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[Face of Evil]

This is a short story I recently completed. This is my attempt at writing something that doesn't end with someone dying horribly in showers of blood and gore.

Mostly, it's an elaboration on something I felt was lacking in Awakening: how the Wardens who did not make the Ultimate Sacrifice struggled with their newfound fame. It borrows some ideas from the Witch Hunt DLC, even though it's set during the vague six months between the end of DA and Awakening.

It's partly a comedy and partly a Leliana/M! Tabris romantic story. The latter is there to provide a happy ending. I could have written something much more grim, but I wanted to keep this story light.

For some reason, if you would prefer reading this story on Deviantart, I posted it to my account there as well:

http://zombiehunter5...wards-195714058

Modifié par Face of Evil, 03 février 2011 - 06:32 .

[Face of Evil]

THE TOMMORROWS AND ALL ITS REWARDS

Adaia crouched down in front of Darian, grasping one of his arms in a steel-tight grip. She licked her thumb and rubbed it over the smudges of dirt dotting his face; in turn, the little boy squirmed uncomfortably and tried to wrest himself away. However, Adaia would not loosen her hold.

“Mooooother,” Darian whined plaintively.

“Hold still, Darian,” Adaia said, ignoring his pleas. “Honestly, child, I don’t know how you manage to get so dirty all the time.”

“Adaia, stop fussing over the boy,” Cyrion said, watching his wife as he set down the dishes for the evening meal. “He can wash up before bed. Come, it’s time for dinner.”

“No son of mine is sitting down to the supper table with a face half caked with mud,” Adaia replied.

Darian looked over to his father, imploring Cyrion with huge, round eyes to save him from his mother’s attentions. But Cyrion only shrugged his shoulders and tried to give his son the most sympathetic smile he could.

At last, Darian’s face was free of dirt, but his mother was not finished with her fussing; she tried several times to smooth his light blonde hair down to his scalp, but it kept sticking up in the front no matter how hard she tried.

“If I knew I’d have produced a child with hair as unruly as yours, my boy, I would have asked the Maker for a girl,” Adaia remarked with a sigh.

Darian’s gaze turned to the floor. “I’m sorry, momma,” the boy said sheepishly.

Adaia patted him on the cheek and smiled reassuringly. “Don’t be sorry, my sweet boy, you’ve done nothing wrong. It’s really your father’s fault. You get that hair from his side of the family.”

“And his handsome cheekbones,” Cyrion added. “Don’t forget that.”

“And your handsome cheekbones,” Adaia repeated, shooting her husband a mischievous look. “As if I could forget that.”

She then led him over to the table, where Cyrion waited patiently. After a quick prayer to the Maker, they began supper, a

“So, my boy,” Cyrion began, breaking a chunk of bread in half, “what did you get up to today? Did you slay any dragons while prowling through the back alleys.”

“No, but guess what, father? I ran into Soris this afternoon and he said he saw a mabari in the marketplace two days ago! A big brown one with huge fangs!” The little boy gnashed his teeth in imitation of a ferocious beast. “Do you think I could have a dog like that, father?”

Cyrion chuckled. “Well, probably not, son. Mabari are highly-valued in Ferelden, and you eat enough for a dozen hounds as is.”

“Awww,” the boy groaned, absently moving chunks of meat around his plate. He remained downcast for several minutes before his face brightened, as though an idea came to him.

“Father, can we have Soris over for dinner tomorrow?” he asked hopefully.

“That’s your mother’s decision to make,” Cyrion replied.

Darian shifted in his seat to face his mother, who was in the chair beside him. “Mother? Can Soris come over for dinner?’

“Perhaps,” Adaia answered carefully. “We’ll see how well you do at your sword strikes in the morning. If you show some improvement … then I may consider it.”

Cyrion frowned at the comment. “What’s this about using a sword? Adaia, you’re still training the boy to fight?”

Adaia turned to her husband and crossed her arms in a defiant gesture. “I’m teaching our son to defend himself, yes.”

Darian was about to say something, but quickly shut his mouth. He’d seen enough arguments to recognize the seeds of another one taking root before him. Instead, he fixed his eyes on his table, trying to draw as little attention as possible.

“Adaia,” Cyrion began, rubbing his forehead. “We’ve discussed this before. I believe this is a bad idea. We don’t need you putting foolish ideas in the boy’s head.”

“Cyrion, I love you, but I wish you would stop worrying what others will think,” she snapped.

“Adaia …”

“No,” she said, cutting him off. “I will not debate this with you. These lessons are important. You might only see our son becoming a servant or a merchant, but I know he can be so much more.”

“He is an elf,” Cyrion reminded her, as though that were all that needed to be said.

“He will be a great man,” Adaia stated. “You don’t believe it, Cyrion, but I can see it. One day, he will be great.”

Modifié par Face of Evil, 01 février 2011 - 07:18 .

[Face of Evil]

“Warden? Warden? Did you hear what I just said?”

Lounging in his chair and lost in his memories, Darian showed no sign of hearing Arl Eamon’s words. Even when Arl Eamon bent in front of him and snapped his fingers in front of the elf’s face, Darian did not respond, still lost in his thoughts.

“Warden?” Eamon repeated. “Warden? Can you hear me?”

When Darian remained silent, he slammed his fist on one of the arms of the chair in frustration. “WARDEN?!” he shouted.

Darian reacted by nearly jumping out of his chair, his hand grasping at his belt for a weapon that was not there. When at last he came to his senses, he looked up at the old Arl in a daze.

“I’m sorry, what did you say, Eamon? I wasn’t paying attention.”

“That much was evident,” Eamon grumbled, pinching his nose. “Warden, I realize it’s been a long day, but could you perhaps keep your mind on the task at hand? You don’t see Alistair day-dreaming, do you?”

As if on cue, a loud snore emanated from King Alistair, slumped over in his chair.

“Uh, Eamon, our king is … drooling,” Darian noted, pointing to Alistair’s chin. In turn, Eamon let out a profound sigh and began to rub his temples with both hands.

Darian, Eamon and King Alistair were seated in one of the private chambers off of the main hall in the royal palace. It was a small room but well-furnished; this was typically where the king would bring important messengers and dignitaries if he wished to discuss matters in private.

Eamon had brought both of them in there to discuss an important matter: the impending visit by the Orlesian ambassador, who was set to arrive two days hence.

Darian reached over and jostled Alistair. He stirred to wakefulness and suddenly sat upright, blinking rapidly.

“What? What? I’m paying attention!” Alistair mumbled. “What’s the matter? Are darkspawn attacking?”

“Not unless they’re hiding in Eamon’s beard,” Darian said.

Eamon let out another sigh. “Gentlemen, if we could keep our minds on the task at hand …”

Alistair looked at Eamon in confusion before it finally dawned on him that his old guardian had something to say.

“Yes, of course, Eamon! I was hearing every word you said! But as a favour to my fellow Grey Warden, could you give us a quick recap?”

Darian leaned over and whispered confidentially. “It’s about the Orlesian ambassador’s visit.”

“What? Oh right, the ambassador.” Alistair ran a hand through his hair, focusing his thoughts. “Yes, I remember.”

“I hope so, my liege,” Eamon said. “You know as well as I how important this is for Ferelden.”

“I remember, Eamon,” Alistair said, his voice turning serious. “Are all the arrangements made to welcome our visitor?”

“They are, your Majesty,” Eamon replied. “The only detail we need confirm is the appearance of the Hero of Ferelden himself.”

“I’ll be there, don’t you worry,” Darian piped up.

In one of his first edicts as the new King of Ferelden, Alistair had declared that the Arling of Amaranthine was to granted to the Grey Wardens There was just one problem: there were no Grey Wardens in Ferelden any more.

Alistair had effectively turned his back on the order when he became king. Darian was the only Grey Warden left in all of Ferelden, and after the Blight, he had chosen to stay in Denerim to be with his family and assist Alistair in the first few months of his rule.

And unfortunately, the darkspawn were not going to ground as quickly as expected; there were still large war parties of the creatures raging across the countryside. The Grey Wardens were needed as much as ever. With no one else available, Darian had indicated his willingness to take the mantle of Warden-Commander.

But even if Darian dedicated himself to finding new recruits, it would take some time to build up any kind of substantial numbers. Ferelden had lost many of its finest warriors and mages during the Blight and much of the nation was still recovering and re-building. There was only one solution: bring in a force of Grey Wardens from outside of Ferelden, Orlais being the ideal choice due to its close proximity.

That presented its own dilemma, of course, due to the actions of Loghain Mac Tir. Although he was now dead, Empress Celene was apparently still sore over the fact that her forces had been turned back at the border. If there was any hope of mending the wounds left by Loghain’s paranoia, they would first have to make a good impression on the Orlesian ambassador.

“Incidentally, Eamon, why did the Orlesian ambassador’s missive ask to meet the Hero of Ferelden, anyway?” Alistair asked. “It seems a bit … odd of a request.”

“It is indeed, Your Majesty,” Eamon said, nodding his head once in agreement. “I can only guess at her intentions. However, we are not in a position to deny her wishes.”

“That’s a bit of an understatement,” Alistair noted glumly, turning to Darian. “I just hope you’re ready to slather on some charm, Hero.”

“I won’t let you down, Alistair.”

“You haven’t yet,” he replied.

Eamon stroked his beard as he listened to the exchange. “Everything must go perfectly with this visit if we’re to have any hope of mending the truce with Orlais. The future of Ferelden may very well depend on it.”

“Of course, Eamon,” Darian said. “I will not fail.”

“Uh, Warden, will you be bringing along your … your significant other?” Eamon asked awkwardly, tripping over his words.

“Umm … no,” Darian said, shaking his head. “No, that would probably not be a good idea.”

Darian thought back to Leliana’s past of a bard and what she had told him of it during those long nights by the campfire. If Leliana’s story were even half-true — and to be honest, Darian had heard a couple different versions of it by now — bringing along a former spy to a diplomatic function might send the wrong message.

“You can say that again,” Alistair said, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands.

“Just remember to be here by noon tomorrow,” Eamon said. “It is imperative that you not be late.”

“Rampaging dragons couldn’t keep me away,” Darian said, with a smile.

[Face of Evil]

The young girl froze in her tracks, her eyes wide. Her jaw dropped open but no sound emerged, and she raised a trembling hand to point at the street ahead.

Another young girl ran up beside her. She clasped her friend’s shoulder and gave it a slight shake.

“What is it, Jaida?” she asked. “What do you see?’

The first girl, Jaida, did not answer, only continuing to stare dumbfounded at something in the distance. When she at last spoke, her voice was full of disbelief.

“Is that him, Mariella?” she asked “Is that really him?”

Her brow furrowing, Mariella put one hand above her eyes to block out the bright sun overhead. She traced the invisible line that began at the tip of her friend’s index finger, tracing it past merchant stalls and groups of passerby until it last ended at a blonde-haired elf in bright red chainmail, accompanied by a large brown mabari warhound.

Mariella’s hand suddenly tightened on Jaida’s shoulder.

“Oh Maker,” she whispered.

“IT’S HIM, ISN’T IT, MARIELLA?” Jaida’s voice, now a barely-contained shriek. “IT’S HIM! IT’S THE HERO OF FERELDEN!”

“MAKER, YOU’RE RIGHT!” Mariella screamed at a near-deafening pitch. They grabbed each other and let out a seemingly-unending squeal.

The squealing was so loud that it caught Darian’s attention. “Oh, dog’s balls,” he whispered to himself.

All around him, the girls’ shrieking were beginning to turn heads. Throughout the street, people were turning to stare either at the shrieking pair of adolescents or the cause of their excitement: Darian himself.

“Double dog’s balls,” he said with a sigh.

Beside him, the mabari hound’s ears flattened against his head and he shrank behind his master, cowering in fear.

Darian half-turned to shoot his hound a disapproving look. “Oh, don’t you even think of making a break for it, you big coward!” he hissed. “If this gets ugly, I’ll need you.”

Fang whimpered loudly, but retreated no further. He was determined to stand at his master’s side. Still, his head shot from side to side, eagerly looking for a pile of refuse to stick his head in.

Darian turned back and saw that the two girls had nearly closed the gap, running forward at breakneck speed with their arms extended. He put on his best dung-eating smile while silently dreading what was to come next.

Both girls parked themselves in front of them, bouncing up and down with excitement. He put out an arm defensively and they latched on to it, pressing their bodies against him.

“Oh Maker, I can’t believe it’s you!” the first girl said, breathlessly. “The Hero of Ferelden!”

“You’re so much more taller than we thought you would be!” the second girl chimed in.

“And handsomer!”

“And more muscular!”

“And … and ELFIER!”

“My name’s Mariella!” the first girl said, without missing a beat. “And this is my friend, Jaida!”

“Yes, it’s nice to meet you too, girls,” Darian responded, quickly calculating whether he could outrun two teenage girls in full armour. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an important meeting with King Alistair …”

Both girls’ eyes went even wider, something that Darian would not have guess was humanly possible.

“Oh Maker, you know King Alistair?!” Mariella said.

“He’s sooooooo handsome!” Jaida added. “I have a portrait of him in my room!”

“It’s true! She does! She even kisses it before she goes to bed every night!”

Jaida’s nostrils flared. “SHUT UP, MARIELLA!” she screeched at her friend, nearly bursting into tears. “You’re embarrassing me!”

The comment set the two bickering back and forth, and as they howled in adolescent fury, Darian noticed that a crowd was beginning to gather, no doubt as word of the Hero of Ferelden’s appearance spread like wildfire.

He stepped back to make a run for it when his path was blocked by a big burly man, who extended a thick, meaty paw toward Darian.

“Ser, I hail from Redcliffe,” he boomed, “and I just want to say what an honour it is to meet you. If it weren’t for you, ser, I’d have lost my sister and her little ones, bless their hearts. Thank you for what you did there.”

Darian took the man’s hand in his own, his gauntlet disappearing in the other’s beefy grip. “Well met, friend,” he said.

“Oh sir, the pleasure is all mine, ser,” the man replied, shaking his head in disbelief. “I never thought I’d say something like that to one of your kind, but there you go.”

“Uh … thanks.” Darian abruptly pulled his hand away just as another man tapped him on the shoulder.

“Excuse me, ser Hero,” asked a weaselly-looking fellow with greasy hair. “I was wanting to ask you … is it true that you had a hand in finding Andraste’s Ashes and used them to heal the Arl of Redcliffe?”

Darian nodded hesitantly. “Well, yes, but the Chantry hasn’t officially acknowledged that they are the real ashes of Andraste …”

The man sniffed loudly. “And is it true that the Ashes were jealously guarded by the spirit of Maferath himself, and you had to slay him with the sword of the prophetess herself?”

“What?” Darian looked at him in surprise. “Where did you hear that? That last part isn’t true.”

Another stepped forward, an old woman with scraggly grey hair and a toothless smile. He was hemmed in on all sides.

“Warden, what’s this I heard about you personally choosing the next ruler of the dwarves and defeating a thousand ogres at the gates of Orzammar?”

Darian looked at her quizzically as if her wits had departed her.

“Well … that’s half-right, ” he said. “You got the first part correct. Where are you people hear—”

“And is it true,” the woman questioned, cutting him off, “that you seduced the spirit of the Brecilian Forest in order to lift a werewolf curse that had been laid upon the Dalish elves?”

“No, that’s just wro—”

“Shut up, you daft old cow! ” a young man shouted from a few feet away. “The hero never seduced no spirit! What he did, see, was slaughter a hundred werewolves and then present their heads to the Dalish chieftain! That’s how he convinced her to join forces with the human armies in Denerim!”

“Where did y—”

“I heard he slew Flemeth herself and used her bones to fashion the sword that he killed the Archdemon with!”

“Nah, I heard that he used the sword of Dane himself that he found at the bottom of Lake Calenhad?”

“Warden! Is it true that you’ve had every woman in the Pearl over the course of a single night?”

“Do you think you could get me a lock of King Alistair’s hair? He’s just soooooo cute!”

Darian backed away as the crowd slowly pressed forward. Their babbling now drowned out all other noise; it was so loud Darian could barely think, let alone plan an escape route. If he didn’t get away soon, they’d have him pinned.

In desperation, he cried out to Fang. The hound charged forward and leapt in front of Darian, slipping through the mob of bodies gathered around the elf.

Instead of tearing bystanders to pieces, however, Fang lifted his head and let out a thunderous howl that forced the crowd to clutch their ears and freeze in place.

When the crowd regained their senses, they saw that the hero and his hound were gone. Jaida grasped her friend’s arm and pointed once again down the street to where Darian and his hound were running at breakneck speed.

“Dog’s balls,” Mariella swore.

[Ardinal]

I'm very fond of the City Elf origin. I like how you have taken the time to portray Aida through Darians memories. Also Darian being swamped by drooling women is amusing.Awesome work.

[HolyAvenger]

moar.

[Face of Evil]

Darian was able to cover the remaining distance to the palace without any further incident, thanks in no small part to the judicious use of stealth. Fang followed behind him, giving Darian a wide berth so as not to give his master away as he crept through the shadows cast by the mid-day sun.

As they neared the palace, Darian silently cursed his own short-sightedness for removing his helmet. No matter how hot it was that day, he had no excuse for allowing his journey to the palace to be hindered.

Most days, he could walk the streets of Denerim without trouble. Oh, he would be stopped by the occasional squealing admirer, but most people were too busy with the re-building efforts to bother harassing a local celebrity; even after three months, much of the city still lay devastated from the darkspawn attack. Still, he had been mobbed a few times, forcing him to beat a hasty exit.

It was a little jarring, to say the least. A year ago, most of these people wouldn’t have stopped to spit on him if he was on fire. Now, they were asking him to sign hand-drawn sketches of his likeness and endorse their shops. Such was the fickle nature of fame, he supposed.

He snuck around to the back entrance of the royal palace, a small wooden door that led to the kitchens, and found Shianni standing there, looking impatient. She put her hands on her hips as soon as she spotted him and gave him a stern, disapproving look.

“Cousin, where have you been? You were supposed to be at the palace a half-hour ago!

“Sorry,” he said wearily. “I had some trouble getting here. The next time I refuse an offer to be accompanied by a personal guard, smack me in the head.”

Shianni folded her arms across her chest. “Cousin, you know how important today is! King Alistair has been waiting for you!”

“I know, I know,” he said, chiding himself. “I should have been here earlier.”

“It’s not me you need to apologize to, cousin,” Shianni said. “Come on, we’d better get to the hall before Alistair sends out a search party.”

Darian turned to Fang and gestured at him to stay. “Just wait out here for me, OK boy? You never do well at these formal affairs anyway.”

Fang barked once to indicate he understood. He laid down to pant heavily in the sun.

As Shianni and Darian strode together through the hot kitchens, Darian noted that Shianni was wearing the elegant red and gold dress he’d bought for her a few weeks ago. At the time, she had admonished him for purchasing her such an expensive garment, but he reminded her that she had to get used to fine trappings as Ferelden’s newest bann.

Darian thought back to his Alistair’s crowning, when he offered to grant Darian any boon he asked of him. They tracked down Shianni not long afterwards, and she fainted in the street when he first gave her the news; even she was shaking like a leaf for several hours afterwards and only calmed down after sharing the contents of several bottles of wine with Darian and Soris.

“It should have been you, cousin,” she said. “You’re the great hero, I’m just the local troublemaker. No one listens to me.”

“I brought down the purge on the Alienage, remember?” he noted, bitterly. “And I’m in a relationship with a human. I’m a flat-ears now in the eyes of our people.”

“But you drove out the slavers! You prevented the darkspawn from destroying the Alienage!"

“So did you,” he reminded her.

“I only played a small role.” She shook her head in dismay. “But it’s more than that. You have the king’s ear. And the other nobles, they respect what you done. They listened to you at the Landsmeet.”

“They listened to me because I was a Grey Warden, and the country was on the brink of collapse,” he said, sadly. “A year from now, and I’ll be just another knife-ears.”

“And you think it’ll be any different for me?”

He had circled an arm around her shoulders and smiled. “You will be a good Bann, Shianni,” he said. “I know it.”

The memory faded and Darian came rushing back to reality as Shianni gently tugged on his arm.

“So cousin,” Shianni began, “I spoke to your father the other day …”

“Yes?”

“Cyrion was wondering when you’re going to pay him another visit,” Shianni elaborated. “Apparently, he hasn’t heard from you in two weeks.”

Darian sighed heavily. “I know, I know. I’m not avoiding him, I swear. I’ve just … been working up the courage to see him again.”

“You need to summon courage to go visit your father?” Shianni asked incredulously.

Darian nervously rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s just that … the last time I was there … he’d heard some rumours and asked me if it was true that I was seeing someone.”

“And?”

“And I told him about Leliana.”

Shianni grabbed his arm. “You mean you hadn’t told your father in two months that you were in a relationship with a human? In all this time?!” she said, shocked.

“It’s not that they haven’t met each other,” Darian noted quickly. “He knows she was one of my companions during my travels. I just haven’t introduced her as my … you know …”

“’Paramour’?” she teased.

Darian smirked. “Something like that.”

Shianni returned Darian’s sour look. “Well … how did he take it?”

“He … got quiet for a while,” Darian said, quickly looking away.

“Quiet’s not so bad,” Shianni offered.

“Then, he asked me to go to Alarith’s shop to buy a bottle of wine."

“Perfectly understandable reaction,” she said, though with slightly less conviction.

“Then he finished the whole bottle,” Darian said, frowning. “And I’m not sure, but I think he might have started sobbing a little.”

Shianni winced. “Ah. I see.”

They walked the rest of the way in uncomfortable silence.

Alistair met them in a small antechamber off of the main hall, clad in silver ceremonial armor and a red cape adorned with snarling mabari hounds. Arl Eamon was there as well, standing just behind the king.

“Thank the Maker you’ve arrived!” Eamon exclaimed. “If we kept the ambassador waiting any longer, I fear we’d see the start of a new war with Orlais!”

Darian strode to within a few feet of Alistair and dropped down to one knee, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor. Shianni did the same.

“Forgive me my late arrival, my liege,” he said. “I was regrettably detained.”

“Couldn’t have cut it any shorter, could you?” Alistair said, grinning. “Couldn’t tear yourself away from that lovely bard of yours, I take it?”

“Had an encounter with some members of my adoring public, actually,” he explained. “Incidentally, I’m to pass on a message from two young girls that you’re just about the cutest thing they’ve ever seen.”

“Stop it, you’re making me blush,” Alistair replied. “Did they say anything about my hair? Or maybe how nice my ass looks?”

“You know you’ve got a nice ass, Alistair.”

“Careful now,” he said, wagging a finger at the elf. “Or I might end up marrying you instead.”

Darian laughed. “No, Alistair, I don’t think I want to be your queen.”

“Your Majesty, please!” Arl Eamon thundered. “We don’t have time for this!”

Just as soon as he finished saying it, Eamon turned as red with embarrassment, and quickly looked away.

“Er … all right, then,” Alistair piped up, breaking the awkward silence. “As Eamon said, we don’t want to keep the ambassador waiting.”

He nodded to his guard, who stepped forward to open the door to the main hall. Trumpets began to sound somewhere within. With a wave of his hand, he beckoned Darian to follow.

“Well, step in line, Hero of Ferelden,” he said. “Another member of your adoring public awaits.”

Modifié par Face of Evil, 03 février 2011 - 05:52 .

[Face of Evil]

“Even as I jammed my blade into the Archdemon’s skull, a white beam of energy erupted from the dragon’s head, stretching far into the sky above,” Darian said, sweeping his arms dramatically to indicate its height.

“It was so bright that I couldn’t even see the Archdemon anymore; all I could see, all I could feel, was this blinding white light all around me. It pushed against me and I could barely keep my hands gripped on the blade.”

“Incredible!” Lady Bridgette exclaimed excitedly. “What then?”

“An explosion of energy sent me flying backward. I hurtled through the air and landed a stone’s throw away. I think I must have hit my head, because I lost consciousness for a time.” Darian tapped his chin, as though he were recalling something only half-remembered. “I wasn’t the only one; Alistair and … and my other companions said they were thrown back as well.”

“And the darkspawn infesting the city?”

“I’m told they immediately began to retreat,” Darian offered. “All at once, and in a massive panic. There were a few groups of them who became stranded in different parts of the city, but after the horde left, we hunted down the stragglers.”

“It’s amazing you survived such an ordeal,” Bridgette said, patting Darian’s wrist gently. “You are a remarkable man, Grey Warden. One of the most remarkable men I had ever met.”

“Thank you, Lady Bridgette.”

She held up a hand in protest. “Please … just Bridgette, my dear Warden. There is no need for such formalities, no?”

Darian and Lady Bridgette were seated together in the quarters provided to her by Alistair, a lavish bed chamber that Darian suspected were even nicer than Alistair’s own rooms. Lady Bridgette, he had noticed, had turned her nose up slightly at the accommodations; it seems that Ferelden’s standards were not quite up to that of the Orlesian nobility.

The formal ceremony where Alistair welcomed the ambassador and her retinue had ended two hours before. Afterwards, Lady Bridgette had asked if she could retire to her quarters to await the formal dinner planed for that evening. Before she left, she made an odd request: that the Hero of Ferelden walk her to her quarters.

Darian exchanged a concerned look with Alistair, but did not dare refuse. He smiled politely and looped his arm around her own; they then left the hall together.

As it turned out, Lady Bridgette had only asked Darian to share some anecdotes of his experiences through Ferelden. She even insisted that her guards wait outside the room so that he could focus his attention solely on her. Though he was not as skilled a storyteller as Leliana, he was nonetheless able to deliver a stirring and faithful rendition of his adventures, albeit one that was absent of any mention of former Orlesian bards.

Throughout the telling, Lady Bridgette reclined on a window seat along the far wall of her quarters. She insisted he sit beside her, and throughout the afternoon, she would sometimes let her fingers play down his arm or clasp her hand over his own, gestures that made him slightly uncomfortable. But he said nothing.

It was not that he didn’t find her attractive; she was, in fact, quite beautiful, with long dark hair, deep green eyes and a figure that most women half her age would still envy. But he had never cheated on Leliana … except for that one night in Redcliffe before the battle of Denerim, and he had always regretted it since.

“You know, Warden,” Bridgette began. “I was wondering … in the telling of your story, I notice you seemed to leave something out.”

“Oh?” Darian responded.

Bridgette folded her hands over her lap. “I must confess, that I did not invite you to my quarters only to hear of your victory over the Archdemon. There was something else I wished to ask you.”

“And what is that, my lady?” Darian asked, intrigued at her line of questioning but also half-fearful that she might mention Leliana.

She grinned slightly. “I must admit, I was also interested in meeting the man … who slew Loghain Mac Tir, the Hero of the River Dane.”

Ah, Darian thought. Now we come to it.

“In truth, it was not I who killed Loghain, my lady,” Darian corrected her. “Although I dueled Loghain, it was actually Alistair who struck him down.”

Bridgette chuckled. “Forgive me, my dear Warden, but my sources lead me to believe that it was you who ordered Loghain’s execution.”

Darian hesitated as he considered his words carefully.

“That is true, my lady. I demanded Loghain pay for his crimes.”

“But why?” Bridgette inquired, her eyes bright with mischief. “Why not recruit him into your order? Surely such a great man deserved a chance at redemption, no matter what he had done.”

Darian cocked an eyebrow. “I’m surprised to hear someone from Orlais express a satisfactory opinion of Loghain Mac Tir.”

“There are many in Orlais who curse Loghain’s name and wished him dead,” she said, with a shrug of shoulders. “But we are not all one and the same, no? Even in Orlais, there are those who regard him as a hero.”

“Are you one of them?”

“Perhaps, my astute warden,” she said coyly. “But you have not truly answered my question as to why you did not spare Loghain.”

Darian thought back to the Landsmeet, to his confrontation with the Hero of the River Dane. He thought of how Riordan had called on him to show mercy, how Anora had pleaded with him to spare his father, how Alistair had angrily demanded Loghain’s death. He remembered how tired Loghain looked and how much he had changed since the Battle of Ostagar, when he seemed every bit of the hero that history made him out to be.

But then he remembered Duncan, who had saved him, and Cailan, who was brave and kind no matter how foolish he was. He recalled all the faces of the men and women who died to Loghain's treachery at Ostagar and all the others since. He remembered the sight of his father in a cage, and his own imprisonment at Fort Drakon, the cold hours spent waiting for his rescue or his execution.

When Darian spoke again, his voice was full of bitterness. “Loghain nearly destroyed all of Ferelden and left our king to die. He tried to kill me and my friends repeatedly. He ordered the torture of good men and then tried to sell my people — my own father — into slavery. What would YOU have done, under the same circumstances?”

She did not answer at first. Instead, her expression melted into one of condolence and of sympathy; he nearly flinched when she placed one hand on his cheek.

“Probably the same as you,” she replied, earnestly.

“Uh …” Darian looked at her in confusion, his anger swiftly melting away. “I am glad to hear you agree with me, my Lady.“

“I am glad,” she said, her smile returning.

An awkward moment of silence passed between them. In that time, Bridgette slid over on the cushions until her body was pressed up against Darian’s own.

“Tell me, my friend … is it true what they say of the Grey Wardens?”

Darian shifted slightly to put some space between them. “Umm … what do they say, my lady?”

“The stories they tell, particular of the Warden Garahel,” she explained, her eyes practically sparkling. “The tales of your order’s … prowess in battle, so to speak.”

As though to signal her meaning, her hand settled on Darian’s knee and slid down to his thigh. Even though his armor kept him from feeling very much, he trembled where she touched him.

“Uh … I-I fear I do not know what you speak of,” he stammered.

“Oh, you have not heard these stories? I would be more than happy to share them with you. Perhaps after the banquet tonight, you could return to my quarters and we could discuss them further … after you’ve shed that heavy armor of yours.” She gently ran a finger down the centre of his chest.

Beads of sweat materialized on Darian’s forehead. “That … that would n-not be necessary, my lady.”

“Please,” she said. “As I said before … call me Bridgette.”

She leaned in close then, stealing a kiss before Darian could react. Darian immediately pulled away, sliding as far as he could to the end of the window seat without actually falling over.

“L-Lady Bridgette!” he cried. “I, uh, I think you may have misunderstood my intentions …”

“Oh, I’ve misunderstood nothing, my dear Warden,” she said, moving once again to be next to him. She had the hungry look of an animal tracking its prey. “I’ve simply had enough of talk for one afternoon, or don’t you agree?”
She leaned in again to kiss him, but this time, he leaned back as far as he could without toppling over.

“What, are you shy?” she said, giggling in a fashion more becoming the young girls that had accosted him earlier that day. “You need not play coy. I'm certainly not.”

“My lady … this is …” His mind raced as he searched for an excuse that would not offend the ambassador.

“Bridgette … Surely a highborn lady as yourself would not … would not consider taking an elf such as a l-lover,” he said quickly.
The ambassador looked at him strangely, then laughed. “Oh, you think you are the first elf I have taken to bed? I assure you, dear Warden, that you are not. But I see that you are uncertain, so perhaps a demonstrations of my affections are in order.”

She then pressed forward, despite Darian’s objections. As her hands moved over his body, she kissed him once more, hard, before leaning past him; Darian suddenly felt a sharp pain in his ear, and he reacted by yelping like a whipped puppy and springing to his feet.

Almost instantly, he spun around to face the ambassador and held out his hands as though he were trying to keep some great beast at bay.

“Please, Lady Bridgette! I’m flattered, truly! But I have my own love and I would not cheat on her, not for anything.”

“Oh?” Bridgette said curiously. “How open-minded is your lady friend? If you want, you could go and bring her back after dinner …”

Darian shook his head furiously. “No, she would never … I mean, I’m pretty sure she would never … I mean, she told me about that one time with Marjolaine and the c-chamber maid, but that was before she entered the Chantry …”

“Marjolaine?” Lady Bridgette exclaimed in shock, rising to her feet. “Did you say the name ‘Marjolaine’?”

Darian froze mid-sentence. He gulped heavily.

“You … you knew M-Marjolaine?” he asked, his voice wavering.

Bridgette’s lustful expression had faded into a look of worry. “She was a former servant of mine! I have not heard from her in months, not since she came to Ferelden! This was part of the reason I asked Empress Celene to allow me to act as her envoy; I hoped to find some news of what happened to her. Tell me, do you know what happened to my sweet Marjolaine?”

Bridgette stood up and clasped her hands together as though she were praying. Her eyes seemed to grow twice their size as she waited for him to respond. Darian only stared at her, suddenly at a loss for words.

“Andraste’s Blood,” he swore at last.

Modifié par Face of Evil, 02 février 2011 - 01:43 .

[Face of Evil]

Leliana gently pushed on the door with the tips of her fingers. She had tried to unlock it a moment ago only to find the door was already open. Although the hallway leading into her chambers was empty, she could hear the crackle of a lit fire in the sitting room.

Alarm bells rang in the back of Leliana’s mind. She was fairly certain she had left their living quarters locked when she left several hours earlier. Darian was supposed to be at a function that evening with the ambassador from Orlais and no one else possessed a key to their modest apartments. But if there was an intruder, why in the Maker’s name would they light the fireplace?

Leliana debated her options. She had only a single dagger to defend herself and her red and gold dress did not allow for considerable freedom of movement. On the other hand, she would look quite foolish fetching the city guards if she’d simply forgotten to lock the door.

Her worries faded as Fang appeared in the hallway, barking a short greeting. He trotted over to her and she scratched behind his ears, causing him to wag his tail.

“Hello, boy,” she said, before stepping past him into the apartment.

Darian was splayed out on the couch, clutching a scroll of some kind and reading intently. When he had left in the morning, he had put on his red dragonscale armor, but he had since changed into a pair of cloth pants and a buttoned shirt that hung open at the front.

He looked up at Leliana as she entered with weary eyes. “Hey,” he said.

“Hello,” she replied, striding over to the couch. “Weren’t you supposed to be at a banquet tonight?”

Darian’s gaze returning the scroll. “It was cancelled,” he said flatly.

Leliana could see Darian was upset, but pressed him further. “Why? What happened with the ambassador?”

“Oh, nothing,” he replied, his voice suddenly becoming tense. “I just started an international incident. How was your day?”

Leliana hesitated. “Not as interesting as yours, apparently. What happened?”

“Nothing,” he answered, his voice still thick with anger.

The red-haired bard turned Chantry sister circled around to the front of the couch, and Darian moved so that he was now sitting up. “Come on, tell me what happened.”

Darian put down the scroll. “I don’t want to bother you with this.”

“Come, my love,” she said, sitting down and patting his knee. “You’ve certainly listened enough to me talk about my problems. Tell me what’s bothering you.”

Darian remained silent for the space of several heartbeats, then smiled weakly. “You’re right,” he said. “I shouldn’t act like a child. I’m sorry.”

“No apologies needed,” she answered.

He told her of his meeting with the ambassador, fully disclosing the details of his conversation with Lady Bridgette. He described how she had invited him to her quarters, how she had made an advance on him, and how he had let Marjolaine’s name let slip while trying to fend her off. Leliana pursed her lips in anger at his description of the lady’s attempt at seduction and stiffened at the mention of her former lover and bard master, but she said nothing.

Leliana listened further to Darian had bluffed the ambassador and fed her a filtered version of events. He had said he was attacked by a group of assassins while traveling in the countryside; after defeating them, the leader confessed he had been hired by a bard in Denerim. He tracked down his assassin and discovered it was a bard named Marjolaine, who freely admitted to being hired by Loghain. Then he let her go.

“But she didn’t believe me, not on that last point,” he said. “So I told her the truth: that I had killed Marjolaine for trying to kill me.”

Leliana made a sharp intake of breath. “And how did Lady Bridgette react?”

“With lots of shrieking and cursing,” he answered. “She said something about I liked to have sex with dogs and screamed at me to get out. I ran out the door and fetched Arl Eamon. He lasted about five minutes in her chambers before being chased out as well. From what I told, no one was able to calm her down for the next two hours.”

“What then?”

“I was sent home. Eamon said my presence was only making things worse, and I really couldn’t argue with him. So Alistair called for a guard and … here I’ve been for the last two hours.” He threw up his hands in exasperation.

“I was so stupid. The instant Marjolaine’s name slipped out, I knew I had made a mistake. But I was flustered and talking a mile a minute. I didn’t think.”

“It was not your fault,” she said.

“I should have known better. I’m as callow as Sten said — callow and bloody stupid. I just hope this doesn’t cause trouble for you.”

“It won’t.” A wicked smile crossed Leliana’s lips. “You said the ambassador’s name was Bridgette, correct?”
Darian nodded.

“Well, if this was the same Lady Bridgette I am thinking of — and it surely must be — then I happen to know of a few secrets that would help ‘smooth things over’ with the ambassador. Certain records of Marjolaine’s activities kept in hiding places that only I would know of, but that would be of great interest to the Orlesian court and the Empress.” Leliana’s eyes practically shone at the mention of Celene.

Darian did not respond at first, mulling over her words before it finally dawned on him what she was hinting at.
“Leliana … are you suggesting we … Are you suggesting blackmail?” Darian’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Let’s not call it that. Let’s call it ‘diplomacy,’” she replied cheerfully.

“Are you sure? I’m good with it, but … are you?”

“Welllll, look at this way. It’s important for Ferelden that the ambassador give a favourable report to Empress Celene, correct? Or else she will not send Grey Wardens to Ferelden?”

“Yes,” Darian responded.

“Well then, I am only doing the Maker’s will, yes? Or do you think it was chance that Bridgette be sent to Ferelden where one of its citizens are among the privileged few to know of Marjolaine’s secrets?”

Darian’s astonished look melted into an expression of joy as he leaned over and threw her arms around Leliana. “Oh Maker, Leliana, if you can fix this …!” he exclaimed, hugging her close.

“Easy there,” she said, patting him on the back. “Not too tight, or else I won’t be doing much of anything tomorrow.”

He released his hold on her, only to pull her close again and kiss her passionately. Her heart pounded in her chest, and when he pulled away, she even swayed a little.

“Maker’s Breath, I love you,” he said, earnestly.

“I … er, you too,” she answered, flustered.

Modifié par Face of Evil, 02 février 2011 - 03:23 .

[Face of Evil]

“… and so the mages lowered Garahel to the ground with their bedsheet ladder. And even though the morning was freezing cold and Garahel was only wearing his small clothes, he could be heard laughing merrily, the sound of it echoing across the hills.”

With that, Leliana suddenly stood up and extended her arms into the air in a grandiose flourish, as though she were capping off a performance for an audience of hundreds at a cathedral in Val Royeaux. “And that, my dear Warden,” she proclaimed, “is the story of the fabled hero Garahel and the Circle Mages.”

“Wow.” Darian shook his head in stunned amazement. “That was quite a tale. I had no idea there was even such a thing as a ménage à …. what’s the Orlesian word for twelve, again?”

Leliana chuckled as she sank back down on the couch, shifting her body so that it folded neatly against Darian’s own. As she did so, he slid his arm around her shoulders and her head settled on his chest, directly above his heart.

They had been sitting together for over an hour now, splayed out on the couch while the light from the fire played over their huddled forms. Fang was laying in front of the mantle, rolled over on his back with his legs sticking up in the air and his belly exposed while he soaked up what remaining heat emanated from the fire’s dying embers.

After discussing their plans to meet with Lady Bridgette in the morning, Darian had asked Leliana to tell him stories of the Wardens, and of Garahel in particular. She had eagerly obliged, and as the tales grew more lurid and more grandiose, Darian noticed that she was inching slowly towards him until finally she was reciting her tale with his arms wrapped around her.

At all other times, Darian would be more than content to simply sit and be near this exquisitely beautiful woman that he loved dearly, but his thoughts had not settled from his encounter earlier in the day.

“So,” he asked, with considerable hesitation. “Garahel’s stories … they’re all like that? Are they all so … tawdry?”

“Well, not all of them,” Leliana mused. “He wasn’t famous for his prowess as a lover, after all. But the things that made him great —freeing the city of Hossberg, defeating the Archdemon at Ayesleigh — those are matters of historical record. In the north, every schoolboy can probably give you a day-by-day account of the Battle of Ayesleigh.”

“But down here,” she continued, “no one wants to hear dry recitations of battle formations and troop movements. They want to hear about adventure and daring exploits. They want to hear about bravery and great risk in the face of adversity. They want to hear about great loves and impossible deeds and imagine that they themselves could be the heroes of that tale themselves.”

He frowned slightly. “Are none of those stories real, then?”

“I would hesitate to call them lies. Instead, let us say instead that they are ‘embellished,’’ she thoughtfully. “I’m sure that Garahel was a great lover and had many romances; even the most ridiculous of legends have a kernel of truth to them. But these stories have a way of twisting over time.”

He had no further comment, so they sat together in silence for several minutes. Lost in concentration, Darian absently her arm with the tips of his fingers, marveling at the softness of her skin. He quietly took in the smell of her hair and reflected the curves of her body so closely pressed against him …

However, a comment from Leliana brought him back to reality. “What is wrong, my love?” she asked, concerned.

“Oh, it’s nothing.”

“Oh come on. It is not just the incident with the Lady Bridgette,” she said. “I can tell something else is bothering you.”

“I’m …” He hesitated again, and his voice trailed off. “I don’t want to burden you with this. You’ve heard enough of my problems.”

“Tell me,” she urged him. “It will make you feel better.”

Darian sighed, and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he spoke slowly, as though he were having difficulty finding the words.

“I’m just a bit weary of … the attention, that’s all.”

“The attention?”

“The adulation of the crowds. The expectations. How people think that I’m some mythic figure of legend,” he explained, with more than a little weariness. “That I’m some great hero.”

“You’ve done many great things,” Leliana said.

“But they weren’t always good. They were frequently the wrong thing, or they were done for bad reasons. I’ve committed some terrible acts, and frequently for selfish reasons. I’ve killed people for money … resorted to blood magic … broken the laws of Ferelden a dozen times over..”

“You did what was necessary to stop the Blight,” she said..

“I know. I know that. It’s just … it’s not how I pictured things, when I was younger."

“My mother used to say I was destined for greatness, and I believed her. I believed that I could be some great hero, that everyone looked up to. But I didn’t realize how hard it would be … or what people would think of me. I just wonder if … everything I did is going to be forgotten someday and replaced with stories of orgies with Circle mages and greased halla.”

Leliana shifted in her seat, turning her body slightly so that she was looking up at Darian’s face. She met his gaze with her own and held it with her deep blue eyes.

“Darian,” Leliana murmured, gently stroking his face. “Do not worry about what men will say. Let them make their own judgements and make up their own foolish lies. Just know that you are a good man, with a good heart. Nothing else matters in the sight of the Maker.”

“I know. I know that,” he said, though he was not entirely convinced. “I just wish things were different.”
“Oh, my love,” she whispered. “Always so eager to play the troubled hero.”
Leliana’s hand lingered on his cheek for another moment, then fell away as she leaned forward and kissed him. It was a tentative, uncertain gesture, as though she were testing him to see how receptive he could be to her affections.

He responded by kissing her back intently, though not forcefully. A small kiss turned to two, then three, and then finally any pretense at uncertainty swiftly faded.

They were still upright, but Darian let Leliana bear him down with the weight of her body until his head settled on the couch cushions below. Their lips never parted, but her kisses became quick and excited, as though she was trying to match the frenzied pace of his pounding heartbeat.

Leliana began to move downward, leaving small kisses along the curve of his neck and then his chest. He shuddered at her touch as her hands traced the lines of his muscles and the near-invisible cobweb of scars that covered his body.

“Well now … this is different.” he observed. “I’m not usually on the receiving end of all this attention..”

Leliana paused in her attentions, her head hovering just above his stomach. “Well, with all these women chasing after you, I fear I just have to remind you why you're still with me."

“You think I’m going to leave you for another woman?”

“Oh no,” she replied with a knowing smile. “Not after tonight.”

She continued moving down his body, somehow backing up without digging her knees into him. Her lips brushed over his waist before she finally began to tug at the edge of his trousers.

Suddenly, Fang stirred. His little legs waved in the air, and he let out a loud bark as he chased after some unknown prey in the depth of his dreams. Leliana nearly jumped, and then burst out laughing. Darian couldn’t help do the same.

Wiping away tears, Leliana drew herself up on the couch until she was face to face with Darian.

“Bloody hound,” Leliana said with a chuckle. “Talk about a mood-killer.”

Darian frowned. “Is our evening at a close, then? It was just starting to get interesting.”

“Maybe not,” Leliana replied, and she smoothed a hand through her lover’s hair. “What do you propose?”

“Perhaps I could tell you another story?” Darian offered. “How about the tale of how I destroyed the Anvil of the Void? Or how I rescued the Dalish from a werewolf curse? Or better yet, how about the story of how I seduced a lay sister of the Chantry?"

Leliana blinked in surprise. “Mmm, no, I think I heard that one. And in the version I was told, she did all the seduction.”

“Oh no, not at all. I assure you, she was putty in my hands.”

“Ha! In your dreams, more like.”

“Maker, no,” he answered definitely. “More like, she was the girl of my dreams.”

Leliana giggled again. “Maker’s breath, that was a terrible line,” she whispered.

“That’s me,” he said, softly. “I’m a terrible person.”

He drew her close once more and kissed her again, pouring his heart out into it as though she could feel the breadth of his emotion. She almost seemed to melt in his embrace, and her whole body trembled like a leaf in the wind where he touched her.

Finally, she broke away, and eased herself back to her feet. As she stepped back, she took his hand and gently tugged on it.

“Well, come on, Hero of Ferelden,” she whispered. “If you’re going to tell me this story, then I’m eager for a private audience.”

Darian rose and allowed himself to be led towards the bedroom. He halted in the doorway and watched as Leliana slipped her blouse off her shoulders and then over her hips, letting it tumble to the floor.

“Well,” he mused, pulling off his shirt. “Maybe being a hero isn’t all so bad.”

He entered the room, pulling the door closed behind him.

THE END

Modifié par Face of Evil, 03 février 2011 - 09:50 .