Sialater wrote...
That's all right. I'm sure there's a support group out there.
And don't we know it!!
Repercussions - complete novella (contains spoilers)
Débuté par
Freckles04
, janv. 22 2010 02:13
#126
Posté 03 février 2010 - 02:56
MsSouthpaw
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And don't we know it!!
Retour en haut
#127
Posté 03 février 2010 - 02:57
Freckles04
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Sialater wrote...
That's all right. I'm sure there's a support group out there.
It's called We
Alistair.We have darkspawn cookies!
And possibly at some point, an archdemon cake.
#128
Posté 03 février 2010 - 03:13
Sisimka
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We are a great source of comfort to one another, aren't we ladies?
#129
Posté 03 février 2010 - 03:16
Sialater
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We all like angry Alistair?
I don't know if I find that comforting. With or without the company.
I don't know if I find that comforting. With or without the company.
Modifié par Sialater, 03 février 2010 - 03:24 .
#130
Posté 03 février 2010 - 03:22
Freckles04
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Sialater wrote...
We all like angry Alistair?
I don't know if I find that comforting. With or without comforting.
Um...I think it's the passion Angry Alistair displays...
::drool::
<3
#131
Posté 03 février 2010 - 03:24
Sialater
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Ah, yes, passion I can handle. Passion is good. Passion leads to good things.
Passion is good. Passion leads to good things.
#133
Posté 03 février 2010 - 03:27
Freckles04
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Part 14
Alistair bolted upright, his heart pounding. His hand sought Bryn beside him, but he found only empty space. Cold bedclothes. Where was she?
He scrubbed a hand over his face, wishing he could remember what had awoken him. A sense of unease lingered, a twinge of panic. Which made no sense. They were at Amaranthine. They couldn’t be safer than in the company of their fellow Wardens.
Right?
The worry remained with him as he dressed, prodding him to move faster. Something...wasn’t right. He could feel it. Darkspawn? No, it wasn’t the oily corruption of the tainted creatures he felt. Nothing quite so tangible. Just a pervasive sense of wrongness.
He stepped into the hall, beckoning to one of the guards stationed near his room. "Have you seen Bryn?" he asked. The guard stared at him blankly, and Alistair shook his head. Right--her name certainly wasn't a secret, but few people thought of her as Bryn Cousland anymore. "The Warden Commander?"
"No, your Majesty."
The King's lips pressed into a thin line as he dismissed the man. With Bryn's skill at stealth, he shouldn't be surprised that no one had seen her leave. He turned away from his guards, closing his eyes for a moment as the memory of finding her gone from Highever swamped him. When he'd returned to her room, only to find no trace of her…the pain had been nearly physical, like he'd had an arm torn off.
She wouldn't have done that again? Surely not. They had worked--were working things out. Not that they'd really spent much time speaking. It had been easier to let the tasks and duties awaiting both of them at Amaranthine pull them in separate directions, to avoid picking at the scars they both carried on their souls. Damn it. No longer. When he tracked her down, he was going to lock them both…somewhere…and they were going to talk until their voices died.
Alistair began a methodical sweep of the castle, shadowed by his guards, starting with the kitchens. He'd hoped to find her seated before the cooking hearth, enjoying a morning tea, but no. None of the cooks or servants had seen her. Next, he stopped by her study, only to find it in disarray as the remodelling crew began work for the day. Marcel's study was empty, as was the library. He even checked his own quarters, a fantasy image of Bryn lounging in his bed, ready to surprise him, playing across his mind's eye. His rooms were cold, with an unlived-in feel. At every opportunity, he asked the people he encountered if they had seen his love. None had.
The panic nipping at his heart surged anew. Maybe she'd ventured beyond the castle's walls, a brief escape. But if so, why hadn't she told anyone? Why hadn't she told him?
Alistair finally tracked Marcel down on the training grounds. The other Warden fought valiantly with a straw man, cleaving his sword against the dummy as though it was the archdemon itself. The King approached cautiously, mindful of the man's blade.
Marcel spotted him in mid-swing; he followed through, then sheathed his weapon. "Your Majesty."
"Marcel. Have you seen the Commander?"
The Warden retrieved a skin of water from the feet of the dummy and took a long swallow. The silence expanded, uncomfortably, until Alistair's ears rang with it. Finally, the other man took the skein from his lips and brushed a hand over them.
"She's gone," he said.
Alistair's breath left him in a rush. "What do you mean?"
"I had orders--"
The words had barely left Marcel's mouth before Alistair charged him. His fist cracked across the man's chin. As Marcel bent in shock, Alistair grasped the sword on the Warden's back. A kick sent the other man stumbling backwards, leaving his blade in the King's hand. Behind him, Alistair heard swords being unsheathed, and he knew his guards were preparing to defend him if necessarily. Huh. This King thing might not be so bad.
He extended Marcel's sword to brush against the man's chin. It nicked him, and a droplet of red appeared. "What orders?" the King demanded. His voice rang throughout the sparring field, and all movement around him stopped.
To his credit, Marcel didn't look afraid, or angry. Simply…resigned. "From Weisshaupt. They want to know how the Commander survived at Fort Drakon and have grown weary of your silence. I was ordered to incapacitate her and transport her to the Anderfels for questioning."
"Incapacitate?" Alistair's vision reddened. "She is your commanding officer!"
"I take no pleasure in what I've done." Marcel's brows drew down.
Alistair's hand flexed on the hilt of the sword. "Tell me why I shouldn't shove this sword through your throat," he growled.
"You have no authority--"
"I am the King!" he roared. "You would do well to remember who you are dealing with, Marcel."
"And you would do well to remember who has power in this castle, your Majesty."
The unmistakable sound of steel tearing through flesh resounded behind him. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed the four Orlesian Wardens that had not been assigned to darkspawn patrols battling his guards. The poor bastards never had a chance.
Alistair turned his gaze back to Marcel. "Do you want to do this, Marcel? Do you want to make me your enemy?"
The other Warden's eyes filled with regret. "You've left me no choice."
The King clenched his teeth. "Nor have you."
He thrust the sword forward, grimacing as it cut through Marcel's neck with ease. Blood fountained from the man's mouth. Alistair forced himself to see the gore, but not be affected by it. He could react later. Now…he needed to survive.
He tore the blade away, and, turning, took stock of the battle. Of the half-dozen guards who accompanied him at all times, only two remained standing. They were hopelessly outmatched, their lack of skill obvious in comparison to the four Wardens they faced. Alistair charged with a shout, a wish for his shield flitting through his mind. Then his blade struck one of the Wardens and his thoughts were consumed by battle techniques and staying alive.
The first Warden, taken by surprise, fell quickly. Alistair spun, engaging the second without pause. The second Warden's sword scored his upper arm. Alistair pushed the pain aside. Later. There would be time for it later. He dodged a thrust and leapt forward with his own, running the man through.
A blade whispered at the nape of his neck and he lunged forward, away from the attack. Another of his guards fell. Behind him, swords clanged. The King turned to see the young woman he'd trained the day before battling the third Warden. Quite handily. He didn't dwell on her assistance. With another cry, he darted forward, and dispatched the fourth Warden in a matter of moments.
Breathing heavily, he surveyed the scene. The bodies of the four Wardens, Marcel, and five of the King's guards surrounded them like some macabre bloom. Recruits hovered at the edges of the training ring, gape-mouthed and wide-eyed, but motionless. Alistair scanned the area for renewed attack, but no one dared challenge the King and his blood-bathed sword.
Now what? Alistair blinked sweat from his eyes. He'd killed fellow Wardens--though he felt no kinship with the men arranged on the ground before him. Wardens did what they must, yes, but there were lines that must be drawn and not crossed. Kidnapping Bryn, challenging the King of Ferelden…
He shook his head. The time for reflection had not arrived yet. They weren't safe.
"Come," he said shortly. The guard and Rae, the recruit, fell in step behind him. He walked quickly, his sword at the ready, toward the stables. They would retreat to Highever and send word to Denerim that the Wardens of Orlais were traitors to the crown.
And then he would travel to Weisshaupt to find Bryn. If she still lived. If she didn't--
Maker have mercy on them.
Alistair bolted upright, his heart pounding. His hand sought Bryn beside him, but he found only empty space. Cold bedclothes. Where was she?
He scrubbed a hand over his face, wishing he could remember what had awoken him. A sense of unease lingered, a twinge of panic. Which made no sense. They were at Amaranthine. They couldn’t be safer than in the company of their fellow Wardens.
Right?
The worry remained with him as he dressed, prodding him to move faster. Something...wasn’t right. He could feel it. Darkspawn? No, it wasn’t the oily corruption of the tainted creatures he felt. Nothing quite so tangible. Just a pervasive sense of wrongness.
He stepped into the hall, beckoning to one of the guards stationed near his room. "Have you seen Bryn?" he asked. The guard stared at him blankly, and Alistair shook his head. Right--her name certainly wasn't a secret, but few people thought of her as Bryn Cousland anymore. "The Warden Commander?"
"No, your Majesty."
The King's lips pressed into a thin line as he dismissed the man. With Bryn's skill at stealth, he shouldn't be surprised that no one had seen her leave. He turned away from his guards, closing his eyes for a moment as the memory of finding her gone from Highever swamped him. When he'd returned to her room, only to find no trace of her…the pain had been nearly physical, like he'd had an arm torn off.
She wouldn't have done that again? Surely not. They had worked--were working things out. Not that they'd really spent much time speaking. It had been easier to let the tasks and duties awaiting both of them at Amaranthine pull them in separate directions, to avoid picking at the scars they both carried on their souls. Damn it. No longer. When he tracked her down, he was going to lock them both…somewhere…and they were going to talk until their voices died.
Alistair began a methodical sweep of the castle, shadowed by his guards, starting with the kitchens. He'd hoped to find her seated before the cooking hearth, enjoying a morning tea, but no. None of the cooks or servants had seen her. Next, he stopped by her study, only to find it in disarray as the remodelling crew began work for the day. Marcel's study was empty, as was the library. He even checked his own quarters, a fantasy image of Bryn lounging in his bed, ready to surprise him, playing across his mind's eye. His rooms were cold, with an unlived-in feel. At every opportunity, he asked the people he encountered if they had seen his love. None had.
The panic nipping at his heart surged anew. Maybe she'd ventured beyond the castle's walls, a brief escape. But if so, why hadn't she told anyone? Why hadn't she told him?
Alistair finally tracked Marcel down on the training grounds. The other Warden fought valiantly with a straw man, cleaving his sword against the dummy as though it was the archdemon itself. The King approached cautiously, mindful of the man's blade.
Marcel spotted him in mid-swing; he followed through, then sheathed his weapon. "Your Majesty."
"Marcel. Have you seen the Commander?"
The Warden retrieved a skin of water from the feet of the dummy and took a long swallow. The silence expanded, uncomfortably, until Alistair's ears rang with it. Finally, the other man took the skein from his lips and brushed a hand over them.
"She's gone," he said.
Alistair's breath left him in a rush. "What do you mean?"
"I had orders--"
The words had barely left Marcel's mouth before Alistair charged him. His fist cracked across the man's chin. As Marcel bent in shock, Alistair grasped the sword on the Warden's back. A kick sent the other man stumbling backwards, leaving his blade in the King's hand. Behind him, Alistair heard swords being unsheathed, and he knew his guards were preparing to defend him if necessarily. Huh. This King thing might not be so bad.
He extended Marcel's sword to brush against the man's chin. It nicked him, and a droplet of red appeared. "What orders?" the King demanded. His voice rang throughout the sparring field, and all movement around him stopped.
To his credit, Marcel didn't look afraid, or angry. Simply…resigned. "From Weisshaupt. They want to know how the Commander survived at Fort Drakon and have grown weary of your silence. I was ordered to incapacitate her and transport her to the Anderfels for questioning."
"Incapacitate?" Alistair's vision reddened. "She is your commanding officer!"
"I take no pleasure in what I've done." Marcel's brows drew down.
Alistair's hand flexed on the hilt of the sword. "Tell me why I shouldn't shove this sword through your throat," he growled.
"You have no authority--"
"I am the King!" he roared. "You would do well to remember who you are dealing with, Marcel."
"And you would do well to remember who has power in this castle, your Majesty."
The unmistakable sound of steel tearing through flesh resounded behind him. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed the four Orlesian Wardens that had not been assigned to darkspawn patrols battling his guards. The poor bastards never had a chance.
Alistair turned his gaze back to Marcel. "Do you want to do this, Marcel? Do you want to make me your enemy?"
The other Warden's eyes filled with regret. "You've left me no choice."
The King clenched his teeth. "Nor have you."
He thrust the sword forward, grimacing as it cut through Marcel's neck with ease. Blood fountained from the man's mouth. Alistair forced himself to see the gore, but not be affected by it. He could react later. Now…he needed to survive.
He tore the blade away, and, turning, took stock of the battle. Of the half-dozen guards who accompanied him at all times, only two remained standing. They were hopelessly outmatched, their lack of skill obvious in comparison to the four Wardens they faced. Alistair charged with a shout, a wish for his shield flitting through his mind. Then his blade struck one of the Wardens and his thoughts were consumed by battle techniques and staying alive.
The first Warden, taken by surprise, fell quickly. Alistair spun, engaging the second without pause. The second Warden's sword scored his upper arm. Alistair pushed the pain aside. Later. There would be time for it later. He dodged a thrust and leapt forward with his own, running the man through.
A blade whispered at the nape of his neck and he lunged forward, away from the attack. Another of his guards fell. Behind him, swords clanged. The King turned to see the young woman he'd trained the day before battling the third Warden. Quite handily. He didn't dwell on her assistance. With another cry, he darted forward, and dispatched the fourth Warden in a matter of moments.
Breathing heavily, he surveyed the scene. The bodies of the four Wardens, Marcel, and five of the King's guards surrounded them like some macabre bloom. Recruits hovered at the edges of the training ring, gape-mouthed and wide-eyed, but motionless. Alistair scanned the area for renewed attack, but no one dared challenge the King and his blood-bathed sword.
Now what? Alistair blinked sweat from his eyes. He'd killed fellow Wardens--though he felt no kinship with the men arranged on the ground before him. Wardens did what they must, yes, but there were lines that must be drawn and not crossed. Kidnapping Bryn, challenging the King of Ferelden…
He shook his head. The time for reflection had not arrived yet. They weren't safe.
"Come," he said shortly. The guard and Rae, the recruit, fell in step behind him. He walked quickly, his sword at the ready, toward the stables. They would retreat to Highever and send word to Denerim that the Wardens of Orlais were traitors to the crown.
And then he would travel to Weisshaupt to find Bryn. If she still lived. If she didn't--
Maker have mercy on them.
#136
Posté 03 février 2010 - 04:01
Sialater
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Yeah, felt like I was watching cops turn on one another.
#137
Posté 03 février 2010 - 04:05
AdorableAnarchist
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Oooo, loving this... More more more
#138
Posté 03 février 2010 - 04:12
Miliat
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Im going to have to not read this thread for a couple of days. The cliffhanger endings are stressing me out
#140
Posté 03 février 2010 - 05:09
Freckles04
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Thanks all. Again...this is not what I intended to write. Which is kind of good and kind of bad. It's fun getting surprised by the characters, but it leaves me scrambling to figure out where we're going...
So, yeah, when Al confronted Marcel, there was really only one way it could end up. Maybe the Al you meet at Ostagar would have let Marcel and the Wardens walk away, but not King Al.
I have to say, one of the things I'm enjoying most about this is exploring Alistair's developing character.
So, yeah, when Al confronted Marcel, there was really only one way it could end up. Maybe the Al you meet at Ostagar would have let Marcel and the Wardens walk away, but not King Al.
I have to say, one of the things I'm enjoying most about this is exploring Alistair's developing character.
#141
Posté 03 février 2010 - 05:20
MsSouthpaw
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Nobody puts Baby in a corner! (Or takes Bryn to Weisshaupt without Alistair knowing)
Not gonna lie, I was cheering on the Orlesian Warden massacre.
Not gonna lie, I was cheering on the Orlesian Warden massacre.
#142
Posté 03 février 2010 - 06:31
ReubenLiew
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Them cliffhangers! *shakes fist*Although to be truthful... I was rooting on the Grey Wardens...
#143
Posté 03 février 2010 - 06:46
Sialater
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ReubenLiew wrote...
Although to be truthful... I was rooting on the Grey Wardens...
That's just because you don't like Al.
#144
Posté 03 février 2010 - 06:50
Freckles04
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ReubenLiew wrote...
Although to be truthful... I was rooting on the Grey Wardens...
You, ser, are banned from my thread!
#145
Posté 03 février 2010 - 07:51
ReubenLiew
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*leaves thread with belongings*
#148
Posté 03 février 2010 - 09:30
TanithAeyrs
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I think Alistair's vision of the Wardens has been tarnished. It will be interesting to see how he reacts. Will be waiting for tomorrows installment.
#149
Posté 03 février 2010 - 10:28
Freckles04
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ReubenLiew wrote...
*leaves thread with belongings*
Awww...
You can come back if you bring lamp-post shaped cookies.
#150
Posté 03 février 2010 - 10:29
Freckles04
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TanithAeyrs wrote...
I think Alistair's vision of the Wardens has been tarnished. It will be interesting to see how he reacts. Will be waiting for tomorrows installment.
It sure has. I have an idea of what shall transpire...
Mind you, with the way this story has been going, my ideas don't mean a whole lot. It may end up going in an entirely different direction.
