So, I'm finally dedicating to writing my fanfic and some other stuff
Main story is going to be "Suledin"(working title), a Mahariel Mage Origin story, and once it's actually written and posted, I'll be posting links and such into it. Until then, the forum's mostly going to contain little fills I do for the Alistair Gush Thread and a few OneShot's im working on.
As always, everything is owned by Bioware, I'm just playing in the sandbox
Glor's Fictional Drabbles
Débuté par
Glorfindel709
, nov. 12 2011 03:55
Retour en haut
#2
Posté 12 novembre 2011 - 03:56
Glorfindel709
-
- Members
- 1 281 messages
Shades of Grey - Fill for AGT
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Struggling not to choke on the noxious fumes of burning flesh, two men stood silhouetted by a raging storm of fire. One was tall and broad shouldered, wearing shining armor, the silverite marred by many dents and scratches. A wide shield baring a poorly drawn griffon strapped across his back and a longsword digging into the blood-soaked soil identified him as a warrior. The other was slight of build and stature, black hair and tapered ears visible in the fire light. He was wrapped in a cloak and leaned heavily on a simple staff, the wood seamlessly melting into metal and bound in leather. These men stood as brothers, silently offering any support their already bent backs could offer to the other. They appeared as if they had the weight of the world on their shoulders; and in truth, they did.
These two men were Grey Wardens, the first and only barrier against the horrors of the Darkspawn... and the last living ones in all of Ferelden. Sighing heavily, the elf raised his staff and muttered softly in Arcanum before closing his free hand into a fist and watching the raging inferno disappear like it had never existed. “How many this time, Alistair?” The human warrior at first did not seem to hear the question, starring off at the pile of ash in the glen below them. “Two women and four children were in the Chantry basement. All tainted. ” The young man, Alistair Theirin, seemed to sink inward as he thought about this village, the fifth one they had been force to cleanse on their journey towards Orzammar. No one, not even Duncan, had told him that this would be part of his duty as one of the Grey. And yet here they were, killing tainted survivors who had managed to outrun or hide from the relentless horde that had passed through the south of Ferelden like a tide of locust. Men, women, the elderly.. children.
A hand on his shoulder interrupted Alastair's guilt-ridden ruminations, causing the warrior to jump before looking down at his fellow warden. “If we hadn't done this, they would have died from the poison, or worse. We had no choice. You must understand that lethallin. Records from the last Blights tell us all we need to know about this sickness.” Alastair shook his head, running his free hand through his short blond hair. “That doesnt make it any easier, Glorfindel. They're still people. And we slaughtered them like dogs.” Glorfindel smiled weakly and tried to joke “Flying dogs?” only to be met with an annoyed glare. Holding up his hands in surrender, the mage nudged the younger human back along towards the path where their companions had made camp further up the road to be well clear of the Taint.
Alistair starred down at his warped reflection in the pommel of his sword, barely keeping track of where his feet were taking him. “Before Duncan saved me from the Chantry, I always thought the Grey Wardens were heroes, bravely and boldly putting their lives on the line to protect the rest of humanity.” Snorting in derision, he gestured towards the camp and mumbled “I even had a Warden dol... action figure that I would pretend was off saving the world from darkspawn and bandits and what have you. And now... now I don't feel very heroic at all. I feel unclean... like I'll never be able to get the blood off my sword or my armor. I don't even know if I should...”
Holding a small ball of fire aloft in the air above his had, Glorfindel stopped walking for a moment and seemed to fall into deep thought for a moment before saying, “I read once, that a Hero isn't someone who rescues damsels, beats the bad guys, and saves the day. A hero, a true hero, makes the hard choices no one else can or will make. What we have to do is ugly business... but we make the choice to do it, because if we don't then those people will suffer because no one else will. It's not up to us to decide if we're heroes, as long as we know what we're doing is right, we dont have to worry about anything else.” Shrugging, and nearly setting his hair on fire in the process, Glorfindel leaned on his staff in exhaustion, the inferno spell having taken a lot out of him. “I do understand what you mean though... and if Wynne spouts off another lecture about the meaning of being a Grey Warden, I'll conscript her and let her clear the next village.” Chuckling darkly, and ignoring the scandalized look on Alistair's face, the dark haired elf pointed towards the crackling fire ahead of them, “I don't know about you, but we've got another seventy miles to Orzammar. I'm ready to get a bath, some bread and cheese, and sleep. Maybe even in that order.”
Shaking his head at how horribly apathetic his companion seemed to be, Alistair walked the rest of the way into camp and ducked into the tent someone had put up for him, grabbing his pack from the fireside as he went by. Digging through the tattered linens and small knick knacks he owned, the blond haired Warden pulled his hand out clutching a wood carved figurine of a man holding a sword with a mighty griffon emblazoned on his shield. Maybe Glorfindel was right.. maybe being a hero wasn't so black and white. Dropping the dol.. action figure next to his bedroll, the former templar climbed out of his tent and took his usual spot in front of the fire. Guarding the camp, keeping a close eye on his slightly unbalanced brother, and trying not to rush Leliana as she stirred a small pot of warm cheese to dip their bread in.
Back in the tent, laying forgotten half in the corner, the Warden stood vigilant. Neither in the light or the dark, but in the space between. Exactly where he was meant to be.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Struggling not to choke on the noxious fumes of burning flesh, two men stood silhouetted by a raging storm of fire. One was tall and broad shouldered, wearing shining armor, the silverite marred by many dents and scratches. A wide shield baring a poorly drawn griffon strapped across his back and a longsword digging into the blood-soaked soil identified him as a warrior. The other was slight of build and stature, black hair and tapered ears visible in the fire light. He was wrapped in a cloak and leaned heavily on a simple staff, the wood seamlessly melting into metal and bound in leather. These men stood as brothers, silently offering any support their already bent backs could offer to the other. They appeared as if they had the weight of the world on their shoulders; and in truth, they did.
These two men were Grey Wardens, the first and only barrier against the horrors of the Darkspawn... and the last living ones in all of Ferelden. Sighing heavily, the elf raised his staff and muttered softly in Arcanum before closing his free hand into a fist and watching the raging inferno disappear like it had never existed. “How many this time, Alistair?” The human warrior at first did not seem to hear the question, starring off at the pile of ash in the glen below them. “Two women and four children were in the Chantry basement. All tainted. ” The young man, Alistair Theirin, seemed to sink inward as he thought about this village, the fifth one they had been force to cleanse on their journey towards Orzammar. No one, not even Duncan, had told him that this would be part of his duty as one of the Grey. And yet here they were, killing tainted survivors who had managed to outrun or hide from the relentless horde that had passed through the south of Ferelden like a tide of locust. Men, women, the elderly.. children.
A hand on his shoulder interrupted Alastair's guilt-ridden ruminations, causing the warrior to jump before looking down at his fellow warden. “If we hadn't done this, they would have died from the poison, or worse. We had no choice. You must understand that lethallin. Records from the last Blights tell us all we need to know about this sickness.” Alastair shook his head, running his free hand through his short blond hair. “That doesnt make it any easier, Glorfindel. They're still people. And we slaughtered them like dogs.” Glorfindel smiled weakly and tried to joke “Flying dogs?” only to be met with an annoyed glare. Holding up his hands in surrender, the mage nudged the younger human back along towards the path where their companions had made camp further up the road to be well clear of the Taint.
Alistair starred down at his warped reflection in the pommel of his sword, barely keeping track of where his feet were taking him. “Before Duncan saved me from the Chantry, I always thought the Grey Wardens were heroes, bravely and boldly putting their lives on the line to protect the rest of humanity.” Snorting in derision, he gestured towards the camp and mumbled “I even had a Warden dol... action figure that I would pretend was off saving the world from darkspawn and bandits and what have you. And now... now I don't feel very heroic at all. I feel unclean... like I'll never be able to get the blood off my sword or my armor. I don't even know if I should...”
Holding a small ball of fire aloft in the air above his had, Glorfindel stopped walking for a moment and seemed to fall into deep thought for a moment before saying, “I read once, that a Hero isn't someone who rescues damsels, beats the bad guys, and saves the day. A hero, a true hero, makes the hard choices no one else can or will make. What we have to do is ugly business... but we make the choice to do it, because if we don't then those people will suffer because no one else will. It's not up to us to decide if we're heroes, as long as we know what we're doing is right, we dont have to worry about anything else.” Shrugging, and nearly setting his hair on fire in the process, Glorfindel leaned on his staff in exhaustion, the inferno spell having taken a lot out of him. “I do understand what you mean though... and if Wynne spouts off another lecture about the meaning of being a Grey Warden, I'll conscript her and let her clear the next village.” Chuckling darkly, and ignoring the scandalized look on Alistair's face, the dark haired elf pointed towards the crackling fire ahead of them, “I don't know about you, but we've got another seventy miles to Orzammar. I'm ready to get a bath, some bread and cheese, and sleep. Maybe even in that order.”
Shaking his head at how horribly apathetic his companion seemed to be, Alistair walked the rest of the way into camp and ducked into the tent someone had put up for him, grabbing his pack from the fireside as he went by. Digging through the tattered linens and small knick knacks he owned, the blond haired Warden pulled his hand out clutching a wood carved figurine of a man holding a sword with a mighty griffon emblazoned on his shield. Maybe Glorfindel was right.. maybe being a hero wasn't so black and white. Dropping the dol.. action figure next to his bedroll, the former templar climbed out of his tent and took his usual spot in front of the fire. Guarding the camp, keeping a close eye on his slightly unbalanced brother, and trying not to rush Leliana as she stirred a small pot of warm cheese to dip their bread in.
Back in the tent, laying forgotten half in the corner, the Warden stood vigilant. Neither in the light or the dark, but in the space between. Exactly where he was meant to be.
#3
Posté 12 novembre 2011 - 05:06
Morwen Eledhwen
-
- Members
- 1 067 messages
Awwww. . .Yay! Well done! Both Wardens are engaging and you give just enough depth and detail. Looking forward to more! 
Modifié par Morwen Eledhwen, 12 novembre 2011 - 05:07 .
#4
Posté 12 novembre 2011 - 08:03
Glorfindel709
-
- Members
- 1 281 messages
This is a work in progress about the final defense and death of the Templars at Lothering. I kinda hit a point where I dont know where to go from so I'm just posting it up and will be editing/adding once I get the chance
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter
The warning bells tolling dimly under the crackle of lightening and booming thunder at the edge of the village were the first sign that the Darkspawn horde had advanced far quicker than anyone had expected. Women and children were loaded into dilapidated wagons while ashen-faced men gathered makeshift weapons from the Chantry cellar and stumbled through the muddy courtyard towards the Imperial Highway and the retreating wagons, the only defense the refugees would have when the darkspawn caught up to them. They were heading to Redcliffe, hoping against all hope that they'd be able to seek shelter with the Arl and weather the storm.
Kneeling in the muddy ground in front of the Revered Mothers carriage, Ser Bryant bowed his head against the rain and listened intently as the priestess gave her last blessing to his men, knowing that his men were also struggling to hide their fear as the bells were suddenly silenced and guttural growls from across the bridge on the other side of town filled the air. Looking up at the feeling of a hand on his head, his eyes met the Revered Mothers' as she softly intoned “ Draw your last breaths, my friends. Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky. Rest at the Maker's right hand, and be forgiven.”
Rising to their feet as one, the heavily armored Templars bowed their heads and murmured “So mote it be” before they started walking towards the bridge leading to the other side of town until only Ser Bryant remained by the carriage. Clearing his throat and trying to hide the quaver in his voice, the Knight Commander of the Lothering Chantry looked one more time at the Revered Mother before saying softly, “Ride quickly to Denerim, and warn the Queen of the approaching Horde. We'll try to hold them here as long as we can... but you and I both know that it'll only delay the inevitable.” Failing to hold back a choked sob at the thought of his men and his owns' imminent deaths, Ser Bryant tried to give the old woman a reassuring smile and said with a small bow “It was an honor to serve as your protector and friend, Your Grace.”
The Revered Mother did not bother to hide her own tears as she silently nodded and stepped into the carriage, unable or unwilling to say anything that would further the defenders' despair before ordering the driver to get them onto the Highway. Ser Bryant slowly walked over to the bridge where his men were gathered and ripped the fabric encircling his legs off and letting it flutter down into the churned muddy earth to give him a better range of movement. Stepping up onto the bridge, Bryant looked down on the assembled men, knowing that the fifteen men standing with him would not be able to halt the swarming Horde but secure in the knowledge that they would not falter. Waving a hand to get the attention of his fellows, Bryant bellowed to be heard over the thunder, “This bridge can only be crossed three abreast at most, so our two best swordsman will be standing on this side of the bridge here to stop their advance over the bridge. five men will be standing behind them to offer relief and help hold the line should any darkspawn break through.”
Waving a hand to beckon Tomas over to stand next to him, Bryant quickly picked the other five Templars who had the most experience with actually using their swords and set them in an array around the end of the Bridge behind the hastily constructed wooden palisades staked along the river bank. Looking at the other seven men, he nodded towards the crate resting next to the bridge and continued. “The rest of you will be making sure the darkspawn do not attempt to just cross the river, using the ranged weapons we managed to gather up. You are also on detail to take out any darkspawn archers and warn us of over threats you see coming our way. Find vantage points alongside the river on the rooftops, and watch the flank to make sure they havent gotten behind us.” Pausing a moment to allow his men to gather their supplies and look to him for their last orders, Bryant struggled to think of something, anything he could say to embolden his men and give them the courage to stand before the dark tide coursing towards them.
Nothing would come. The only thing he could think of was the roaring of the wind, carrying with it the howls and guttural growls of the enemy from the deep that had emerged to kill or destroy everything in their path. All he heard was the heavy patter of raindrops falling against his armored form, the sound turning into the thud of arrows finding their mark into soft flesh. The sky was darkened, and the despair that filled his heart was as heavy as the sword and shield on his deadened arms. Bryant realized then that this was entirely hopeless. Sixteen men could not hope to turn back the tide of evil that was about to rush over them. They would die here, abandoned by the Maker, and the people fleeing Lothering would die shortly after.
A sudden brightness flashed through the gloom, causing the men to jump back and clap palms over their ears as the thunder boomed and lightning arched across the sky, a bolt slamming into the upraised Sun ontop of the Chantry, setting the wood and metal ablaze in an instant. The symbol of the Chantry and the Maker burned, shining brightly against the encroaching gloom.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter
The warning bells tolling dimly under the crackle of lightening and booming thunder at the edge of the village were the first sign that the Darkspawn horde had advanced far quicker than anyone had expected. Women and children were loaded into dilapidated wagons while ashen-faced men gathered makeshift weapons from the Chantry cellar and stumbled through the muddy courtyard towards the Imperial Highway and the retreating wagons, the only defense the refugees would have when the darkspawn caught up to them. They were heading to Redcliffe, hoping against all hope that they'd be able to seek shelter with the Arl and weather the storm.
Kneeling in the muddy ground in front of the Revered Mothers carriage, Ser Bryant bowed his head against the rain and listened intently as the priestess gave her last blessing to his men, knowing that his men were also struggling to hide their fear as the bells were suddenly silenced and guttural growls from across the bridge on the other side of town filled the air. Looking up at the feeling of a hand on his head, his eyes met the Revered Mothers' as she softly intoned “ Draw your last breaths, my friends. Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky. Rest at the Maker's right hand, and be forgiven.”
Rising to their feet as one, the heavily armored Templars bowed their heads and murmured “So mote it be” before they started walking towards the bridge leading to the other side of town until only Ser Bryant remained by the carriage. Clearing his throat and trying to hide the quaver in his voice, the Knight Commander of the Lothering Chantry looked one more time at the Revered Mother before saying softly, “Ride quickly to Denerim, and warn the Queen of the approaching Horde. We'll try to hold them here as long as we can... but you and I both know that it'll only delay the inevitable.” Failing to hold back a choked sob at the thought of his men and his owns' imminent deaths, Ser Bryant tried to give the old woman a reassuring smile and said with a small bow “It was an honor to serve as your protector and friend, Your Grace.”
The Revered Mother did not bother to hide her own tears as she silently nodded and stepped into the carriage, unable or unwilling to say anything that would further the defenders' despair before ordering the driver to get them onto the Highway. Ser Bryant slowly walked over to the bridge where his men were gathered and ripped the fabric encircling his legs off and letting it flutter down into the churned muddy earth to give him a better range of movement. Stepping up onto the bridge, Bryant looked down on the assembled men, knowing that the fifteen men standing with him would not be able to halt the swarming Horde but secure in the knowledge that they would not falter. Waving a hand to get the attention of his fellows, Bryant bellowed to be heard over the thunder, “This bridge can only be crossed three abreast at most, so our two best swordsman will be standing on this side of the bridge here to stop their advance over the bridge. five men will be standing behind them to offer relief and help hold the line should any darkspawn break through.”
Waving a hand to beckon Tomas over to stand next to him, Bryant quickly picked the other five Templars who had the most experience with actually using their swords and set them in an array around the end of the Bridge behind the hastily constructed wooden palisades staked along the river bank. Looking at the other seven men, he nodded towards the crate resting next to the bridge and continued. “The rest of you will be making sure the darkspawn do not attempt to just cross the river, using the ranged weapons we managed to gather up. You are also on detail to take out any darkspawn archers and warn us of over threats you see coming our way. Find vantage points alongside the river on the rooftops, and watch the flank to make sure they havent gotten behind us.” Pausing a moment to allow his men to gather their supplies and look to him for their last orders, Bryant struggled to think of something, anything he could say to embolden his men and give them the courage to stand before the dark tide coursing towards them.
Nothing would come. The only thing he could think of was the roaring of the wind, carrying with it the howls and guttural growls of the enemy from the deep that had emerged to kill or destroy everything in their path. All he heard was the heavy patter of raindrops falling against his armored form, the sound turning into the thud of arrows finding their mark into soft flesh. The sky was darkened, and the despair that filled his heart was as heavy as the sword and shield on his deadened arms. Bryant realized then that this was entirely hopeless. Sixteen men could not hope to turn back the tide of evil that was about to rush over them. They would die here, abandoned by the Maker, and the people fleeing Lothering would die shortly after.
A sudden brightness flashed through the gloom, causing the men to jump back and clap palms over their ears as the thunder boomed and lightning arched across the sky, a bolt slamming into the upraised Sun ontop of the Chantry, setting the wood and metal ablaze in an instant. The symbol of the Chantry and the Maker burned, shining brightly against the encroaching gloom.
#5
Posté 12 novembre 2011 - 08:24
tklivory
-
- Members
- 1 916 messages
I love the Lothering story. I've always had a strong liking for Ser Bryant - he's one of my favorite Templars in the game. Your characterization of the final farewell between Bryant and Reverend Mother was touching, and Bryant's inner thoughts as he tries to come to terms with his approahing end is poignant and rings true. I hope you expand on this in the future! I'll look forward to it.
Have I said I like your writing style yet? Cuz I really do!
Have I said I like your writing style yet? Cuz I really do!
Modifié par tklivory, 12 novembre 2011 - 08:24 .
#6
Posté 12 novembre 2011 - 10:54
Morwen Eledhwen
-
- Members
- 1 067 messages
Poor Ser Bryant. Lothering is just kind of wiped off the map in-game without much notice being paid to it. Nice to give it some attention here.
