continued to claw at the blade.
The darkspawn reached back for a shortsword at its waist as it backed away from Marten. Fang advanced on the creature, his mouth now dripping with saliva.
Come on. Come on then.
Beast ran at the alpha and leapt up on its chest, bearing the darkspawn down. It tried to bring up its shortsword to impale Beast mid-air, but the mabari sent the alpha flying with the force of his impact.
When they landed, the alpha’s helmet went skidding away, knocked off its head by the force of the impact. The alpha’s eyes were milky white and its mouth was a jagged scar filled with needle-like teeth.
He tore at it, gouging away corrupted flesh from its cheeks, its neck and its chest. It fought with Beast, trying to throw him off or at least bring up the sword.
The alpha fought like an animal, but Beast was stronger. Finally, its struggles slowed and then ceased, but still he continued to tear at it. When he at last ripped away enough muscle and flesh to reveal white bone, still he attacked.
Little was left when he finally stopped, surrounded in a wide circle of red gore. He was soaked thoroughly in the darkspawn’s blood, and his stomach was full of corruption. Beast was shaking all over and felt as though he might collapse right there. How easy it would be to lie down, just drift away into sleep …
A moan from nearby shocked him back to reality. His paws squishing in the red, wet earth, he turned around and staggered over to Marten.
Marten was still trying to drag the greatsword from his body with trembling, blood-slicked hands. He was crying, and the edges of the blade were cutting into his palms. Beast could see that he no longer had the strength to remove the weapon. But still he tried.
Beast sat on his haunches and licked Marten’s cheek, cleaning away the tears streaking his flesh.
“I can’t … I can’t get this thing out of me,” he said. “It’s all … the way through me, and I can’t … I can’t …”
Finally, he let go of the greatsword with a cry of anguish, letting his arms flop to his sides.
Beast nudged Marten's arm with his paw, urging him not to give up.
“No,” he answered, weakly. “No, I can’t, boy. I don’t … have the strength anymore.”
Marten crinkled his eyes as new tears rushing forth. “Maker’s breath, it hurts so bad, Beast. I can’t stand it.”
Beast whimpered again anxiously. He didn’t know what to do. There was no one in sight, no one that could come in time to tend to Marten’s wounds. He wished there was some way to ease Marten’s suffering, or even to take his place.
But there was nothing he could do. He would have done anything, paid any price to save Marten … but in the end, the universe had cruelly left him with only one option.
“Hey … Beast,” Marten said, breathlessly. “Don’t … don’t worry … just stay with me, all right? Just … stay.”
Tired beyond belief, Beast flopped to the ground, laying his head on Marten’s chest. Marten lifted a single trembling hand to stroke his dog’s neck and scratch behind his ears.
“You were … always my best friend, boy,” he said. “Always.”
No more words passed between them as they laid together. Beast closed his eyes and ignored the burning sensation that was creeping up from his stomach and through his entire body. He shut out the pain and the sounds of battle in the distance, focusing only on the sound of his master’s faltering heartbeat.
Marten’s hand finally fell away from Beast’s neck, his strength fading. He murmured apologies to his father, to his mother and to Beast himself.
And finally, his heart grew silent.
Sleep came swiftly, and when a group of Ash Warriors found Marten’s body several hours later, Beast was still with him.
Centuries ago, the mabari were bred by a mage who sought to protect his homeland from a scourge of werewolves. The first mabari were wild creatures, barely easier to control than the werewolves they were created to fight. Time has not completely dulled those bestial instincts.
As Beast’s rational mind reeled from the sight of Marten’s murder, those instincts came boiling to the surface, filling Beast with rage. He knew only one overwhelming need: bloody, violent revenge.
As the darkspawn advanced, he let out one thunderous bark, a single warning. Then he lowered his head and opened his mouth to let out a slathering, ferocious growl.
The darkspawn stopped in their tracks and glanced at each other, and then back at the alpha. Both hurlocks stared blankly at the dog, as though they were uncertain what was happening.
In the background, the alpha angrily shook its fist, urging them forward. But its thralls were no longer certain of their actions. One hurlock took a step backward, raising its shield.
No. No escape.
Beast slammed into the hurlock, using his bulk to simply knock it over. As it thrashed in the mud, desperately trying to bring its shield up, he sank his fangs deep into its flesh. More darkspawn blood rushed down his throat, but he ignored it.
The other darkspawn moved forward and landed a glancing blow with its axe across Beast’s flanks. Anguished, he turned on it and sank his fangs into its wrist, forcing it to drop the weapon and sink to its knees. He then ended its life with another snap of his jaws.
The alpha watched the death of its fellows and stepped away from Marten, who continued to claw at the blade.
The darkspawn reached back for a shortsword at its waist as it backed away from Marten. Fang advanced on the creature, his mouth now dripping with saliva.
Come on. Come on then.
Beast ran at the alpha and leapt up on its chest, bearing the darkspawn down. It tried to bring up its shortsword to impale Beast mid-air, but the mabari sent the alpha flying with the force of his impact.
When they landed, the alpha’s helmet went skidding away, knocked off its head by the force of the impact. The alpha’s eyes were milky white and its mouth was a jagged scar filled with needle-like teeth.
He tore at it, gouging away corrupted flesh from its cheeks, its neck and its chest. It fought with Beast, trying to throw him off or at least bring up the sword.
The alpha fought like an animal, but Beast was stronger. Finally, its struggles slowed and then ceased, but still he continued to tear at it. When he at last ripped away enough muscle and flesh to reveal white bone, still he attacked.
Little was left when he finally stopped, surrounded in a wide circle of red gore. He was soaked thoroughly in the darkspawn’s blood, and his stomach was full of corruption. Beast was shaking all over and felt as though he might collapse right there. How easy it would be to lie down, just drift away into sleep …
A moan from nearby shocked him back to reality. His paws squishing in the red, wet earth, he turned around and staggered over to Marten.
Marten was still trying to drag the greatsword from his body with trembling, blood-slicked hands. He was crying, and the edges of the blade were cutting into his palms. Beast could see that he no longer had the strength to remove the weapon. But still he tried.
Beast sat on his haunches and licked Marten’s cheek, cleaning away the tears streaking his flesh.
“I can’t … I can’t get this thing out of me,” he said. “It’s all … the way through me, and I can’t … I can’t …”
Finally, he let go of the greatsword with a cry of anguish, letting his arms flop to his sides.
Beast nudged Marten's arm with his paw, urging him not to give up.
“No,” he answered, weakly. “No, I can’t, boy. I don’t … have the strength anymore.”
Marten crinkled his eyes as new tears rushing forth. “Maker’s breath, it hurts so bad, Beast. I can’t stand it.”
Beast whimpered again anxiously. He didn’t know what to do. There was no one in sight, no one that could come in time to tend to Marten’s wounds. He wished there was some way to ease Marten’s suffering, or even to take his place.
But there was nothing he could do. He would have done anything, paid any price to save Marten … but in the end, the universe had cruelly left him with only one option.
“Hey … Beast,” Marten said, breathlessly. “Don’t … don’t worry … just stay with me, all right? Just … stay.”
Tired beyond belief, Beast flopped to the ground, laying his head on Marten’s chest. Marten lifted a single trembling hand to stroke his dog’s neck and scratch behind his ears.
“You were … always my best friend, boy,” he said. “Always.”
No more words passed between them as they laid together. Beast closed his eyes and ignored the burning sensation that was creeping up from his stomach and through his entire body. He shut out the pain and the sounds of battle in the distance, focusing only on the sound of his master’s faltering heartbeat.
Marten’s hand finally fell away from Beast’s neck, his strength fading. He murmured apologies to his father, to his mother and to Beast himself.
And finally, his heart grew silent.
Sleep came swiftly, and when a group of Ash Warriors found Marten’s body several hours later, Beast was still with him.
Modifié par Face of Evil, 01 janvier 2011 - 07:11 .
#8
Posté 01 janvier 2011 - 06:49
Face of Evil
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The elf struck the hurlock so hard that it was sent spinning around before flopping to the ground like a marionette cut loose from its strings. The darkspawn’s blood was splattered all over the elf’s armor and face, but he seemed to pay it no mind. Instead, he quietly sheathed his sword and dagger before regarding the mabari with a curious look.
Beast was only a few feet away, ringed by the corpses of darkspawn. His fur was matted with blood and the foul taste of the darkspawn was thick in his mouth, but that no longer sickened him as it once did. He had successfully overcome the taint, and while it might still kill him one day, he was now partially immune to its effects.
All thanks to this elf. All thanks to this Grey Warden.
Beast had been in the wilderness for days now, desperately searching. He was still sick with the taint when the darkspawn came swarming into the king’s camp, slaughtering everyone they found there: priests, servants, healers and even the poor kennel master, who died trying to protect his hounds.
When a genlock opened the door to his pen, Beast tore out its throat. Still weak, he leapt out of the pen, ignoring the dying howls of pain from his fellow mabari as the darkspawn butchered them.
Though he was in desperate need of more rest, one thought drove him as he fled from the camp: find him. Find the one who saved you. Find the Warden.
It took days for his strength to return, and then even more time to catch a whiff of the elf’s saviour’s scent. Beast only arrived in time to warn the Warden and his companions of an impending darkspawn attack, and together, they had quickly dispatched the raiders.
And so here they were, facing each other, each regarding the other as though seeing each other for the first time.
“I think this is the mabari I helped cure at Ostagar,” the Warden said, breaking the silence.
“I think he was out there looking for you,” said the Warden’s companion, a blonde-haired human clad in splintmail.
“He’s … chosen you,” the man said slowly, as though choosing his words carefully. “Mabari are like that. They call it imprinting.”
Not far behind the warrior, a raven-haired mage whose stitched-together robes barely covered her supple body sighed with a profound weariness and rolled her golden eyes.
“Does this mean we’re going to have this mangy beast following us about now? Wonderful.”
“He’s not mangy,” the man cooed.
The elf smiled. “I’ve always wanted a dog like this. Perhaps it was meant to be.”
Beast barked happily at the comment, his tail wagging. The elf walked over to him and knelt down so they were at eye level.
“I guess we were never formally introduced,” he said, rubbing the dog’s neck. “My name is Darian. But what should we call you? Do you have a preference?”
Beast whimpered in response. There was no way, of course, to tell this elf his name … and he no longer wanted to be called that anymore. It reminded him too much of Marten … and his failure.
“I’ll take that as a no. Well, we’ll have to come up with a name, then.”
The witch waved her hands in excitement.
“Oh, I have the most wonderful idea! Might I suggest ‘Flea-Ridden Mongrel’? Something to do with ‘overpowering stench’ might also be appropriate.”
The warrior shot her a look. “What is wrong with you? Did you never have a pet growing up?”
The witch crossed her arms. “I once took care of a rabbit for a time before I skinned it to make a pair of gloves. Does that count?”
The warrior made a disgusted noise. “Right. Ignoring you now. Let’s see, we encountered him just before fighting a bunch of darkspawn … so how about we call him ‘Barkspawn’?”
The elf turned his head, arching one of his eyebrows. “You want me to name a dog ‘Barkspawn?’ That doesn’t strike you as a bit … silly?”
“Why not? Barkspawn’s a terrific name!”
“I agree,” the witch offered.
“Really?” the warrior said, surprised.
The witch scoffed. “No, not really. You’re an idiot.”
The comment immediately set the two to arguing and trading insults. The elf continued scratching behind Beast’s ears, his face close to the mabari’s own.
“When I was younger,” he said, “my mother once showed me a dagger she kept wrapped in cloth, hidden at the bottom of her dresser. She said the dagger had been passed down to her by her father, and his mother before that.”
“This dagger,” he continued, “was the most beautiful weapon I’d ever seen. She said it hailed from the days of Arlathan, and had been passed down in my family for generations. She called it ‘Fang,’ I think”
“She … died before she could pass it on to me,” he said, his voice suddenly tinged with sadness. “My father said he didn’t know where it was, though he looked for it. But I’ve never forgotten about it.”
He smiled now, warmly. “I think that would be a good name for you. What do you think, boy? Can I call you ‘Fang’?”
The hound considered for a moment, turning the name over and over in his mind. Finally, he barked in agreement.
The Warden’s smile widened even further, and he rubbed the hound’s neck.
Fang. The more he thought about it, the more he liked it. It was a new name to go with his new life, his new responsibilities and his new purpose in life.
Memories of Marten briefly surfaced, leaving Fang’s heart aching. But he pushed them aside.
It was not just about this new master saving his life, he thought. The elf was also a member of those warriors who fought the darkspawn, the ones who took Marten away from Beast. He was one of those sworn to stop the Blight, which had swallowed up Marten and so many others …
Beast was gone. He would just be Fang now, and help guard this new master against the monsters that claimed his old one. In doing so, he hoped to gain a measure of vengeance for all that had been taken from him, but more importantly, his atonement for letting Marten die.
This one I will not fail, he thought. This one I protect.
Beast was only a few feet away, ringed by the corpses of darkspawn. His fur was matted with blood and the foul taste of the darkspawn was thick in his mouth, but that no longer sickened him as it once did. He had successfully overcome the taint, and while it might still kill him one day, he was now partially immune to its effects.
All thanks to this elf. All thanks to this Grey Warden.
Beast had been in the wilderness for days now, desperately searching. He was still sick with the taint when the darkspawn came swarming into the king’s camp, slaughtering everyone they found there: priests, servants, healers and even the poor kennel master, who died trying to protect his hounds.
When a genlock opened the door to his pen, Beast tore out its throat. Still weak, he leapt out of the pen, ignoring the dying howls of pain from his fellow mabari as the darkspawn butchered them.
Though he was in desperate need of more rest, one thought drove him as he fled from the camp: find him. Find the one who saved you. Find the Warden.
It took days for his strength to return, and then even more time to catch a whiff of the elf’s saviour’s scent. Beast only arrived in time to warn the Warden and his companions of an impending darkspawn attack, and together, they had quickly dispatched the raiders.
And so here they were, facing each other, each regarding the other as though seeing each other for the first time.
“I think this is the mabari I helped cure at Ostagar,” the Warden said, breaking the silence.
“I think he was out there looking for you,” said the Warden’s companion, a blonde-haired human clad in splintmail.
“He’s … chosen you,” the man said slowly, as though choosing his words carefully. “Mabari are like that. They call it imprinting.”
Not far behind the warrior, a raven-haired mage whose stitched-together robes barely covered her supple body sighed with a profound weariness and rolled her golden eyes.
“Does this mean we’re going to have this mangy beast following us about now? Wonderful.”
“He’s not mangy,” the man cooed.
The elf smiled. “I’ve always wanted a dog like this. Perhaps it was meant to be.”
Beast barked happily at the comment, his tail wagging. The elf walked over to him and knelt down so they were at eye level.
“I guess we were never formally introduced,” he said, rubbing the dog’s neck. “My name is Darian. But what should we call you? Do you have a preference?”
Beast whimpered in response. There was no way, of course, to tell this elf his name … and he no longer wanted to be called that anymore. It reminded him too much of Marten … and his failure.
“I’ll take that as a no. Well, we’ll have to come up with a name, then.”
The witch waved her hands in excitement.
“Oh, I have the most wonderful idea! Might I suggest ‘Flea-Ridden Mongrel’? Something to do with ‘overpowering stench’ might also be appropriate.”
The warrior shot her a look. “What is wrong with you? Did you never have a pet growing up?”
The witch crossed her arms. “I once took care of a rabbit for a time before I skinned it to make a pair of gloves. Does that count?”
The warrior made a disgusted noise. “Right. Ignoring you now. Let’s see, we encountered him just before fighting a bunch of darkspawn … so how about we call him ‘Barkspawn’?”
The elf turned his head, arching one of his eyebrows. “You want me to name a dog ‘Barkspawn?’ That doesn’t strike you as a bit … silly?”
“Why not? Barkspawn’s a terrific name!”
“I agree,” the witch offered.
“Really?” the warrior said, surprised.
The witch scoffed. “No, not really. You’re an idiot.”
The comment immediately set the two to arguing and trading insults. The elf continued scratching behind Beast’s ears, his face close to the mabari’s own.
“When I was younger,” he said, “my mother once showed me a dagger she kept wrapped in cloth, hidden at the bottom of her dresser. She said the dagger had been passed down to her by her father, and his mother before that.”
“This dagger,” he continued, “was the most beautiful weapon I’d ever seen. She said it hailed from the days of Arlathan, and had been passed down in my family for generations. She called it ‘Fang,’ I think”
“She … died before she could pass it on to me,” he said, his voice suddenly tinged with sadness. “My father said he didn’t know where it was, though he looked for it. But I’ve never forgotten about it.”
He smiled now, warmly. “I think that would be a good name for you. What do you think, boy? Can I call you ‘Fang’?”
The hound considered for a moment, turning the name over and over in his mind. Finally, he barked in agreement.
The Warden’s smile widened even further, and he rubbed the hound’s neck.
Fang. The more he thought about it, the more he liked it. It was a new name to go with his new life, his new responsibilities and his new purpose in life.
Memories of Marten briefly surfaced, leaving Fang’s heart aching. But he pushed them aside.
It was not just about this new master saving his life, he thought. The elf was also a member of those warriors who fought the darkspawn, the ones who took Marten away from Beast. He was one of those sworn to stop the Blight, which had swallowed up Marten and so many others …
Beast was gone. He would just be Fang now, and help guard this new master against the monsters that claimed his old one. In doing so, he hoped to gain a measure of vengeance for all that had been taken from him, but more importantly, his atonement for letting Marten die.
This one I will not fail, he thought. This one I protect.
Modifié par Face of Evil, 01 janvier 2011 - 06:52 .
#11
Posté 03 janvier 2011 - 02:53
Shinobu
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Interesting story! It's sort of the 7th origin. I liked Marten's banter with Beast and was sorry to see him die. ;_; On the other hand I'm all for more Tabris-fic! Keep up the good work.
#12
Posté 04 janvier 2011 - 05:19
Face of Evil
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Thanks, Shinobu. I teared up a little myself writing it, as Marten was based on my first HN Warden. He had his faults, but he was basically a decent guy thrust into horrible circumstances. <br />
Modifié par Face of Evil, 03 juin 2012 - 06:55 .
