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[erynnar]

Chapter 1~ Leather & Lace Chapter 1~Point d' Angelterre

This is a tale of two women who are opposites, and come from very different backgrounds. Their childhoods, their  eventual meeting, and their friendship. This is builiding to an a spin off with Anders that I have planned. And I wanted to be clear that it is Anders from Awakenings, since my story Soulmates is AU and it is that Anders I am writing. No offense to those who love the DA2 Anders, but I am not going that route with him. I hope you enjoy.



They found her, a wide-eyed and soot smudged little girl, amidst the bodies of her parents and

the burning corpses of the bandits who had killed them—the burning mounds of what were once

human beings, melting the thinning snow in the month of Guardian.

First to make the discovery were a group of peasants taking their winter vegetables and canned

goods to the town market. No one had been willing to go to her, not with her tiny hands still

glowing with flames that did not burn her.

Instead, one of their group elected to run to the village and fetch the soldiers there. Or so

she thought, given that the older boy returned with two soldiers in tow.

One soldier, the younger one, stared at her, wide-eyed, and refused to go near her, not even

with a sharp reprimand by the other. Instead, he stared at her as if she were a poisonous

snake about to strike.

She guessed the older one was in charge, but since she spoke only a few words of Fereldan, it

was just a guess. Papa—fluent in the language—had been teaching her and Maman, but their

lessons had only just begun. The older man reminded her of Papa’s friend, Uncle Leodegardis,

the head of the Chevalier in Val Royeaux, and the man from whom she had her middle name. 

The soldier came towards her, causing her heart to beat faster. Despite his resemblance to a

well-loved figure in her life, he also reminded her of the soldier back home, and the reason

why Papa and Maman fled Orlais and came to Ferelden. 

She still remembered the sneering young nobleman’s brat—made a chevalier due to his family

name rather than any talent as a warrior—who put his hands on Maman, trying to kiss her,

tearing at her mother’s clothes. Papa had pulled the man off her mother and they scuffled. The

man had drawn his sword. Papa shoved the man back forcefully and the chevalier fell, cracking

his head open on the paving stones of the street and never to rise again. Uncle Leo told them

to flee, to leave Val Royeaux and Orlais, and never come back or the nobleman’s father would

make sure that Papa would hang from the gallows. Uncle Leo then smuggled them out of the city

in the middle of the night.

So, she had lost her home and come to this foreign, cold place. And now her world was rocked

on its foundation once more.

She backed up until she bumped into the wagon wheel of their cart. She trembled with

exhaustion and fear, and tears for her Maman and Papa, coursing down dirty cheeks, were joined

by soft little mewling cries.

She wanted to be brave. The heat of anger that had swelled up when the bandits first cut her

father down, and then her mother, when Maman wouldn’t stop screaming, left not even a flicker.

All she felt was empty, afraid, and alone.

That anger, the heat of it had risen up and overwhelmed her. She remembered hearing someone

screaming in Orlesian, “burn!” All the fury seemed to flare out of her fingertips, causing

each bandit burn like a torch as her tiny fingers pointed their way.

She shook her head at the man who still made his way towards her. “Non, sil’ vous plaît, non.

Je veux que ma mère et mon père! S'il vous plaît, je veux rentrer chez moi!” She began to cry

in earnest now. Couldn’t he understand she just wanted her parents to get up and for them all

to go home?

She watched the man’s steel grey eyebrows rise in shock, as did her own, when he spoke perfect

Orlesian to her—albeit with a heavy Fereldan accent. “Ma petite, habitez-vous en Orlais? Are

you from Orlais?”

She felt such relief hearing something so familiar in a land so foreign, dangerous, and

frightening that she swayed as she nodded. The man caught her up and cuddled her close like

her Papa did, while his metal armored hand gently stroked her red curls. She relaxed and

rested a damp cheek against the cool metal covering his chest.

“Vous êtes en sécurité, ma petite, vous êtes en sécurité. Vous n'as rien à craindre. You are

safe, little one, you are safe. You have nothing to fear.” He gently picked her up, grasping

her small body to his as he turned and gave orders to those standing there in Fereldan. She

guessed it had to do with Maman and Papa’s bodies, and disposing of the bandits.

She must have fallen asleep as he carried her down the road back to the town the soldier came

from, as she awoke to find herself in a big, four poster bed abutting a wall with a window

that had frost crystals drawing lacy patterns across the thick glass.

Maman told her the fairies danced across the glass in the night, leaving their footprints

behind. The thought of her mother and father made tears well up and the glass to waver as if

it was underwater.

She shook head and pounded small fists on the cold, wooden windowsill. She must be brave; Papa

and Maman would not wish her to be anything else!

She snuck a look at the hands in question, uncurling small fingers and laying them flat. They

looked like fingers, not like magic weapons. How she had done what she did, she didn’t know.

She put her forehead against the cool glass, enjoying the sensation as the room was very warm.

 The fire in the large fireplace crackled and snapped. She noticed that it must have snowed

more in the night, as there were large drifts in the street below, which the people seemed to

ignore as they traipsed through the mounds of snow as if it were a sunny day.

The scene below began to waver and shimmer. She realized that she was crying again, and her

lower lip trembled with suppressed wails.

That was how the soldier who carried her, found her, a little girl with a cascade of curls the

color of autumn leaves and smoky, grey eyes filled with tears she was trying not to shed.

“Ma petite, je suis trés désolé pour vôtre parents. Little one, I am so sorry about your

parents.” He came into the room, carefully shutting the door behind him while balancing a

small, and familiar, chest under his arm. It was the chest she kept her clothes in after Maman

washed and carefully folded them. 

She watched him set the chest on the floor and come and sit beside her. His hand gently

stroked her hair until she couldn’t stand holding it in any longer and she let the wails and

tears come. Then he wrapped her in big, strong arms, gently rocking her while murmuring

softly, letting her get it out.

When the sobs subsided to little hiccups, he gently leaned her upright and handed her a large,

clean, white handkerchief. She used it to scrub her face dry, only looking at it for a moment

before deciding it might be rude to blow her nose into it.

He seemed to read her mind and smiled while gently holding it up for her to do just that. The

gesture made the tears want to start again as her Papa or Maman would have done that very same

thing. He gently folded it over and and put it aside before holding out a large, ungloved hand

to her. In fact, he was not wearing any armor at all. Rather, he was dressed in a simple

homespun shirt and leather leggings, not a soldier today, it seemed. “Je m’appelle Kedric, et

je suis un soldat du château Highever. Vous êtes à Le Corbeau et L'Abeille Highever.”

She put her small hand in his and he gently shook it. So, she was at in inn called ‘The Raven

and The Bee,’ in a town called Highever that had a castle that this nice man was a soldier of.

She told him her name was Brannan. And when he asked her full name—Brannan Leogdeagardis du

Vash—he made her giggle when he told her it was longer than she was tall. “C’est un nom trop

grand pour une petite jeune fille. C'est un nom trés fort, pour un personne trés forte. It is

a name too big for a little girl. It is a very strong name for a very strong person.”

He patted her shoulder and she looked down, biting her lower lip before pleading with him.

“Puis-je rentrer à la maison d'Orlais? Puis-je rentrer à la maison d'oncle Léo maintenant?”

She wanted to go home and back to Uncle Leo.

He looked sadly at her and her heart began to beat faster. “Non, ma petite, tu ne peux pas

retourner vivre avec votre oncle Léo. Qu'est-ce que vous avez fait à ces bandits signifie que

vous devez aller à la Tour et apprendre à contol votre magie. No, little one. I am afraid you

cannot go back to your Uncle Leo. After what you did to those bandits, you will need to go to

the Tower and learn to control your magic.”

He wanted her to go to a tower and learn magic? But she was not magical! What happened with

those bandits was an accident! She didn’t know how to do it, it just happened! She had to make

him see that.

Brannan leapt off the bed, yelling all of this, trying to explain. He must be made to

understand! She promised never to do it again.

He continued to shake his head while looking at her with sympathy. “Non, ma petite, non. Je

suis désolé, mais il doit être de cette façon. No, little one, no. I am so sorry, but it must

be this way.”

She begged, pleaded, and cried. What was this tower? Was it a prison? Would they really send a

little girl to prison? The only tower she knew of in Val Royeaux was the Bastille du Sainte

Didiane, a prison for criminals and those judged to be criminals of the state for religious or

political reasons. It was the name used to scare little children into behaving. ‘Stop picking

your your brother or you will get sent to the Bastille.’

Brannan found herself shaking, a cold having seeped into her bones, despite the sweat that

dampened her hair. “Non, s'il vous plaît! Je promets d'être une bonne fille! Il ne se

reproduira pas. Je veux rentrer chez moi! S'il vous plaît, laissez-moi rentrer à la maison!

No, please! I promise to be a good girl! It won't happen again. I just want to go home!

Please, let me go home!”

Kedric looked alarmed as she stood in the middle of the room, practically screaming in

hysterics. As he made a move towards her, the door opened and Brannan vaguely heard a woman’s

sweet voice, speaking Fereldan to Kedric, before soft hands like her Maman’s gently grasped

her shoulders from behind, spinning her around.

She barely registered a pretty face, framed by dark brown curls, set with dark, grey-green

eyes full of concern. A cool hand was placed on her forehead before she found herself bundled

into the soft, feather-filled duvet cover from her bed, and the world went black.

Modifié par erynnar, 02 septembre 2011 - 01:40 .

[DreGregoire]

What a wonderful start. I loved every minute of it. The detail was enticing and the emotions were displayed in a sensitive and easily felt manner. I look forward to reading more. *hugz*

[erynnar]

Thanks so much Dre!!! *HUGS*

[erynnar]

Chapter 2 ~ Preparing the Hide

She was nothing more than a knife-eared daughter of a local ****. Or the flat-eared daughter

of one, depending on which group you spoke to—humans or the Dalish elves.

Having fallen for a round-ear human girl when her family had traded with his clan, her

grandfather had left the Dalish. He had married the girl and moved from wandering the forests

to wandering with her family, traveling the roads selling goods, including his art with paint

under the skin—vallaslin, blood-writing—of his people.

The girl’s family had settled in Denerim when she had become pregnant and her family felt that

wandering the roads of Ferelden would not be good for her. As it turned out, settling did

nothing, as both she and the babe died in childbirth. The girl’s father, in his grief,

subsequently blamed the young elf and banished him from their sight.

Being an elf and in a city hostile to same, he found himself alone, grieving, drunk, and

almost beaten to death by city guards and tossed into the Denerim alienage with the rest of

the knife-ears to die.

And so Gran had found him, carried him to her family’s little beaten down hovel in the

alienage—a cesspit of the city, walled in to keep the flotsam of unwanted elves from bothering

humans with their existence, well, until the humans needed some dirty, dangerous, or

unpleasant job done that is.

Gran nursed the badly beaten elf for almost a year, healing him both body and spirit. In that

time, Gran and Grandy—as Shadow and her twin Cyla called him—had fallen in love. Gran, being a

head-strong stubborn elf and not one to give two piles of dung about what others thought,

subsequently called off the arranged marriage with the elf from the alienage in Orlais and

married Grandy instead—much to the consternation of her parents, and the Hahren at the time,

and the twittering of the neighbors.

Gran taught Grandy how to survive as an elf in a city full of hostile round-ears, and he

taught her as much of the ancient ways as his people remembered, including dances, language,

and the art of tattooing the skin.

Gran and Grandy’s union produced three children, a son and two daughters. And they had a happy

life, until Grandy died  at the hands of rowdy guards who came to the alienage for

“entertainment.” 

Shadow and Cyla’s father and Aunt Adaia were both murdered in that “scuffle” as well. The

guards had not been punished, of course. The claimed they had quelled an elven uprising, and

so all went back to its usual bone-crushing poverty. 

That was until Gran, canny old codger that she was, opened a storefront on the docks to give

vallaslin to any who had the coin to pay. Many of their fellow elves came to her for their

tattoos, along with a goodly number of sailors and drunk noble’s brats slumming it at the

dockside taverns.

Mamae taught the ancient dances of the elvhen that Grandy had taught Gran, and tattooed with

vines, flowers and birds by Gran herself found work at the biggest and most well-known brothel

in Denerim, The Pearl, as an exotic dancer. With feathers and gems glued on to the vallaslin,

Shadow’s mother was considered one of several special shows for exclusive clientele, and show

only, unless their mother chose otherwise, or the extra coin was high enough. If not, old

Matrell, grand old dame of Denerim and owner of the Pearl, would pluck the fingers off any who

broke the rule and make them eat them after her second, Sanga, cooked them over a fire first.

Or in the case of the nobles and their brats, both legitimate and not, banished from the

Pearl’s services for life.

Shadow, and her sister, Cyla, spent their days in the Pearl’s common room, or wine cellar, or

even sneaking into empty bedrooms sometimes to listen at the walls and giggle at the funny

noises coming from the neighboring room—provided they didn’t get caught at it by Matrell or

Sanga and have their ears boxed soundly.

While other children, even the elven ones in the Alienage, learned games like roll the hoop,

or hopscotch, or stone toss, Shadow and her sister were learning to play Diamondback or Wicked

Grace. Patrons of The Pearl thought it was cute to teach two little elven girls to play cards

—at least, until they started winning. 

Sometimes Matrell or Sanga would pay them to do some chores, sweep, polish, or wash glasses,

wipe down tables. They would eagerly spend their money at Alarith’s store—helped to exist in

part due to a loan from Gran—on candy or honey sticks, jerked meat, or playing cards.  Once,

they pooled their monies and bought a set of throwing daggers from some down-and-out thief and

assassin turned full-time drunk. 

With the knives, they learned to play and bet on the game called Bodkin Johnny, which involved

aiming and hitting various parts of the image of man painted on the wall of the Pearl. Hitting

different parts of the man earned different amounts of points, depending on the difficulty and

accuracy to hit the target being aimed for. Shadow and Cyla became so proficient that only

strangers to Denerim and The Pearl would challenge them.

That was when they weren’t at Gran’s tattoo parlor on the docks. But the twins preferred the

Pearl with all the potential goings-on and money to be had.

It was at The Pearl on a Fereldan spring day with the common room packed with the usual

patrons as well as unfamiliar faces. The air was thick with pipe smoke, the smell of unwashed

bodies, beer and spirits, the meal of the day offered by Matrell’s ancient elven cook Tilly,

and the incense Matrell lit for ambiance, or as Sanga liked to say, “To put perfume on pigs.”

Matrell loved days like this, as the men and women spent their coin on food, drink, or whoring

to stay out of the rain. No coin, and Matrell would have Gan, a giant wall of walking muscle

and the doorman of The Pearl, toss the offender into the street—the tossing being literal, not

figurative, with bets being taken, when the occasion arose, on how far and how many times a

displaced patron would roll.

One of the visiting strangers in question, dressed in finery, wore the dark complexion and

black curly hair of one from Rivain, yet spoke Fereldan with an Antivan accent. His appetites

included not only fine clothes, but the coin to enjoy a private room with two of Matrell’s

best, a brother and sister who brought in much coin—they were a team act—for not just half the

turn of an hourglass, but four full turns.

Their well-to-do customer was taking a break in the common room playing Diamondback with

Topper, master of the Denerim’s thieves guild, her apprentice Slim Couldry, a young skinny

red-headed lad, Matrell, Sanga, and Gran, who was spending time with her old friend Matrell

and drinking fine Fereldan Whiskey. Shadow and Ceyla were hovering nearby, watching the adults

play the game.

Shadow could never pinpoint it, the exact moment when all was quiet with the gentle murmuring

of conversations, or the gentle thwacks of daggers embedding in the wooden wall, or the gentle

hiss of rain or the rumbling growl of thunder ceased to be the background music in the room.

Not the moment when the table was overturned and the room was filled with the clinking of

coins hitting the worn wooden planks of the common room floor, and the shishing sounds of

daggers and swords being drawn all around the room.

The handsome stranger stood grasping the wrist of one of the poorer thieves in Denerim, Glew—

poorer in skill and coin, yet rich in misplaced ego—Topper wouldn’t even have the man in the

guild.

The stranger kept his voice low, friendly even, yet it carried to all corners of the room. “It

would be a pity for a man with your skills to lose his fingers for stealing from me, as you

need all the help you can get, no?”

Glew’s friends and fellow incompetents, who all together were un-affectionately called “The

Three C’s”—calamitous, clumsy cretins—by everyone who knew them, closed in around their mate.

Both Hael and Penvro put hands to daggers, which only made the stranger chuckle and grin, and

had Old Matrell burst into deep-throated guffaws. “You lads have always been all foam and no

beer.”

Gran slapped Matrell on her meaty arm, nodding in agreement while addressing Glew, Hael, and

Penvro. “I’ve seen smarter things fall out of a chicken’s arse than you boys. Stealing from an

Antivan Crow is about as dense a thing as you could do.”

“And deadly, which will at least keep them from siring any progeny and cease giving proper

thieves a bad name.” Topper cocked an eyebrow while snorting in derision.

Penvro had enough sense to pale considerably at Gran’s words about who the stranger was, but

Glew just glared and ripped his hand from the stranger’s grip. “Crow, chicken, or sodding

bluebird, what’s it to me, eh? Prove I stole from you!”

Penvro tried desperately to talk sense to his friend, as he obviously knew just how dangerous

Glew’s pick of a mark was. Hael just continued to look confused and swig his ale, no surprise

there.

Glew ignored his friend and continued to glare at the stranger, who merely looked amused. One

moment the stranger was standing and grinning, the next minute Penvro was lying on the floor

with a bloody nose, Hael lay on a table grasping his throat and choking, while Glew found a

very sharp knife pointed under his chin.

The Crow grinned at Topper. “Not just any assassin, but a Crow, dear lady. We are the best,

after all.”

Shadow, being the bolder of the twins, walked up and gently tugged the lace edged sleeve

covering Topper’s arm while holding up the heavy leather purse she had “procured” from Glew’s

person. The bag was of fine leather, heavy with coin, and painted with a beautiful design.

Topper grinned and took the bag, gently chucking Shadow under the chin. “Now, did you happen

to find this in Glew’s pocket, love?”

Shadow grinned and nodded. The assassin winked at her before using the pommel of the dagger on

Glew’s head, knocking the man out. He came to kneel before Shadow, putting gentle hands on her

shoulders. “Thank you, cara mia. The coin’s loss would have been an annoyance to be sure, but

the papers I am delivering would have meant my life.” He stroked her cheek softly before

rising up and taking the sack from Topper.

Matrell stomped her foot at Penvro and Hael getting their attention before waving a hand at

Glew. “Oi, you lot, take this pile of dung you call your friend out of here, and don’t ever

come back. Consider yourselves lucky you’re all still breathin’.”

Matrell turned toward her doorman, Gan. “Gan, see that these men find their way out, and

remember their faces. They stick their noses in this door ever again, flatten them.”

Gan merely nodded and went behind Penvro and Hael as they dragged Glew between them, placing a

meaty hand on their shoulders and guiding them towards the door.

Matrell spoke to the stranger as she righted the table with Gran and Sanga’s help. “Thank ya’,

lad, for not making them bleed on my floor more than ya did. Add to that it’s rainin’

somethin’ fierce and poor Gan would get good and soaked takin’ out the trash.”

The Crow grinned and nodded as he sat back down and began shuffling the now replaced deck of

cards. “Si, they were truly not worthy of my skills and I am here for relaxation and

amusement. Killing them would not have provided either.”

 Shadow poked Ceyla as the adults settled themselves once more, and her twin quickly placed

the small leather bags she and Ceyla had stolen from the Three C’s while they were busy with

the Antivan. Shadow walked boldly up to the table and began to place their booty purloined

twice over on the scarred wooden surface.

Topper snorted and slapped her young apprentice Slim on his back hard enough to topple him

slightly before gently tugging on one of Shadow’s braids. “See here, Slim, this is why you are

an upstairs man and not a pickpocket!” 

Slim blushed furiously. “Indeed, my fingers are not nimble for pockets, but they are good at

locks.”

Gran grinned and shook her head. “So, you thought one good turn deserves another did you?” 

Gran winked at Shadow and Ceyla as they both nodded obediently.

Matrell snickered. “You know that now they know they can, and do it well, they will do it

again. Best send them to Topper and the guild for training and protection, Gran.”

“Indeed, talents should never be wasted and this is a dangerous world, best they learn how to

make their way in it, no?” The assassin winked and proceeded to pull up a chair which Shadow

and Ceyla knelt on together. He proceeded to deal the cards.

Gran gave the twins an appraising look. “We all have to make our way best we can, that is

true.” She turned to Topper. “I don’t see their mam disagreeing; we do what we must. Topper,

will you train them and give them the protection of the guild?”

Topper smiled at Gran and nodded, winking at the girls. “You start tomorrow, little ones. Come

to the guild hall. Not too early, mind you. Morning is only good to keep night and afternoon

from bumping into one another.”

The comment elicited chuckles from around the table as they settled down to play cards while

the storm raged on.