Windchime68 had indicated a desire to learn more of Adaia’s history with Loghain and Maric (and Duncan, but they don’t meet until a bit later). So, I figured I’d at least allow an introduction separate from DragonAge: The Halla Reborn story I’m working on. You can find the story over on the FF site: http://www.fanfictio...onAge_The_Halla
Those of you who have read The Stolen Throne may recognize this scene. Just altered a bit to accommodate my lovely Dalish huntress. So, guess no need to tell you all that this is not to canon, as, to my knowledge, the Adaia from the game never met Maric during the rebellion.
Please review and tell me what you think. Each chapter will be from differing perspectives of their very first meeting.
This is Adaia’s:
Adaia
The young Dalish hunter’s eyes narrowed as she peered resolutely into the surrounding darkness. Ears alert, the elf carefully picked her way through the surrounding woods. There, she spotted them. Several bodies of shemlens lay in varying poses of death. She recognized the orate armor of the Orlesian chevaliers scattered amongst the less unified armor worn by the Fereldan rebels. The hunter scoffed. Fools. Fighting over land!
A barely detectible noise to her left. She turned her head, eyes skimming the forest’s edges. Ah, there you are…she took careful aim with her elegantly curving bow. Now, just stay…and let loose one black fletched arrow. A sharp cry! Good, she found her target. She crab walked closer. Ah, not dead yet, she thought as her target crashed through the underbrush, seeking for escape. Fools all…another arrow loosed, and the man - an Orlesian scout - fell dead. Two arrows, she berated herself. Cost me two arrows.
Glancing up, keeping well into the shadows, she spied a form rush from the camp that lay just beyond the hillock. Glancing around, taking note of where her archers stood, she whirled her hand in the air quickly, ordering them to circle around. The standing order was to kill any and all Orlesians they found. The Fereldans they were to spare - if possible. After all, if the humans were going to fight over land, may as well assist those who truly owned this land. That is, unless they did something stupid.
Knowing her hunters would perform their tasks, the elven woman followed after the fleeing form.
The form - a human man it appeared - staggered about, coming up short as an armored Orlesian moved toward him, his sword pointed at his throat. The elf could not make out the words, but she was determined to save the man - if man he was. She heard others - Orlesians most likely - approach. Judging by the way the Orlesian was talking to - taunting - the young Fereldan, the elf figured she had time and proceeded to take down two of the approaching chevaliers first.
The swordsman heard the cries and then falling bodies of his compatriots. Growling out a warning, he made to plunge his sword through the other man’s throat. An arrow struck through his sword hand, dropping the blade. A cry of rage and agony changed to gurgling as another arrow blossomed from his throat. Eyes wide in disbelief, the chevalier fell over, dead.
Four more arrows, the elven hunter griped as she marched to where the young human man remained sitting on the ground. Wonderful! Another fool! She saw his eyes widen as she stepped over to him. Whimpering Idiot! She scoffed, glaring at him.
Blue eyes met steel grey. The elf was frowning and made to move to help the young man to his feet when the unmistakable noises of other chevaliers barging through the woods came to their ears. Spinning swiftly, the Dalish hunter fired off five arrows in quick succession, felling three other intruders. Cursing in her native tongue, the elf dropped her bow, pulling two curved blades. Standing over the human (was he ever going to rise?) she turned and met the chevalier’s blade.
Parrying his thrusts, trying to entangle it in her dual blades, the elf had to admit that the swordsman had skill. Standing easily two heads taller than the elven woman, dressed in heavy plate, bearing shield and sword, the chevalier obviously believed he the superior warrior in this match. Bearing his shield before him, he swiped out with his sword. The elf danced back, well out of the way of the sweeping blade, circling around, striking out with her blades - one and then the other - keeping the heavily armored man off balance as he turned to always keep her before him.
He swung out again, and the elf danced gracefully out of range, a slow, malicious smile crossing her lovely yet fierce face. The Orlesian was saying something to her, something taunting, about taking it slowly. Perhaps enjoying her company before allowing her to die. If she was a good little elf.
She spit at him. Showing him she was not a good little elf.
He lunged forward again, trying to use strength against the agility of an elf. An elf who knows how to fight in the wilderness, where she won’t get tangled in underbrush and other vegetative life. The chevalier slipped more than once on a root here and there. Her blades danced along the length of his sword, briefly slipping behind the safety of his shield. A quick flick, and the tip of one of her daggers nipped his chin, cutting deeply. A steady stream of blood flowed from the wound.
She danced back again, searching for an opening in the metal casing of his armor.
Ah, and the fool has finally at least moved out of the way. She shifted her eyes back to her opponent. He was tiring, the dancing around, swinging out at a target that always remained just out of reach. Fool humans, wearing all that metal. She scoffed out at him, jumping to him, blades lashing out, seeking the crease she knew was hidden somewhere in the armor. The screech of ironbark upon steel set her teeth on edge, and she nimbly danced back and away from his sweeping blade.
She kicked out, connecting with his knee. He staggered, and she danced behind him, kicking out again, connecting with the back of his knee this time. He stumbled, landing on his right knee, the other wrenched painfully. He’s a proud one, she thought as he grimly regained his feet, rushing at her despite the pain in his legs, trying to connect his shield with her face.
Jumping to the side, she lashed out with a blade, angling upwards, grazing the blade along the side of his neck and up to his face. Screaming in pain, blood pouring from the side where much of the skin had been removed, the Orlesian knight readied his stance again.
The elf had to give this one credit. She had been dancing circles around him, winning minor strikes against his armor, and now bestowed upon him a rather painful injury. And yet he still comes. A feral grin crossed her face. Time to end things.
The chevalier attacked with a powerful sword and shield combination, obviously empowered by the pain in his face. She managed to avoid most of the assault, but his shield did land a hit to her shoulder and spun her away. He shouted a victory as he lunged after the elf with his sword, his shield held out rather than tucked in closer.
Snarling, the pain in her shoulder nearly unbearable, the elf swung about, quickly regaining her balance. She ducked down, under the piercing blade, and rose, just inside his shield. She smiled up into his startled face, just as she brought her blade up. Striking solidly, the blade pierced through the bottom of his chin, and straight up into his brain.
The knight convulsed, eyes rolling into the back of his head.
Her blade stuck, and so the elf danced away from the falling body, and watched it fall to the bloody ground.
She turned to glare at the man who had not the sense to run when he had the chance. What? Did she almost lose her life for an idiot? She said as much, his blue eyes widening at her verbal assault. He raised his hands in a placating manner, but the elf merely slapped them down. With a growl, she stalked over to the man she just killed and rudely yanked her blade from his head.
She sheathed her blades and retrieved her bow. The man tried to thank her but she ignored him. Whimpering idiot! She hissed at him.
A crashing sound behind her, and the elf spun, arrow notched to bow, string pulled tight, and aimed at the heart of the raven haired man, his bow likewise ready and aimed at her, who entered the site. Whimpering Idiot called for peace as a warrior woman with dark hair entered as well, her shield and sword ready to attack. She obviously is wiser than Whimpering Idiot, the elf concluded, taking her eyes off Warrior Woman and fixing them upon the man now before her.
In cool tones, the archer ordered the elf to lower her weapon.
In cooler tones, the elf told him that he should if he wished to live.
The archer gave her a sardonic smile, yet the elf’s expression remained cold as snow. Raising a hand, the man relaxed his stance, relaxing his hold on his bowstring, pulling the arrow free with one hand and holding his bow in the other.
Maintaining her stance for a few more moments, the Dalish woman relaxed her own. She stiffened again, as did Archer and Warrior Woman, as the sounds of running feet came their way. Bursting through the woods, gasping for breath, stood a small elven woman, golden curls down her back, dagger in her hand. She gasped, startled, to see two sets of bows aimed in her direction.
Whimpering Idiot stepped in front of both archers, shouting for them to stand down. Archer eased his stance, and so the Dalish did as well. Frowning at the new comer (Flat Ear), she made a move to leave.
Whimpering Idiot, however, would not allow her to. He called to her, stepped over and placed his hand on her arm. She narrowed her eyes at him, and he immediately (and wisely. Perhaps not quite the fool?) backed off. Warrior Woman had stepped forward, asking the Dalish hunter her name.
A scowl formed on her face, she cocked her head, listening for her fellow hunters. She did not hear any of their calls, and she grew concerned. Yet, she had a feeling these shemlen fools may still be in need of her help.
With a small smile at Warrior Woman, the Dalish hunter gave a quick nod.
“Adaia.”
The Halla (Adaia, Maric, Loghain, Rowen)
Débuté par
SheilaD67
, avril 04 2011 06:18
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#2
Posté 05 avril 2011 - 03:03
SheilaD67
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Now remember, I’m not going canon. This is my own little universe of DragonAge…
And, now…it’s Maric’s turn:
Maric
Kicking away from the fallen, struggling horse, feeling more than a little sorrow at leaving the poor injured beast to die, the young man scrambled hurriedly to his feet, slipping and sliding over the densely covered forest floor. He tried to ignore the pain in his leg as he bolted from the beast, fleeing into the forest.
Screams and shouts reverberated throughout the dense forest. A slight crashing noise to his left fueled his fright and he increased his pace despite the injury of his leg. He knew they had been betrayed. Like Mother, he bitterly thought. And Rowan and Loghain were too far away, joining the Arl’s forces, just as had been planned.
Who could have betrayed them? He had to wonder as he continued his frantic flight, weaving between the trees, slipping more than once. Only someone who knew the plan - knew that the main bulk of the army would join the Arl’s once the signal was sounded. Would know that he was not part of the fight and where he would be…
He crested the hillock, his leg threatening to give out on him. Running had been stupid, he thought. No, not the running, getting on the damned horse. Now that had been stupid! He paused, panting, bending down at the waist, his hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath. Of course he’d fall off the beast. Oh, he thought guiltily, poor beast.
The shouts, spoken in Orlesian, were getting closer. He glanced around, unsure what to do or where to go. Where indeed? He thought, realizing that there was no where he could flee. Panic set in and he found himself slipping, falling down. Twisting around, he ended up on his back, cracking his head against a rock. Damn! That hurt. He rose unsteadily to his feet, realizing that, if he really decided to just stand here and wait, very soon he would be dead.
With that cynical thought, he spun, longsword now in hand, and watched as an Orlesian Chevalier burst from the foliage.
The chevalier glanced down at the weapon the young man held unsteadily in his hand. A smirk crossed his handsome face as he asked, in accented Fereldan, just what the boy thought he was going to do with the sword?
The young man just looked down at the sword, holding it before him. The chevalier chuckled, advising the foolish boy to put the weapon down before he hurt himself.
The young man then noticed the other Orlesian soldiers approaching them, and heard them chuckle in response.
The chevalier raised his own gleaming blade and brought it level to the young man’s throat.
Those chuckles ceased, and the sounds of falling bodies came to their ears. Both men gaped at each for a brief moment, then the chevalier seemed to regain his sense. Growling a curse in Orlesian, the man lunged forward, seeking to plunge his weapon deeply into the young man’s neck. The young Fereldan staggered backwards, falling to the ground, and noticed the chevalier’s eyes widen. He watched as an arrow fletched with black feathers sprouted from his throat, and then chevalier, with a gurgle of disbelief, fell to the ground, dead.
Stunned, unable to move, unable to think, all he could do was watch as a tall elven woman (she stood nearly as tall as a human man!), her blonde hair cut short, darkened with mud, approached. She hissed at him, calling him a whimpering idiot. The young Fereldan could only stare at the beautiful, extremely hostile elven face before him, stare into eyes that seemed as strong as steel as they met his. She scoffed at him again, offering her hand to help him up. He moved to accept it, when she pushed him back, spinning, at noise that came from around them.
He watched, absolutely mesmerized by her grace, as she pulled up her bow, easily notching and firing four - no five - arrows in quick succession. One, two, three - yes, three bodies fell. Yet another came crashing through the underbrush and a fourth Orlesian stormed toward them. Crying out a harsh word in her strange elven language, the Elven Huntress dropped her bow and pulled two curved-bladed daggers from her hips.
The man could only watch, amazed at her fluid grace, mesmerized by the dangerous beauty she exuded, as she battled against the heavily armed chevalier that tried to beat her down. A strange sense of pride welled in his chest as he heard the unmistakable promise the chevalier tossed her way and saw her response - a well placed gob of spittle that landed upon the chevalier’s heavy armor. The man grinned as the large human pummeled at her, trying to wear her down, when all he did was add to the deadly beauty of the dance she performed for them.
The Elven Huntress danced, nicked, nipped at the chevalier, as he hammered and strove to batter her down. She would kick out, taunt, and snarl at the human. Once the human had landed a blow - his shield - to her shoulder, but she easily shook it off. The human man was entranced, and so he sat there and watched the battle before him, instead of rising and running as he probably should have.
And then the fight was over, far too soon in the young man’s mind, with the elf‘s blade in the chevalier‘s brain, and then the man lying, convulsing, on the ground. He could have sat and watched the grace of the Elven Huntress for far longer.
And then, suddenly the Elven Huntress was hissing at him, again calling him a whimpering idiot (he clearly did not recall any whimpering on his part!) as she bent to retrieve her bow. He pushed himself up, approaching with hands out, trying to thank his lovely rescuer. But she hadn’t the decency to let him thank her! She pushed him away, scowling at him.
And, then she spun about, her bow up, an arrow notched, aimed right to the heart of his friend! No! He pushed passed her, telling her to stand down, that he was a friend. His friend. And then he noticed that his friend - Loghain - has his own bow aimed right at the Elven Huntress. Oh, just great! Either his rescuer was going to kill his best friend, or his best friend was going to kill his rescuer. This day just keeps getting better and better!
Another figure moved up upon the hillock, this was more cautiously than Loghain had, her sword and shield held up, but trying not to seem hostile. At least Rowan knew how to enter into a delicate situation, the young man thought.
He turned back and watched as the Elven Huntress faced off against Loghain, each answering the other’s cool tones with their own. Oh, the young man thought, with just a touch of amusement. Loghain’s met his match! And, indeed, Loghain was the first to lower his weapon. Did he note that his rescuer cast a glance toward Rowan? And then she, too, lowered her own bow.
Both Loghain and the Elven Huntress remained tense, eying each other with clear distrust. The tension each of them carried served them well as the sound of running feet and someone crashing through the brush came to their ears. Both archers spun about, bows rising, arrows notched. I wish I had that grace, the young man thought bemusedly.
And that slight amusement turned to terror as he watched Katriel emerge from the trees. Leaping in front of both the hostile Dalish woman and Loghain (who did not like Katriel), the young man threw up his arms, waving them frantically, telling both of them to put down your weapons! Loghain eased his stance, almost reluctantly the man noted. The Elven Huntress cast a glance to Loghain, and his friend gave a brief nod. Her eyes narrowing, she, too lowered her bow.
The man did hear her snarl out Flat Ears as she did so. Katriel stiffened at the slur.
Rowan had stepped over to his side, and he noticed that her eyes were filled with concern for him. He appreciated it very much, and thought to try and make certain things up to her. He then noticed that his lovely rescuer was turning to leave. Without saying goodbye? How rude.
Again he tried to thank her, asking her to remain. He reached out a hand to touch her on the arm, but he quickly backed off when he saw the obvious unfriendly scowl she tossed his way. Now why didn’t she like me? He had to wonder.
Rowan stepped forward, and the young man noticed a look of respect cross her face. Rowan asked the Dalish huntress for her name, and she replied Adaia offering a small smile and an even smaller bow.
The young man stepped forward, trying to stand straight upon his injured leg, and held out his hand. “My thanks to you, Adaia,” he said, offering up his most winning smile. He thought he detected a slight twitch of her lovely, full lips, but he couldn’t be certain.
“I am Prince Maric, heir to the throne of Fereldan.”
And, now…it’s Maric’s turn:
Maric
Kicking away from the fallen, struggling horse, feeling more than a little sorrow at leaving the poor injured beast to die, the young man scrambled hurriedly to his feet, slipping and sliding over the densely covered forest floor. He tried to ignore the pain in his leg as he bolted from the beast, fleeing into the forest.
Screams and shouts reverberated throughout the dense forest. A slight crashing noise to his left fueled his fright and he increased his pace despite the injury of his leg. He knew they had been betrayed. Like Mother, he bitterly thought. And Rowan and Loghain were too far away, joining the Arl’s forces, just as had been planned.
Who could have betrayed them? He had to wonder as he continued his frantic flight, weaving between the trees, slipping more than once. Only someone who knew the plan - knew that the main bulk of the army would join the Arl’s once the signal was sounded. Would know that he was not part of the fight and where he would be…
He crested the hillock, his leg threatening to give out on him. Running had been stupid, he thought. No, not the running, getting on the damned horse. Now that had been stupid! He paused, panting, bending down at the waist, his hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath. Of course he’d fall off the beast. Oh, he thought guiltily, poor beast.
The shouts, spoken in Orlesian, were getting closer. He glanced around, unsure what to do or where to go. Where indeed? He thought, realizing that there was no where he could flee. Panic set in and he found himself slipping, falling down. Twisting around, he ended up on his back, cracking his head against a rock. Damn! That hurt. He rose unsteadily to his feet, realizing that, if he really decided to just stand here and wait, very soon he would be dead.
With that cynical thought, he spun, longsword now in hand, and watched as an Orlesian Chevalier burst from the foliage.
The chevalier glanced down at the weapon the young man held unsteadily in his hand. A smirk crossed his handsome face as he asked, in accented Fereldan, just what the boy thought he was going to do with the sword?
The young man just looked down at the sword, holding it before him. The chevalier chuckled, advising the foolish boy to put the weapon down before he hurt himself.
The young man then noticed the other Orlesian soldiers approaching them, and heard them chuckle in response.
The chevalier raised his own gleaming blade and brought it level to the young man’s throat.
Those chuckles ceased, and the sounds of falling bodies came to their ears. Both men gaped at each for a brief moment, then the chevalier seemed to regain his sense. Growling a curse in Orlesian, the man lunged forward, seeking to plunge his weapon deeply into the young man’s neck. The young Fereldan staggered backwards, falling to the ground, and noticed the chevalier’s eyes widen. He watched as an arrow fletched with black feathers sprouted from his throat, and then chevalier, with a gurgle of disbelief, fell to the ground, dead.
Stunned, unable to move, unable to think, all he could do was watch as a tall elven woman (she stood nearly as tall as a human man!), her blonde hair cut short, darkened with mud, approached. She hissed at him, calling him a whimpering idiot. The young Fereldan could only stare at the beautiful, extremely hostile elven face before him, stare into eyes that seemed as strong as steel as they met his. She scoffed at him again, offering her hand to help him up. He moved to accept it, when she pushed him back, spinning, at noise that came from around them.
He watched, absolutely mesmerized by her grace, as she pulled up her bow, easily notching and firing four - no five - arrows in quick succession. One, two, three - yes, three bodies fell. Yet another came crashing through the underbrush and a fourth Orlesian stormed toward them. Crying out a harsh word in her strange elven language, the Elven Huntress dropped her bow and pulled two curved-bladed daggers from her hips.
The man could only watch, amazed at her fluid grace, mesmerized by the dangerous beauty she exuded, as she battled against the heavily armed chevalier that tried to beat her down. A strange sense of pride welled in his chest as he heard the unmistakable promise the chevalier tossed her way and saw her response - a well placed gob of spittle that landed upon the chevalier’s heavy armor. The man grinned as the large human pummeled at her, trying to wear her down, when all he did was add to the deadly beauty of the dance she performed for them.
The Elven Huntress danced, nicked, nipped at the chevalier, as he hammered and strove to batter her down. She would kick out, taunt, and snarl at the human. Once the human had landed a blow - his shield - to her shoulder, but she easily shook it off. The human man was entranced, and so he sat there and watched the battle before him, instead of rising and running as he probably should have.
And then the fight was over, far too soon in the young man’s mind, with the elf‘s blade in the chevalier‘s brain, and then the man lying, convulsing, on the ground. He could have sat and watched the grace of the Elven Huntress for far longer.
And then, suddenly the Elven Huntress was hissing at him, again calling him a whimpering idiot (he clearly did not recall any whimpering on his part!) as she bent to retrieve her bow. He pushed himself up, approaching with hands out, trying to thank his lovely rescuer. But she hadn’t the decency to let him thank her! She pushed him away, scowling at him.
And, then she spun about, her bow up, an arrow notched, aimed right to the heart of his friend! No! He pushed passed her, telling her to stand down, that he was a friend. His friend. And then he noticed that his friend - Loghain - has his own bow aimed right at the Elven Huntress. Oh, just great! Either his rescuer was going to kill his best friend, or his best friend was going to kill his rescuer. This day just keeps getting better and better!
Another figure moved up upon the hillock, this was more cautiously than Loghain had, her sword and shield held up, but trying not to seem hostile. At least Rowan knew how to enter into a delicate situation, the young man thought.
He turned back and watched as the Elven Huntress faced off against Loghain, each answering the other’s cool tones with their own. Oh, the young man thought, with just a touch of amusement. Loghain’s met his match! And, indeed, Loghain was the first to lower his weapon. Did he note that his rescuer cast a glance toward Rowan? And then she, too, lowered her own bow.
Both Loghain and the Elven Huntress remained tense, eying each other with clear distrust. The tension each of them carried served them well as the sound of running feet and someone crashing through the brush came to their ears. Both archers spun about, bows rising, arrows notched. I wish I had that grace, the young man thought bemusedly.
And that slight amusement turned to terror as he watched Katriel emerge from the trees. Leaping in front of both the hostile Dalish woman and Loghain (who did not like Katriel), the young man threw up his arms, waving them frantically, telling both of them to put down your weapons! Loghain eased his stance, almost reluctantly the man noted. The Elven Huntress cast a glance to Loghain, and his friend gave a brief nod. Her eyes narrowing, she, too lowered her bow.
The man did hear her snarl out Flat Ears as she did so. Katriel stiffened at the slur.
Rowan had stepped over to his side, and he noticed that her eyes were filled with concern for him. He appreciated it very much, and thought to try and make certain things up to her. He then noticed that his lovely rescuer was turning to leave. Without saying goodbye? How rude.
Again he tried to thank her, asking her to remain. He reached out a hand to touch her on the arm, but he quickly backed off when he saw the obvious unfriendly scowl she tossed his way. Now why didn’t she like me? He had to wonder.
Rowan stepped forward, and the young man noticed a look of respect cross her face. Rowan asked the Dalish huntress for her name, and she replied Adaia offering a small smile and an even smaller bow.
The young man stepped forward, trying to stand straight upon his injured leg, and held out his hand. “My thanks to you, Adaia,” he said, offering up his most winning smile. He thought he detected a slight twitch of her lovely, full lips, but he couldn’t be certain.
“I am Prince Maric, heir to the throne of Fereldan.”
#3
Posté 07 avril 2011 - 07:56
SheilaD67
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I am so far from canon/the story, it‘s not funny. This is my own little universe of DragonAge…
Rowan was a bit harder to write from as she is more complicated than Maric. Adaia was easy as, well, she’s mine! *grins*
Rowan
Anxiety was building in her, threatening to spill out. She kept glancing out toward the direction of the encampment, out to where he was supposed to be. She turned her eyes back to her companion, who was giving final instructions to the lieutenant. She heard a respectful “Milady” behind her and she turned, taking hold of the reins offered her by the young soldier.
As Loghain barked out the last command, the young woman swung herself into the saddle of her mount, turning it as her friend swung onto his. She had a frantic need to just yell at him to hurry, but she already knew he felt the same anxiety as she. If he had not, he would never have agreed to leave his troops in the command of another.
With a harsh cry, the woman kicked her mount into a gallop, forcing those around her to jump hastily out of the way. Once clear of their camp, she bent low over the saddle, urging her beast on.
Her father would have agreed this was the correct course. He would have understood their action to abandon him and the others. He was far too important. Without him, this entire rebellion would be for naught.
She ignored the other reason she was frantic to get to him, ensure he was safe. He had chosen, after all, and regardless of that, she still had her duty. These were issues that would need to be addressed, but much, much later. For now, she pushed these thoughts to the background, concentrating on keeping her seat, and finding him.
Her mount gained ground away from Loghain. She could hear him shouting out to her, but she paid him no mind. She bent down further, her chest brushing the pummel of the saddle, ducking low hanging limbs. She accepted the scratches along the side of her face from the stems that stuck out, and told herself that the tears that welled in her eyes were from the physical sting, and not from any thoughts of her father or the soldiers or him.
The heavy sound of horses’ hooves churning the ground came to her ears. With a glance to her side, she saw a heavily armored Orlesian war horse bearing down upon her. Her own beast was tiring, trying to maintain its footing along the underbrush and leaf strewn forest floor. Releasing one hand from the reins, the young woman pulled her sword free of its scabbard, and prepared to meet the chevalier who bore down on her.
Still lying low on her horse, she slashed out, catching the oncoming blade of her foe, twisting the sword along its length, and then snapping the chevalier’s blade out of his hands. Bladeless, the knight urged his armored mount forward, slamming its peytrel into the lighter stead’s side.
With a whinny of pain and surprise, the Fereldan horse stumbled. There was a loud “snap” as the poor creature’s leg broke. Screaming in agony, the horse and its rider fell to the ground.
Tucking herself in, the young woman rolled away from her thrashing mount, rising quickly, her sword still in hand. The chevalier, his helm down about his face, kicked his horse around the injured stead, seeking to run the young woman into the ground.
She stood her place, sword out and ready, pulling her shield off her back, and braced before her. She kept telling herself to stand steady, wait, don’t run…and then Now! She jumped to the side, swinging out with her sword. The steel of her blade screamed against the steel of the horse’s peytrel, bumping along the flanchard, and then just before the crupper, it cut into flesh. As she stabbed a deep cut into the side of the unfortunate beast, it gave out a loud whinny, bucking slightly as it spun about, almost knocking its rider to the ground.
The young warrior spun about, regaining her stance, preparing for the chevalier to continue his attempt to drive her into the ground. She heard another horse come up behind her, and she dared a glance back. It was Loghain, no longer holding the reins of his mount, standing slightly over his saddle, his bow in hand, letting an arrow fly. Grace and precision, and the arrow found its target, just below the chevalier’s helm, into his neck.
Loghain brought his horse to a halt, glaring down at the young woman. She accepted his scolding without a word, knowing the reason behind it, and acknowledged her folly for racing away. She accepted his offered hand and allowed him to pull her up behind him on his mount. Retaining her grip on her sword, her other arm around his waist, she watched with dull amusement as Loghain continued to hold onto his bow, the pair continued their frantic search.
There, ahead, there was activity - perhaps battle - just over the rise of a hillock. Their mount stumbled several times, and the young woman voiced her opinion that taking the beast any further in was foolish. The gnarled roots, layers of dirt and leaves, and other forest debris made the footing treacherous for the beast. Nodding his consent, her companion pulled the animal to a halt, and then helped her dismount, him following closely.
They split up, circling around the foot of the hillock.
Her feet slipped on the treacherous ground, the young warrior found herself circumnavigating the hillock base, using her gauntleted hands to keep her balance as much as her feet. Cursing at the noise she was making, she straightened as four Orlesian soldiers burst from the surrounding wood. Turning to engage the nearest, she did not notice as the other three fell, dead, with black fletched arrows sticking from eye, throat and chest.
The soldier she faced off against was a huge, burly man wielding a heavy two-handed greatsword. She braced her shield before her, giving her sword an experimental swipe, keeping her wrist loose. The soldier grinned toothily at her. She tilts her head slightly, ignoring the leering looks the man gives her, and she steps in, her sword leading, her shield raised to accept the blow of his sword as he lunges over and down at her.
The blow is heavy, and awkward. Why would anyone use such a huge blade? She had to wonder. She easily side stepped the blow, this time rushing at the Orlesian, lifting it slightly to bash solidly into his face. He staggered, and she swung her own blade in, hearing the whistle it made as it cut through the air, driving in under the exposed armpit of the man who is stumbling before her. He let out a blood curdling shriek, and she twisted the blade slightly, pulling back, to allow the tip to drive into the exposed flesh, driving deeply into his chest, piercing lung and heart.
He gurgled as he slumped to the ground, and the young woman stepped back, puffing a breath of air upwards at a lock of chestnut colored hair that had fallen into her face. Breathing hard, she looked around, taking in her surroundings. There was obviously a battle ahead, atop the hillock. She tried to push down a worry; she cannot locate Loghain. Loghain can take care of himself, she assured herself as she resumed her climb upwards. She was determined to believe that.
Her feet slip, and she fell to her knees. She hated the forest. She can admit it, at least to herself. Despite having always lived in the wilderness, seldom with a roof over head since joining the rebellion, she just hated it. Not because it is dirty, or always seemed to be damp, but because it is unpredictable. She did not like unpredictable. No, she reminded herself, in some things - in some people - she can almost like it. Her thoughts turn to him. He has certainly turned out to be unpredictable.
There was a gnarled root and she planted her foot upon it, rising again, making her way upwards to the battle she knows is happening above.
She climbed to the hillock’s horizon, and stopped as she took in the sight before her.
Sitting up the ground was Maric, watching with that same bemused smile on his face when he’s entranced or thinking too hard. Above him, dancing in a whirl of blades, snarling with hatred, was an elven woman - Dalish, if her outlandish armor and the swirling tattoo around her eye was any indication - battling against a heavily armored chevalier. The young woman watched as the elf dipped under a particularly heavy blow, taunting the man as she spun behind him, her blades rose to deliver a blow.
The human female looks back at Maric. Why is he just sitting there? She fumes. He’s going to get himself - and that elf - killed! She was already wondering how the elven warrior was able to avoid Maric’s feet as she continued to harass the Orlesian. And, based upon the insults the elf tossed toward Maric every now again, the human warrior believed she is not too pleased that he remains.
Oh, I like her already, she thought with a grin.
Her dark eyes turn back to the battle, thinking that now Maric must remain where he is, so as not to draw attention to himself. The elf had danced back in front of the knight, a feral grin on her face. The human wonders briefly if she has that same look on her face when she realizes she has a foe defeated. The Dalish had ducked down, out of reach of the chevalier’s blade and shield, and then suddenly she is inside the shield. Such grace! The human thinks, a small pang of jealousy looming in her heart. And that little twinge of jealousy disappeared instantly as the elf’s blade drives upwards, through the soft flesh of the under chin, straight up into the man’s brain. Jealousy is replaced with admiration.
Casting about, certain no other foes were in the vicinity, the human woman stepped up, cresting the top, her shield and sword at the ready. The Dalish offered Maric a hand up, pulling him to his feet, when she obviously hears her approach. Sharp ears! The woman is horrified by the grace and speed with which the Dalish drops her blades, unslings her bow, and has it notched and pointed at…Loghain, who stands nearby, his own bow notched and arrow pointed at the Dalish.
The elven warrior sneers at Loghain, and then looks in the other woman’s direction. The sneer eases, and the elven woman grants the human a slight, respectful nod. Maric has jumped up and between the warriors, shouting for peace, his eyes searching the human woman’s. She nods, lowering her shield and blade. Loghain holds his position longer, ordering the Dalish to lower her weapon. The human woman almost - almost - smiles as the Dalish woman snarls back that he should lower his if he wishes to continue drawing breath. Her dark head bowed slightly to hide the grin on her face as Loghain casts one last icy look at the elf, and then, with the slightest of nods, lowers his bow.
She is surprised when the elf glances at her again. She nods, and the elf, too, lowers her weapon.
She lets out a sigh of relief. Maric is alive…Loghain lives…and she made it through the forest.
And, it would seem they have a new ally.
There is a crashing sound, the sound of running feet. The Dalish archer and Loghain have both spun about, their bows notched and ready for flight. She spins toward the noise, her shield and sword ready for the strike.
Then, breathless, clutching a dagger in one small hand, is Katriel. Wonderful. She thinks, sheathing her sword as Maric leaps - once again - in front of the both archers. She finds herself wondering if Loghain will take this chance. He doesn’t, and lowers his bow. He then nods to the Dalish who lowers hers.
Wait? Did she just call Katriel a flat ear? Interesting.
She steps forward, asking the Dalish her name. She hears Adaia and thinks it is a lovely name. Maric introduces himself to her, with a slight courtly bow. The Dalish is rolling her eyes at that, obviously not impressed.
Maric steps over to her, looking at her with concern in his eyes. I’m fine, she assures him as she, too, makes a quick inspection of him. He accepts the attention with a grin, and she ignores the slight flutter in her stomach as he laughs, taking her hand and patting it.
The Dalish and Loghain as still staring at one another, measuring each other up. Katriel has stepped closer to the other elven woman, who towers over the tiny elf (she’s nearly as tall as a man!), purposefully ignoring her and her incessant chatter.
The human woman steps forward, offering her hand to the Dalish woman, who she has already decided she likes a great deal. A blond brow rises in question, and she glanced down at the proffered hand.
Smiling, taking Adaia’s hand, pressing it strongly, she says, “My name is Rowan Guerrin. I am most pleased to meet you, Adaia.”
Rowan was a bit harder to write from as she is more complicated than Maric. Adaia was easy as, well, she’s mine! *grins*
Rowan
Anxiety was building in her, threatening to spill out. She kept glancing out toward the direction of the encampment, out to where he was supposed to be. She turned her eyes back to her companion, who was giving final instructions to the lieutenant. She heard a respectful “Milady” behind her and she turned, taking hold of the reins offered her by the young soldier.
As Loghain barked out the last command, the young woman swung herself into the saddle of her mount, turning it as her friend swung onto his. She had a frantic need to just yell at him to hurry, but she already knew he felt the same anxiety as she. If he had not, he would never have agreed to leave his troops in the command of another.
With a harsh cry, the woman kicked her mount into a gallop, forcing those around her to jump hastily out of the way. Once clear of their camp, she bent low over the saddle, urging her beast on.
Her father would have agreed this was the correct course. He would have understood their action to abandon him and the others. He was far too important. Without him, this entire rebellion would be for naught.
She ignored the other reason she was frantic to get to him, ensure he was safe. He had chosen, after all, and regardless of that, she still had her duty. These were issues that would need to be addressed, but much, much later. For now, she pushed these thoughts to the background, concentrating on keeping her seat, and finding him.
Her mount gained ground away from Loghain. She could hear him shouting out to her, but she paid him no mind. She bent down further, her chest brushing the pummel of the saddle, ducking low hanging limbs. She accepted the scratches along the side of her face from the stems that stuck out, and told herself that the tears that welled in her eyes were from the physical sting, and not from any thoughts of her father or the soldiers or him.
The heavy sound of horses’ hooves churning the ground came to her ears. With a glance to her side, she saw a heavily armored Orlesian war horse bearing down upon her. Her own beast was tiring, trying to maintain its footing along the underbrush and leaf strewn forest floor. Releasing one hand from the reins, the young woman pulled her sword free of its scabbard, and prepared to meet the chevalier who bore down on her.
Still lying low on her horse, she slashed out, catching the oncoming blade of her foe, twisting the sword along its length, and then snapping the chevalier’s blade out of his hands. Bladeless, the knight urged his armored mount forward, slamming its peytrel into the lighter stead’s side.
With a whinny of pain and surprise, the Fereldan horse stumbled. There was a loud “snap” as the poor creature’s leg broke. Screaming in agony, the horse and its rider fell to the ground.
Tucking herself in, the young woman rolled away from her thrashing mount, rising quickly, her sword still in hand. The chevalier, his helm down about his face, kicked his horse around the injured stead, seeking to run the young woman into the ground.
She stood her place, sword out and ready, pulling her shield off her back, and braced before her. She kept telling herself to stand steady, wait, don’t run…and then Now! She jumped to the side, swinging out with her sword. The steel of her blade screamed against the steel of the horse’s peytrel, bumping along the flanchard, and then just before the crupper, it cut into flesh. As she stabbed a deep cut into the side of the unfortunate beast, it gave out a loud whinny, bucking slightly as it spun about, almost knocking its rider to the ground.
The young warrior spun about, regaining her stance, preparing for the chevalier to continue his attempt to drive her into the ground. She heard another horse come up behind her, and she dared a glance back. It was Loghain, no longer holding the reins of his mount, standing slightly over his saddle, his bow in hand, letting an arrow fly. Grace and precision, and the arrow found its target, just below the chevalier’s helm, into his neck.
Loghain brought his horse to a halt, glaring down at the young woman. She accepted his scolding without a word, knowing the reason behind it, and acknowledged her folly for racing away. She accepted his offered hand and allowed him to pull her up behind him on his mount. Retaining her grip on her sword, her other arm around his waist, she watched with dull amusement as Loghain continued to hold onto his bow, the pair continued their frantic search.
There, ahead, there was activity - perhaps battle - just over the rise of a hillock. Their mount stumbled several times, and the young woman voiced her opinion that taking the beast any further in was foolish. The gnarled roots, layers of dirt and leaves, and other forest debris made the footing treacherous for the beast. Nodding his consent, her companion pulled the animal to a halt, and then helped her dismount, him following closely.
They split up, circling around the foot of the hillock.
Her feet slipped on the treacherous ground, the young warrior found herself circumnavigating the hillock base, using her gauntleted hands to keep her balance as much as her feet. Cursing at the noise she was making, she straightened as four Orlesian soldiers burst from the surrounding wood. Turning to engage the nearest, she did not notice as the other three fell, dead, with black fletched arrows sticking from eye, throat and chest.
The soldier she faced off against was a huge, burly man wielding a heavy two-handed greatsword. She braced her shield before her, giving her sword an experimental swipe, keeping her wrist loose. The soldier grinned toothily at her. She tilts her head slightly, ignoring the leering looks the man gives her, and she steps in, her sword leading, her shield raised to accept the blow of his sword as he lunges over and down at her.
The blow is heavy, and awkward. Why would anyone use such a huge blade? She had to wonder. She easily side stepped the blow, this time rushing at the Orlesian, lifting it slightly to bash solidly into his face. He staggered, and she swung her own blade in, hearing the whistle it made as it cut through the air, driving in under the exposed armpit of the man who is stumbling before her. He let out a blood curdling shriek, and she twisted the blade slightly, pulling back, to allow the tip to drive into the exposed flesh, driving deeply into his chest, piercing lung and heart.
He gurgled as he slumped to the ground, and the young woman stepped back, puffing a breath of air upwards at a lock of chestnut colored hair that had fallen into her face. Breathing hard, she looked around, taking in her surroundings. There was obviously a battle ahead, atop the hillock. She tried to push down a worry; she cannot locate Loghain. Loghain can take care of himself, she assured herself as she resumed her climb upwards. She was determined to believe that.
Her feet slip, and she fell to her knees. She hated the forest. She can admit it, at least to herself. Despite having always lived in the wilderness, seldom with a roof over head since joining the rebellion, she just hated it. Not because it is dirty, or always seemed to be damp, but because it is unpredictable. She did not like unpredictable. No, she reminded herself, in some things - in some people - she can almost like it. Her thoughts turn to him. He has certainly turned out to be unpredictable.
There was a gnarled root and she planted her foot upon it, rising again, making her way upwards to the battle she knows is happening above.
She climbed to the hillock’s horizon, and stopped as she took in the sight before her.
Sitting up the ground was Maric, watching with that same bemused smile on his face when he’s entranced or thinking too hard. Above him, dancing in a whirl of blades, snarling with hatred, was an elven woman - Dalish, if her outlandish armor and the swirling tattoo around her eye was any indication - battling against a heavily armored chevalier. The young woman watched as the elf dipped under a particularly heavy blow, taunting the man as she spun behind him, her blades rose to deliver a blow.
The human female looks back at Maric. Why is he just sitting there? She fumes. He’s going to get himself - and that elf - killed! She was already wondering how the elven warrior was able to avoid Maric’s feet as she continued to harass the Orlesian. And, based upon the insults the elf tossed toward Maric every now again, the human warrior believed she is not too pleased that he remains.
Oh, I like her already, she thought with a grin.
Her dark eyes turn back to the battle, thinking that now Maric must remain where he is, so as not to draw attention to himself. The elf had danced back in front of the knight, a feral grin on her face. The human wonders briefly if she has that same look on her face when she realizes she has a foe defeated. The Dalish had ducked down, out of reach of the chevalier’s blade and shield, and then suddenly she is inside the shield. Such grace! The human thinks, a small pang of jealousy looming in her heart. And that little twinge of jealousy disappeared instantly as the elf’s blade drives upwards, through the soft flesh of the under chin, straight up into the man’s brain. Jealousy is replaced with admiration.
Casting about, certain no other foes were in the vicinity, the human woman stepped up, cresting the top, her shield and sword at the ready. The Dalish offered Maric a hand up, pulling him to his feet, when she obviously hears her approach. Sharp ears! The woman is horrified by the grace and speed with which the Dalish drops her blades, unslings her bow, and has it notched and pointed at…Loghain, who stands nearby, his own bow notched and arrow pointed at the Dalish.
The elven warrior sneers at Loghain, and then looks in the other woman’s direction. The sneer eases, and the elven woman grants the human a slight, respectful nod. Maric has jumped up and between the warriors, shouting for peace, his eyes searching the human woman’s. She nods, lowering her shield and blade. Loghain holds his position longer, ordering the Dalish to lower her weapon. The human woman almost - almost - smiles as the Dalish woman snarls back that he should lower his if he wishes to continue drawing breath. Her dark head bowed slightly to hide the grin on her face as Loghain casts one last icy look at the elf, and then, with the slightest of nods, lowers his bow.
She is surprised when the elf glances at her again. She nods, and the elf, too, lowers her weapon.
She lets out a sigh of relief. Maric is alive…Loghain lives…and she made it through the forest.
And, it would seem they have a new ally.
There is a crashing sound, the sound of running feet. The Dalish archer and Loghain have both spun about, their bows notched and ready for flight. She spins toward the noise, her shield and sword ready for the strike.
Then, breathless, clutching a dagger in one small hand, is Katriel. Wonderful. She thinks, sheathing her sword as Maric leaps - once again - in front of the both archers. She finds herself wondering if Loghain will take this chance. He doesn’t, and lowers his bow. He then nods to the Dalish who lowers hers.
Wait? Did she just call Katriel a flat ear? Interesting.
She steps forward, asking the Dalish her name. She hears Adaia and thinks it is a lovely name. Maric introduces himself to her, with a slight courtly bow. The Dalish is rolling her eyes at that, obviously not impressed.
Maric steps over to her, looking at her with concern in his eyes. I’m fine, she assures him as she, too, makes a quick inspection of him. He accepts the attention with a grin, and she ignores the slight flutter in her stomach as he laughs, taking her hand and patting it.
The Dalish and Loghain as still staring at one another, measuring each other up. Katriel has stepped closer to the other elven woman, who towers over the tiny elf (she’s nearly as tall as a man!), purposefully ignoring her and her incessant chatter.
The human woman steps forward, offering her hand to the Dalish woman, who she has already decided she likes a great deal. A blond brow rises in question, and she glanced down at the proffered hand.
Smiling, taking Adaia’s hand, pressing it strongly, she says, “My name is Rowan Guerrin. I am most pleased to meet you, Adaia.”
#4
Posté 11 avril 2011 - 02:14
SheilaD67
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The canon of DA is just a far away memory…I’ve added my own little twists and turns to the universe of DragonAge. I hope you enjoy the trip…
Loghain was near impossible to write! You’d think I’d be getting the hang of him, but here he has so much of himself in it that it took me a long time to get it right. I hope it worked. The next chapter shouldn’t take so long to post.
Loghain
Damn him to the furthest, bloody reaches of the Fade! The young man seethed as he barked out orders to the startled lieutenant. What by the blazes was he thinking?
He turned, grasping hold of his mount’s reins. Rowan had already mounted her beast and was practically biting at the bit herself. He spun his horse about; she had already urged her mare forward, nearly cutting down soldiers in her haste.
With a shake of his black head, he kicked his own mount after the woman.
He ignored the screams and shouts as he urged his mount after his companion. He understood her agitation, could feel it himself. He glanced over his shoulder, watching as the troops he was supposed to have led gathered up to follow his fairly green lieutenant. A snarl crossed his face and his kicked his horse to a faster pace. He had better still be alive…
He shouted out Rowan’s name, scowling as she continued to gain ground away from him.
They burst from the openness of the camps and plunged into the surrounding forest. The archer twisted his head, trying to listen above the sounds of his horses churning hooves. Shouts in a foreign language - Orlesian - could be heard from around him. He turned his head, blinking at a lithe, shadowy form that backed into the thick wilderness. He rose in his saddle, pulling his bow before him, reaching over for an arrow. A scream of pain arose from the direction of the shadow and then silence.
Perhaps we have allies…the young, dark man dared to hope. A sardonic smile crossed his serious face. Hardly.
During the frantic plunge from the camp, Rowan and her horse had been lost. He fought down a wave of panic; Rowan was more than capable of taking care of herself, he reminded himself, pulling his mount to a trot, his keen eyes scanning the surrounding woods. His sight caught - briefly - another shadowy form, skimming along the boundaries of the trees, his ears heard more screams of pain and death.
A shout to his left caused the dark archer to turn, his leathers whispering with the movement. An Orlesian foot soldier burst from the wood, his sword raised to lash out at the rebel. Icy blue eyes narrowed, and the archer quickly and deftly raised his bow, firing the arrow already notched into the soldier’s throat. The Orlesian’s eyes widened as he toppled to the forest floor.
A snort arose from the horse’s nostrils as he pulled it to a halt. Ahead stood a hillock, but around him he could clearly hear the sounds of movement. Quickly he slid from his mount, giving it a reassuring pat on its flank as he pulled another arrow from his quiver, preparing his bow in case other foes erupted from the forest. He paused, cocking his head to the side, listening. A sharp cry to the west caused him to spin around, his bow raised, arrow notched. It was the cry of a horse in its death throes. Snarling, he raced in that direction.
Twigs snapped and a curse to his left. The archer spun, releasing the arrow into the shoulder of an approaching chevalier. The foreign knight cursed at the archer in his native tongue, grasping hold of the missile, pulling it free from his flesh. Bringing an unwieldy two handed sword over his head, he swung down at the unprotected head of the archer.
He dove gracefully to the side, dropping his bow and unsheathing the longsword strapped to his side, swinging it up to block the descending blade. With a quick flick of his wrist, the archer twisted the heavier blade away, regaining his feet in the process. The chevalier swung his blade back, opening himself beautifully for the graceful fighter now on his feet. Experience guided his hand, thrusting the blade deeply between the plates of the knight’s heavy armor. Bringing himself closer, using his own weight to push the blade in further, the archer smirked into the face of the dying Orlesian as he drove the blade upward, piercing heart and lung. Snarling in his face, the rebel pulled his blade out in one quick thrust, swinging it around, cleaving through flesh and bone to remove the invader’s head.
Sheathing the blade, the man watched with satisfaction as the headless corpse fell to the ground in a bloody mess.
His quick eyes spied his bow and, after retrieving this, he retrieved his mount, swinging himself into the saddle. Urging the beast into a trot, he spotted Rowan, facing off against a chevalier. With a soft growl, he pulled his bow up, notched an arrow and, as he neared the pair, let the missile loose. He allowed a feeling of satisfaction to flow over him as the missile penetrated the knight’s neck.
Icy blue eyes met Rowan’s dark orbs, and he was rather pleased to note the chagrin that crossed her lovely face. Shaking his head, he pulled her behind him, ignoring the thrill the coursed through him as she put her arms around his waist. Catching his breath, he urged the horse forward, bow still in hand, racing toward the hillock.
The beast stumbled, but valiantly continued on. Rowan tightened her grip, pulling herself forward so that he could hear her. She suggested they stop; that continuing onward on horseback was foolhardy. His eyes skimmed the ground rushing beneath them and nodded his agreement. It would not do to have the horse catch a root. Pulling the horse to a stop, he assisted the young woman dismount, and then slid down, his bow still in hand. Giving the horse a pat, the pair moved away, circling the hillock in opposite directions.
Carefully a foot was placed, mindful that enemies surrounded them. He did not let thoughts of Rowan enter his mind; she was skillful and could take care of any foes she encountered. No. It was Maric, the fool that the archer was concerned for. The idiot probably didn’t even bring his blade with him came the sarcastic thought.
Darkness surrounded him, but his eyes, trained for night stalking, could make out the tall silhouettes of the trees and foliage. He narrowed his eyes, focusing a bit ahead. There, he could clearly make out the form of a man, stumbling in his heavy armor. The fools. Did they really think all that metal would protect them in the wilds? Stepping further into the shadows, he carefully and silently made his way to where the chevalier stood.
Shouts and snarls caught his attention. He looked up to the hillock, unable to see to the top. He pressed his back against the earth as the sounds of grunts and falling bodies came to his ears. He turned. The chevalier still stood, trying to blend in, unaware that his bulky form could not blend in with all that metal encasing him. The archer rose, pulling his bow up, notching an arrow. He paused, continuing to listen. The sounds of battle rose to his ears. First to the west, and then directly above him. Two battles. Rowan and Maric? He raised his bow, aiming at the still form. The fighting to the west had stopped. He let the arrow fly, nodding as a gasp sounded and the form fell.
He started to turn, and was knocked down by a heavy hand connecting with his jaw. He looked up. An Orlesian scout. Shaking his head, angry he had not heard the man’s approach, he crab walked backwards, pushing himself up as the scout brought a slender longsword swinging at his head. He rolled to the side, finally regaining his feet. He brought his bow up, tangling the blade in it, twisting, trying to dislodge the blade from the scout’s hand. This one is skilled, he thought ruefully as his bow was ripped from his hands. Scowling, he pulled his own longsword free, and the two men circled each other.
The scout cursed at the rebel in his language. A black brow arched and the young archer made a quip about the man’s birthright. The scout, a man perhaps ten years the rebel archer’s senior, merely smiled, almost pleasantly, as though they were exchanging comments about the weather. The archer’s scowl deepened, snarling out at the scout. He would bloody well make certain personally that all these Orlesian dogs were removed from his precious Fereldan’s soil. The scout merely shrugged his shoulders, swinging his sword down and across.
The young rebel brought his sword out, parrying the scout’s swing easily. They continued to circle, jabbing and swinging at the other, feeling his opponent out. This one seemed far more skilled - and patient - than many of the chevaliers he had previously battled.
He circled, now facing the hillock. He allowed his gaze to briefly seek the top of the mound. The sounds of battle continued to wage. What if Maric was up there? He wondered, angered that he had been so delayed by this fool of a scout. His blade swings out, catching the other’s man’s sword, pushing it away. With a spin, the archer closes the distance and, his blade still holding the other’s sword away, turns his back, raising an elbow. With one quick jab, his elbow connects with the scout’s windpipe, crushing it. Gasping, staggering back, the older man flounders, dropping his sword from deadened fingers as he grasps his ruined throat. Not pausing, the archer continues his spin, sweeping his sword along with him, gaining momentum. A second head clears its shoulders.
Pausing only a moment to catch his breath, the rebel retrieves his bow, sheathes his sword, and begins to climb the hillock.
He pauses briefly at the crest, amazed at what he sees. A young Dalish woman battles a chevalier, spinning her blades in a dizzying whirl. He notes Maric is nearby, presumably uninjured but yet unmoving. He shakes his head in disbelief, noting the astonished and almost worshipful look upon the young prince’s face as he watches the elven woman fight before him. He turns back to watch as the woman, standing almost as tall as her foe, dips under a swing, rising behind the chevalier’s shield. Good move, he congratulates the elf as she drives her blades up into the soft part under his chin.
His amusement changes as he watches her whirl upon Maric, her stance hostile. He doesn’t pause to listen, but pushes himself the last few feet to the top, his bow up, arrow notched, ready to fire.
He takes note of Rowan clearing the crest, her shield and sword in her hands.
He turns back, amazement in his eyes, as he notes that the Dalish warrior had dropped her blades, pulled her bow and notched it with such grace and speed that he is momentarily caught off guard.
Icy blue orbs meet those of steel. The Dalish warrior sneers at the human archer; he matches that sneer with one of his own. Maric seems to have regained his senses and is now rushing to place himself between them, calling for peace. From the corner of his eye, he sees Rowan lower her blade and shield, offering the female elf a slight nod.
His eyes narrowed; he calls for the elf to lower her bow. Her eyes hard as steel, her face betraying nothing but hatred, she retorts that if he values his life he will do so. The rebel archer pauses, watching. She is strong and fierce. Fearless. She is surrounded by three humans, and yet there is not a trace of fear or of backing down. Her stance does not waver, and he is certain that if neither of them backs down soon, one of them will be dead.
And so he relaxes his own stance, and lowers his bow. He takes note of the faint surprise that shows in Maric’s eyes.
The elf takes a moment, probably watching for any deceit, and then she, too, lowers her bow. But her body does not relax; she is prepared for any betrayal on the part of these humans. He nods his appreciation; her eyes narrowed, and she returns the gesture.
Together, almost in perfect synchrony, the pair of archers spin, bows up, arrows notched, as a small form, wielding a dagger, bursts into the circle. Maric again places himself between the two - he is going to get himself killed if he keeps doing that! - waving his arms. The rebel notes that it is Katriel. He narrows his eyes, retaining his stance. Maric again calls for him to disarm. With a small nod, he does so. The elf glances in his direction, as though asking for direction. He is mildly surprised by this, but offers a small nod. She reluctantly lowers her weapon. As he turns toward Maric, the archer cannot help but notice that the glares she sends to the other elf are far more hostile than those she bestows upon the humans. He smirks as the Dalish calls the other elf ‘flat ears’. Having been around his Night Elves, the archer is fully aware that she has delivered one of the vilest of insults to the other elf.
Rowan has asked the Dalish her name, to which she responds Adaia. Maric, ever courteous, obviously enthralled with his Dalish rescuer, bows, introducing himself. The Dalish - Adaia - has turned back to him, measuring him up with those cold, knowing eyes. He finds himself returning the stare, taking in her measure. He had noted before she was tall - almost as tall as an average human man, and that, in and of itself is unusual for an elf. She is strong boned and muscled, but not overly so. She obviously can handle herself in a fight, which is obvious by the bodies on the hillock. The archer also assumes she is responsible for the deaths he heard earlier. Her blond hair is short, darkened with mud to enable her to move more stealthily in the darkness. The swirling tattoo around her right eye gives her striking features an almost feral look.
Katriel has stepped closer to the Dalish, asking her inane questions, to which the taller elven woman pointedly ignores her. The smaller elf backs away at the hostile look the Dalish eventually gives her.
Moving away from Maric, Rowan steps to the Dalish, holding her hand out to the other woman. The Dalish looks with bemusement at the proffered hand, and Rowan reaches over and carefully takes a hold of one of her hands. A blond brow shoots up as Rowan introduces herself. A slight bow and the Dalish gripped the human woman’s hand.
Maric tosses his friend a look, and, with a snarl, the young archer raises his head. The Dalish is watching him again, and it’s rather disconcerting how deeply she seems to be able to see into him. He frowns at that thought, pushing it aside.
“You may call me Loghain,” he finally growls out, offering the elven woman the slightest of bows. She offers a sardonic smile to match his, and returns that slight bow with one of her own.
Loghain was near impossible to write! You’d think I’d be getting the hang of him, but here he has so much of himself in it that it took me a long time to get it right. I hope it worked. The next chapter shouldn’t take so long to post.
Loghain
Damn him to the furthest, bloody reaches of the Fade! The young man seethed as he barked out orders to the startled lieutenant. What by the blazes was he thinking?
He turned, grasping hold of his mount’s reins. Rowan had already mounted her beast and was practically biting at the bit herself. He spun his horse about; she had already urged her mare forward, nearly cutting down soldiers in her haste.
With a shake of his black head, he kicked his own mount after the woman.
He ignored the screams and shouts as he urged his mount after his companion. He understood her agitation, could feel it himself. He glanced over his shoulder, watching as the troops he was supposed to have led gathered up to follow his fairly green lieutenant. A snarl crossed his face and his kicked his horse to a faster pace. He had better still be alive…
He shouted out Rowan’s name, scowling as she continued to gain ground away from him.
They burst from the openness of the camps and plunged into the surrounding forest. The archer twisted his head, trying to listen above the sounds of his horses churning hooves. Shouts in a foreign language - Orlesian - could be heard from around him. He turned his head, blinking at a lithe, shadowy form that backed into the thick wilderness. He rose in his saddle, pulling his bow before him, reaching over for an arrow. A scream of pain arose from the direction of the shadow and then silence.
Perhaps we have allies…the young, dark man dared to hope. A sardonic smile crossed his serious face. Hardly.
During the frantic plunge from the camp, Rowan and her horse had been lost. He fought down a wave of panic; Rowan was more than capable of taking care of herself, he reminded himself, pulling his mount to a trot, his keen eyes scanning the surrounding woods. His sight caught - briefly - another shadowy form, skimming along the boundaries of the trees, his ears heard more screams of pain and death.
A shout to his left caused the dark archer to turn, his leathers whispering with the movement. An Orlesian foot soldier burst from the wood, his sword raised to lash out at the rebel. Icy blue eyes narrowed, and the archer quickly and deftly raised his bow, firing the arrow already notched into the soldier’s throat. The Orlesian’s eyes widened as he toppled to the forest floor.
A snort arose from the horse’s nostrils as he pulled it to a halt. Ahead stood a hillock, but around him he could clearly hear the sounds of movement. Quickly he slid from his mount, giving it a reassuring pat on its flank as he pulled another arrow from his quiver, preparing his bow in case other foes erupted from the forest. He paused, cocking his head to the side, listening. A sharp cry to the west caused him to spin around, his bow raised, arrow notched. It was the cry of a horse in its death throes. Snarling, he raced in that direction.
Twigs snapped and a curse to his left. The archer spun, releasing the arrow into the shoulder of an approaching chevalier. The foreign knight cursed at the archer in his native tongue, grasping hold of the missile, pulling it free from his flesh. Bringing an unwieldy two handed sword over his head, he swung down at the unprotected head of the archer.
He dove gracefully to the side, dropping his bow and unsheathing the longsword strapped to his side, swinging it up to block the descending blade. With a quick flick of his wrist, the archer twisted the heavier blade away, regaining his feet in the process. The chevalier swung his blade back, opening himself beautifully for the graceful fighter now on his feet. Experience guided his hand, thrusting the blade deeply between the plates of the knight’s heavy armor. Bringing himself closer, using his own weight to push the blade in further, the archer smirked into the face of the dying Orlesian as he drove the blade upward, piercing heart and lung. Snarling in his face, the rebel pulled his blade out in one quick thrust, swinging it around, cleaving through flesh and bone to remove the invader’s head.
Sheathing the blade, the man watched with satisfaction as the headless corpse fell to the ground in a bloody mess.
His quick eyes spied his bow and, after retrieving this, he retrieved his mount, swinging himself into the saddle. Urging the beast into a trot, he spotted Rowan, facing off against a chevalier. With a soft growl, he pulled his bow up, notched an arrow and, as he neared the pair, let the missile loose. He allowed a feeling of satisfaction to flow over him as the missile penetrated the knight’s neck.
Icy blue eyes met Rowan’s dark orbs, and he was rather pleased to note the chagrin that crossed her lovely face. Shaking his head, he pulled her behind him, ignoring the thrill the coursed through him as she put her arms around his waist. Catching his breath, he urged the horse forward, bow still in hand, racing toward the hillock.
The beast stumbled, but valiantly continued on. Rowan tightened her grip, pulling herself forward so that he could hear her. She suggested they stop; that continuing onward on horseback was foolhardy. His eyes skimmed the ground rushing beneath them and nodded his agreement. It would not do to have the horse catch a root. Pulling the horse to a stop, he assisted the young woman dismount, and then slid down, his bow still in hand. Giving the horse a pat, the pair moved away, circling the hillock in opposite directions.
Carefully a foot was placed, mindful that enemies surrounded them. He did not let thoughts of Rowan enter his mind; she was skillful and could take care of any foes she encountered. No. It was Maric, the fool that the archer was concerned for. The idiot probably didn’t even bring his blade with him came the sarcastic thought.
Darkness surrounded him, but his eyes, trained for night stalking, could make out the tall silhouettes of the trees and foliage. He narrowed his eyes, focusing a bit ahead. There, he could clearly make out the form of a man, stumbling in his heavy armor. The fools. Did they really think all that metal would protect them in the wilds? Stepping further into the shadows, he carefully and silently made his way to where the chevalier stood.
Shouts and snarls caught his attention. He looked up to the hillock, unable to see to the top. He pressed his back against the earth as the sounds of grunts and falling bodies came to his ears. He turned. The chevalier still stood, trying to blend in, unaware that his bulky form could not blend in with all that metal encasing him. The archer rose, pulling his bow up, notching an arrow. He paused, continuing to listen. The sounds of battle rose to his ears. First to the west, and then directly above him. Two battles. Rowan and Maric? He raised his bow, aiming at the still form. The fighting to the west had stopped. He let the arrow fly, nodding as a gasp sounded and the form fell.
He started to turn, and was knocked down by a heavy hand connecting with his jaw. He looked up. An Orlesian scout. Shaking his head, angry he had not heard the man’s approach, he crab walked backwards, pushing himself up as the scout brought a slender longsword swinging at his head. He rolled to the side, finally regaining his feet. He brought his bow up, tangling the blade in it, twisting, trying to dislodge the blade from the scout’s hand. This one is skilled, he thought ruefully as his bow was ripped from his hands. Scowling, he pulled his own longsword free, and the two men circled each other.
The scout cursed at the rebel in his language. A black brow arched and the young archer made a quip about the man’s birthright. The scout, a man perhaps ten years the rebel archer’s senior, merely smiled, almost pleasantly, as though they were exchanging comments about the weather. The archer’s scowl deepened, snarling out at the scout. He would bloody well make certain personally that all these Orlesian dogs were removed from his precious Fereldan’s soil. The scout merely shrugged his shoulders, swinging his sword down and across.
The young rebel brought his sword out, parrying the scout’s swing easily. They continued to circle, jabbing and swinging at the other, feeling his opponent out. This one seemed far more skilled - and patient - than many of the chevaliers he had previously battled.
He circled, now facing the hillock. He allowed his gaze to briefly seek the top of the mound. The sounds of battle continued to wage. What if Maric was up there? He wondered, angered that he had been so delayed by this fool of a scout. His blade swings out, catching the other’s man’s sword, pushing it away. With a spin, the archer closes the distance and, his blade still holding the other’s sword away, turns his back, raising an elbow. With one quick jab, his elbow connects with the scout’s windpipe, crushing it. Gasping, staggering back, the older man flounders, dropping his sword from deadened fingers as he grasps his ruined throat. Not pausing, the archer continues his spin, sweeping his sword along with him, gaining momentum. A second head clears its shoulders.
Pausing only a moment to catch his breath, the rebel retrieves his bow, sheathes his sword, and begins to climb the hillock.
He pauses briefly at the crest, amazed at what he sees. A young Dalish woman battles a chevalier, spinning her blades in a dizzying whirl. He notes Maric is nearby, presumably uninjured but yet unmoving. He shakes his head in disbelief, noting the astonished and almost worshipful look upon the young prince’s face as he watches the elven woman fight before him. He turns back to watch as the woman, standing almost as tall as her foe, dips under a swing, rising behind the chevalier’s shield. Good move, he congratulates the elf as she drives her blades up into the soft part under his chin.
His amusement changes as he watches her whirl upon Maric, her stance hostile. He doesn’t pause to listen, but pushes himself the last few feet to the top, his bow up, arrow notched, ready to fire.
He takes note of Rowan clearing the crest, her shield and sword in her hands.
He turns back, amazement in his eyes, as he notes that the Dalish warrior had dropped her blades, pulled her bow and notched it with such grace and speed that he is momentarily caught off guard.
Icy blue orbs meet those of steel. The Dalish warrior sneers at the human archer; he matches that sneer with one of his own. Maric seems to have regained his senses and is now rushing to place himself between them, calling for peace. From the corner of his eye, he sees Rowan lower her blade and shield, offering the female elf a slight nod.
His eyes narrowed; he calls for the elf to lower her bow. Her eyes hard as steel, her face betraying nothing but hatred, she retorts that if he values his life he will do so. The rebel archer pauses, watching. She is strong and fierce. Fearless. She is surrounded by three humans, and yet there is not a trace of fear or of backing down. Her stance does not waver, and he is certain that if neither of them backs down soon, one of them will be dead.
And so he relaxes his own stance, and lowers his bow. He takes note of the faint surprise that shows in Maric’s eyes.
The elf takes a moment, probably watching for any deceit, and then she, too, lowers her bow. But her body does not relax; she is prepared for any betrayal on the part of these humans. He nods his appreciation; her eyes narrowed, and she returns the gesture.
Together, almost in perfect synchrony, the pair of archers spin, bows up, arrows notched, as a small form, wielding a dagger, bursts into the circle. Maric again places himself between the two - he is going to get himself killed if he keeps doing that! - waving his arms. The rebel notes that it is Katriel. He narrows his eyes, retaining his stance. Maric again calls for him to disarm. With a small nod, he does so. The elf glances in his direction, as though asking for direction. He is mildly surprised by this, but offers a small nod. She reluctantly lowers her weapon. As he turns toward Maric, the archer cannot help but notice that the glares she sends to the other elf are far more hostile than those she bestows upon the humans. He smirks as the Dalish calls the other elf ‘flat ears’. Having been around his Night Elves, the archer is fully aware that she has delivered one of the vilest of insults to the other elf.
Rowan has asked the Dalish her name, to which she responds Adaia. Maric, ever courteous, obviously enthralled with his Dalish rescuer, bows, introducing himself. The Dalish - Adaia - has turned back to him, measuring him up with those cold, knowing eyes. He finds himself returning the stare, taking in her measure. He had noted before she was tall - almost as tall as an average human man, and that, in and of itself is unusual for an elf. She is strong boned and muscled, but not overly so. She obviously can handle herself in a fight, which is obvious by the bodies on the hillock. The archer also assumes she is responsible for the deaths he heard earlier. Her blond hair is short, darkened with mud to enable her to move more stealthily in the darkness. The swirling tattoo around her right eye gives her striking features an almost feral look.
Katriel has stepped closer to the Dalish, asking her inane questions, to which the taller elven woman pointedly ignores her. The smaller elf backs away at the hostile look the Dalish eventually gives her.
Moving away from Maric, Rowan steps to the Dalish, holding her hand out to the other woman. The Dalish looks with bemusement at the proffered hand, and Rowan reaches over and carefully takes a hold of one of her hands. A blond brow shoots up as Rowan introduces herself. A slight bow and the Dalish gripped the human woman’s hand.
Maric tosses his friend a look, and, with a snarl, the young archer raises his head. The Dalish is watching him again, and it’s rather disconcerting how deeply she seems to be able to see into him. He frowns at that thought, pushing it aside.
“You may call me Loghain,” he finally growls out, offering the elven woman the slightest of bows. She offers a sardonic smile to match his, and returns that slight bow with one of her own.
#5
Posté 16 avril 2011 - 06:54
SheilaD67
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Thank you to everyone who reviewed, alerted and favorited this story. It was fun to write (again, Windchime68, my thanks for prompting me to do so!).
This completes the first time Adaia meets up with Maric, Rowan and Loghain. Let me know what you think. Maybe there will be more…
Allies
As the three humans took stock of the Dalish warrior, the shadows surrounding them broke free, forming into the shapes of several Dalish archers, each with their weapons trained upon the shemlens and flat ear that stood with their leader.
Adaia watched as her Dalish hunters surrounded them, taking great pride in their stealth and skill. Foolish shems never stood a chance, she thought as she brought her eyes back to the three humans (and the flat ear) near her. Her eyes turned to meet the cool iciness of Loghain’s stare, and a smile crossed her face. She watched as Loghain blinked as the smile smoothed her face, softening its harshness, revealing the lovely elf that stood hidden behind hatred and aloofness.
She raised a hand to her hunters, and they each stepped forward, ever their bows ready to release upon word or signal from their leader.
Adaia bowed slightly to Loghain, watching as one dark brow twitched upward, that sardonic smile firmly in place. There was a hint of cold suspicion in those pale eyes. Good. He would be a fool not to be.
She then turned toward Rowan, and offered a nod of her head, and watched as the warrior woman relaxed her stance, while still warily eyeing the Dalish warriors that surrounded them.
The flat ear she completely ignored, certain that she was merely the Whimpering Idiot’s **** and therefore deemed unimportant.
Then, she turned to the Whimpering Idiot. No, he had named himself the heir to the Throne of Fereldan. Maric. To him she stepped forward, her steely eyes searching his face. So this fool was to be king of the shem Fereldans? She almost laughed at that thought. And, yet…
She turned back to look again at Loghain and Rowan. To have the loyalty of these two worthies…she noted the confused looks upon the shem warriors’ faces, and only offered them a slightly wider smile.
Back to Maric, she made her decision. Fool he may be, but he could not be too foolish if he surrounded himself with those who were more than capable. And fool that he was, he would need others about him that could think and help him make the decisions that all of Fereldan - human or elf - would need him to.
Her decision was made. Her brother did not need her to guide their clan. He was the Keeper; she was the Hunter. How better to serve her people than to help the one who would be King of Fereldan? She looked at her hunters, eyes going to each resolute and determined face. They were loyal to her, loyal to her brother, loyal to their clan.
Her decision was firm. Taking a step back, she surprised them all - her hunters, the Whimpering Idiot (no, think of him as Maric), the other shems, even the flat ear - as she knelt to one knee, bowing her head, offering her bow to Maric. She heard her hunters follow her example, although none of them offered their bow. Her own bow represented them all - their lives, their strength, their skill. Adaia knew her hunters would follow her to death.
Tentatively, Maric reached out. She hid a snide smile. That would only belie the honor she was bestowing the fool shem, whether he knew it or not. She felt the weight of her bow lift from her hand, and she raised her eyes, and met the bright blue eyes of the human prince. He looked befuddled and more than a little shocked. Her smile became genuine. She decided it would be great fun keeping the Whimpering…Maric on his toes.
He nodded to her, thanking her as he handed her back her bow. She rose; her hunters followed suit.
Behind her, Rowan and Loghain relaxed their stance, each of them approaching their newest ally.
This completes the first time Adaia meets up with Maric, Rowan and Loghain. Let me know what you think. Maybe there will be more…
Allies
As the three humans took stock of the Dalish warrior, the shadows surrounding them broke free, forming into the shapes of several Dalish archers, each with their weapons trained upon the shemlens and flat ear that stood with their leader.
Adaia watched as her Dalish hunters surrounded them, taking great pride in their stealth and skill. Foolish shems never stood a chance, she thought as she brought her eyes back to the three humans (and the flat ear) near her. Her eyes turned to meet the cool iciness of Loghain’s stare, and a smile crossed her face. She watched as Loghain blinked as the smile smoothed her face, softening its harshness, revealing the lovely elf that stood hidden behind hatred and aloofness.
She raised a hand to her hunters, and they each stepped forward, ever their bows ready to release upon word or signal from their leader.
Adaia bowed slightly to Loghain, watching as one dark brow twitched upward, that sardonic smile firmly in place. There was a hint of cold suspicion in those pale eyes. Good. He would be a fool not to be.
She then turned toward Rowan, and offered a nod of her head, and watched as the warrior woman relaxed her stance, while still warily eyeing the Dalish warriors that surrounded them.
The flat ear she completely ignored, certain that she was merely the Whimpering Idiot’s **** and therefore deemed unimportant.
Then, she turned to the Whimpering Idiot. No, he had named himself the heir to the Throne of Fereldan. Maric. To him she stepped forward, her steely eyes searching his face. So this fool was to be king of the shem Fereldans? She almost laughed at that thought. And, yet…
She turned back to look again at Loghain and Rowan. To have the loyalty of these two worthies…she noted the confused looks upon the shem warriors’ faces, and only offered them a slightly wider smile.
Back to Maric, she made her decision. Fool he may be, but he could not be too foolish if he surrounded himself with those who were more than capable. And fool that he was, he would need others about him that could think and help him make the decisions that all of Fereldan - human or elf - would need him to.
Her decision was made. Her brother did not need her to guide their clan. He was the Keeper; she was the Hunter. How better to serve her people than to help the one who would be King of Fereldan? She looked at her hunters, eyes going to each resolute and determined face. They were loyal to her, loyal to her brother, loyal to their clan.
Her decision was firm. Taking a step back, she surprised them all - her hunters, the Whimpering Idiot (no, think of him as Maric), the other shems, even the flat ear - as she knelt to one knee, bowing her head, offering her bow to Maric. She heard her hunters follow her example, although none of them offered their bow. Her own bow represented them all - their lives, their strength, their skill. Adaia knew her hunters would follow her to death.
Tentatively, Maric reached out. She hid a snide smile. That would only belie the honor she was bestowing the fool shem, whether he knew it or not. She felt the weight of her bow lift from her hand, and she raised her eyes, and met the bright blue eyes of the human prince. He looked befuddled and more than a little shocked. Her smile became genuine. She decided it would be great fun keeping the Whimpering…Maric on his toes.
He nodded to her, thanking her as he handed her back her bow. She rose; her hunters followed suit.
Behind her, Rowan and Loghain relaxed their stance, each of them approaching their newest ally.
