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[bloodtallow]

What follows is an Alistair-centric "might be" look at Ferelden in the years following the events of Origins. I hope you enjoy!
N.B. I've taken some liberties with certain events related to the throne and royal family of Ferelden.

----------------
Ever After
Chapter One

Nineteen, no, twenty hours. But it might just as well have been a week, or a month. He had seen nothing but the walls of the antechamber, heard nothing but the crackling fire, for what could have been an eternity.

Did all fathers feel like this? And then he corrected himself. All second-time fathers, that is. Though to be fair, this was the first child he had wanted to father.

He continued his measured pacing about the room. Maker, but this was worse than fighting darkspawn. At least during the Blight his enemy was one he could see. What was his enemy here? Time? Boredom? Anxiety? He had no idea how long this was supposed to take, but to hear so little for so interminably long...

It must have been five or six hours ago now that the midwife had asked for fresh linens and more hot water. Alistair had leapt to supply them for her - anything to keep him from the endless pacing about the room, and to give him some hint as to how things fared. But in response to his questions, the midwife had said only that Anora was tired, but well enough, considering. And then she had returned to the birthing chamber and he was left alone again. He sighed.

At this point I’d almost rather fight the archdemon again than wait here another hour.

He made another restless circuit of the room and then paused, his hand hovering over the doorknob.

What could they do to him? He was the king of Ferelden, after all, and who in Thedas had the right to keep him out of his own child’s birthing chamber?

Forget the silly superstitions and Eamon's over-protective coddling. He wouldn't let them keep him away any longer.

He turned the knob, and then stopped.

Anora had told him to wait outside.

After five years of marriage, and heavy with child, she was still as self possessed as ever. And though time had brought them closer than he would ever have guessed, he could count on one hand the number of times she had allowed him to see the side of her that wasn't completely in command of herself and her surroundings.

Well, tonight, she would simply have to make an exception.

Smiling as he pictured Anora’s disapproving yet happy face, he opened the door and walked up the hall toward the royal quarters.

One of the midwife’s attendants was coming out of the chamber – a young elf with her light brown hair cropped short. She was new to the palace, or he had simply not seen her before, but when Alistair approached she bobbed a nervous curtsey before babbling, “Y-your Majesty, p-please, I-I’m so...”

Something about her tone sent a shiver down his spine.

“It’s all right,” he answered automatically, nodding to the attendant, though he had no idea what he was comforting her for, “I’m sure it’s—”.

It suddenly occurred to him what was wrong. Though the chamber door was half open, the rooms beyond were still and silent. No voices, no laughter, no crying.

Heart pounding, he pushed the door open.

The midwife was exiting the bedroom, her arms filled with bed sheets and pillows. Upon seeing Alistair, her eyebrows knit in disapproval, but she did not try to hide the linens from him. Linens stained with...

That’s a lot of blood. It couldn’t all be Anora’s, could it?

“Your Majesty,” the midwife said, her voice soft. Alistair remembered when Anora had brought her into the palace, having made another of her unilateral decisions. She was from Highever, or at least he thought she had said so at the time, though he couldn’t remember her name, now. His head buzzed, as though he were standing too close to a hornets’ nest, and he resisted the impulse to shake it.

“Is the Queen...?” He kept his voice soft, in case Anora was sleeping.

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty. The Queen is dead.”

The buzzing grew louder, and for a moment he wondered if he’d heard her right.

What? The word formed on his lips, but suddenly he had no voice to speak it. She couldn’t have said what he thought he’d heard. She must have meant...

There was only one way to find out. Slowly, as though moving underwater, he entered the bedroom.

Anora lay in her bed as though she slept. Her face, drawn with the pains of labor when last he had seen it, was peaceful now, her mouth smiling slightly as though she lay in some happy dream.

But her hands are so cold.

It was as if the entire room was just a painting, some lifeless, frozen moment in time. Or, rather, as though he were looking at some strange copy of the world he knew – some warped reflection, where some other queen lay dead in some other room. He found himself hopefully tracing the outline of her face, as if to find some flaw or subtle change that would show him he was dreaming.

But no, it was she, for he knew every feature of her face, remembered every hair of her head.

Quietly, Alistair knelt before Anora, and kissed her brow.

"May you find peace in the Maker, my love," he whispered. “And—” For a moment he lost his voice again, and had to clear his throat, a strange, alien sound against all the stillness.

“May Andraste draw your soul to heaven, and may you find it glorious.”

He drew the linen shroud over her face, gently touching the pale cheek one last time, and resting a hand upon her hair for one final moment.

He didn't know what else to say or do. He shook his head, remembering their last conversation, over breakfast yesterday. Anora had been tired and nauseated, and he had managed to convince her to rest with him awhile on the
veranda, and even to submit to a foot rub, before she had gone, bold-faced and alone into a five-hour negotiation session with some visiting Orlesian emissaries.

And what had been his last words to her? "Goodbye, my queen, I'll always love you" seemed a preposterous thing to say after breakfast, but now he found himself wishing he had said so, regardless of time or seeming impropriety. Instead, he had called after her to remember to inquire after Empress Celene's nephew's health, or dog, or some other unimportant trifle. Such a stupid, careless request.

He felt suddenly empty, as though by entering the room he had become trapped by its silence. Without looking, he sank to the floor, slumped against the bed and rested his head in his hands.

"Your Majesty?”

The voice startled him, breaking the stillness like a hammer.

“Would you like to see your daughter now?"

Modifié par bloodtallow, 26 mai 2010 - 03:39 .

[Freckles04]

Very nicely written. Poor Alistair. He's not destined to have a happy life, is he? Though I'm glad his child survived. But...what is it with mothers dying in childbirth in Ferelden? It's a wonder there's a population at all!

[Treason1]

Questions, questions..



Obviously, Alistair survived the last battle, but how is the question.

Logain died? The Warden? Was the Ritual performed? Was the Warden male or female? Were they in a relationship with Alistair?



Will there be more to this fanfic? I hope so.

[Sandtigress]

I'm interested in seeing where this will go, since its so different from many of the other fics out there (wonderful though they may be!). Very well-written - can't wait till there's more!

[bloodtallow]

Thank you for your encouraging curiosity, Treason & Sandtigress! I certainly hope that these and other questions will be answered in time!



And yes, Freckles! Every time I roll up a new DA:O character, I am amazed at the number of orphans or single-parent children there are in Ferelden!

[bloodtallow]

Chapter Two

The other bedroom in the royal quarters was quiet, but unlike Anora’s bedchamber it was at least not shrouded in cold and shadow. The fire was burning brightly here, casting a warm glow on the faces of the assembled birthing attendants, and on Arl Eamon, who was holding a bundle in his arms.

“Ah, good,” Eamon said softly as he approached, “I’m glad you’re here. She’s just beginning to wake.”

And without another word, and before Alistair could protest, Eamon pushed the bundle into his hands.

Maker’s breath, she was small. He held her as gently as he could, like a phylactery made of crystal, suddenly terrified she might break if he allowed his arms to enfold her with any of the relief he now felt.

“It’s all right Alistair,” Eamon said, “she isn’t going to disappear on you.”

At Eamon’s soft words, Alistair raised his head, and suddenly the numbness he had felt began to thaw like ice above a running stream. Legs suddenly weak, he sank into a nearby chair. Eamon gripped his shoulder gently.

“I’m sorry.”

“Eamon—” he started, unsure what to say, but before he could get any further someone touched his chin.

He looked down. A pair of nut-brown eyes were staring at him, from a smiling face. His daughter was awake, squirming gently in her blankets, looking for all the world like a happy, healthy baby.

She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

He couldn’t utter a word. He could only look down at her like a man waking up from a dream, still too sleep-filled to remember how to move or speak.

But after a few minutes, and another beautiful smile, Alistair was able to relax enough to get a closer look at his daughter. Her hair was fair, covering her head like a downy and slightly rumpled halo. Her cheeks dimpled as she smiled, and her hands were the most perfect hands he could ever have imagined. Now that she was awake, she shifted and moved in his arms, and even gave him a kick as she tested her limbs.

“Well, like mother like daughter, it seems,” Eamon said, with a gentle chuckle.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Alistair said, a sudden touch of pride painting a brief smile upon his face.

He gazed down at the baby in his arms, feeling as though once again tonight time was standing still. But this time, he was content to let it stay that way.

“Your Majesty?” The elven attendant he had met in the hall had returned, again bobbing her nervous curtsey.

“P-please, Your Majesty, I should take the princess to her nurse. If she is awake, s-she may be hungry.”

“What is your name?” He asked, and the attendant jumped nervously.

“I-it’s N-Nelys, Your Majesty. I-I’m sorry—”

“It’s all right, Nelys,” he said, carefully placing his child into her arms, “it’s going to be all right.”

He watched his daughter being conducted away by the procession of attendants.

“Nelys?”

The elf halted, looking terrified at being addressed twice by name in such quick succession.

“Would you please let me see her again, once...” he gestured awkwardly, but Nelys nodded.

“Of... of course, Your Majesty.”

He watched them go, feeling a strange mixture of pain and happiness, as though the two emotions were matched evenly like twin draughts taken from the same cup. For a moment he let his gaze wander over the smoldering logs on the fire.

“Alistair?” Eamon’s voice was gentle, but held a firmness that had not been present when Alistair had entered the room.

“While you were busy today a message came from Amaranthine. The usual skirmishes in the Wilds have escalated, and the Warden Lieutenant fears that we may have an invasion force on our hands.”

“They need reinforcements?” He did not even need to ask the question. The Lieutenant would never have alerted him if the situation were not dire.

“Without more troops, they will be unable to hold the line.”

Alistair sighed. Darkspawn. Maker, but they had the worst timing.

“Very well, Eamon. Send word to the garrison commanders. We will leave tomorrow, at first light.”

“Of course.” Eamon nodded, and moved to the door, then turned back.

“With the coming battle, I believe that Denerim is the safest place for the child.”

Alistair nodded. Of course it was, especially with the new defenses he had built since the Blight.

“Isolde and I will look after her.”

“Of course. I know she will be well cared for.” He tried to bite back his disappointment. It was ridiculous, foolhardy, to even think about trying to combine his duties as a father to a newborn daughter, and his sworn oath to defend Ferelden.

And yet, despite the events of the last twenty-four hours, there was a part of him that would have preferred to stay, to sit, perhaps forever, in the chair next to the fire, holding his daughter in his arms. If Anora were here, it would make his departure easier. Brow furrowing, he turned to the fire again, trying to lose himself in its glow.

“Eamon?” A sudden thought tore him from his reverie.

“Yes?” The arl turned back from the door, clearly taking Alistair’s silence as the end of their conversation.

“I will choose her name.”

“As you wish.” Eamon nodded. For a moment he looked as might say something else. The he nodded again, and left, shutting the door silently behind him.

Alistair returned to the fireside chair and sat down, gazing for long moments at the shadows on the hearth.

“Your Majesty?”

Nelys had returned, stepping softly so as not to wake the sleeping baby in her arms.

“She fell asleep again, but I know you wished to see her. I-I’m sorry...”

“It’s all right, Nelys,” he said gently, taking his daughter again and settling the babe in his arms. It was easier to hold her the second time, as though his arms were already growing accustomed to her weight.

“Thank you for bringing her to me.”

“Your Majesty.” Nelys curtseyed again, and left.

Tenderly, Alistair traced the golden halo of her hair. His daughter. With a ferventness he had not possessed in what felt like a lifetime, he held her close, trying to memorize every detail of her face and outstretched hands.

“Welcome to the world, my Wynne,” he whispered to her softly.

Modifié par bloodtallow, 25 février 2010 - 12:26 .

[Sandtigress]

Formatting troubles, which I'm sure you've already noticed.



Loved the end, very sweet, and a good name. If it were a son, we all know he'd have named him Duncan. ;-)



A minor point, but I believe all babies are born with blue eyes, yes?

[Freckles04]

Sandtigress wrote...

Formatting troubles, which I'm sure you've already noticed.

Loved the end, very sweet, and a good name. If it were a son, we all know he'd have named him Duncan. ;-)

A minor point, but I believe all babies are born with blue eyes, yes?

Very nice chapter. I'm eager to find out what happened to the Hero of Ferelden. And I noticed you refered to the Warden Lieutenant, not the Warden Commander. Interesting.

And about the blue eyes thing: not always. Most of the time, yes, but if the genetic disposition is to have dark eyes, they may just start out dark instead of blue.

[Avaraen]

It's true it's most common for a human baby's eyes to be blue, but mine were reportedly dark enough to look black when I was born, later lightening to dark brown. So, who's to say in the case of a child born to unlikely parents in a fictional world?



On the story, it's sweet and well-written so far; I'm not usually fond of Alistair-centric fic, but a post-Blight story at least breaks free of the standard re-telling (and you might be another one who actually makes me like Alistair, at least a little, heh).

[clafount]

This is a lovely, lovely story. So sad! And so many questions left to be answered.

[Treason1]

Considering the translation of the name "Wynne" and the character for which she was named after, I couldn't think of a better name for a newborn.

[bloodtallow]

Thank you all! And thanks, Treason! I thought for awhile about the name, and decided that was the only one which made sense.

[Sialater]

Unless he named her after the female Warden, Wynne would be the best name, yes.



This is going beautifully, good job!

[Miliat]

I've got tears in my eyes. I really like this. Poor Alistair.

[ReubenLiew]

It's refreshing to see somebody do a story where Alistair is actually happy with his wife

Very touching, can't wait for more!

[Sisimka]

Yes, it irks me that he was happy with Anora, but he deserved those five years, poor dear. Nice story! I'm looking forward to more.

[bloodtallow]

Having a few problems with "chapter three", but I did want to get something posted today, so here is at least the first half of "what happens next..."



I promise we'll be killing darkspawn soon, for those who are waiting for some action!

[bloodtallow]

Chapter Three - Part One

Alistair awoke before dawn. In the pale silver light from the chamber windows, he sat up and leaned over to peer into the bassinet that stood beside the bed.

She was still there, sleeping peacefully, hands curled about her blankets and a gentle smile upon her face.

He smiled, relieved, as he realized that despite Eamon’s words the night before, some part of him had been expecting her to disappear, as though everything about her had been some strange dream.

Wynne.

He dared not whisper her name, for he didn’t want to wake her. It was hard enough knowing that he had to leave her, without her waking up to see him go.

As quietly as he could, he rose and dressed. It had been a long time since he had worn his full battle armor, but after a few minor adjustments he slipped into it as easily as if he had worn it just yesterday.

Before pulling on his gauntlets, Alistair returned to the bassinet and gently touched Wynne’s cheek. Then, with a sigh, he crept to the door.

Someone was sleeping in a chair outside the chamber.

“Nelys?” Gently, he touched her shoulder. She started, looking about her wildly.

“Y-Your Majesty! I-I’m sorry. I didn’t m-mean to fall asleep.”

“It’s all right, Nelys,” he repeated for what felt like the hundredth time. “I’m sure everyone is still tired after last night. I know I still am.” He smiled grimly.

“W-was there something you required, Your Majesty?”

“Only for you to continue to look after the princess. I leave shortly, and will be gone for...” He paused, considering. Truth be told, he didn’t know how long. However long it took to push the darkspawn back, he supposed, though he kept that thought to himself.

“Well, I will be gone for some time... Would you ensure that the arl and arlessa have everything they need to see to her happiness while I am gone?”

“Of-of course, Your Majesty, but the midwife...”

“I would prefer that you tend to her, please.” He could not explain why he trusted the elf maid. Perhaps it had been the gentleness with which she had ministered to Wynne last night, despite her halting speech and nervous manner. Regardless, he felt more at ease knowing Eamon would have another pair of hands ready to assist him.

“Of course...” Nelys nodded again, bobbed her strange curtsey, and hurried into the bedchamber to look after her charge.
Alistair continued down the hallway to Eamon’s room and knocked gently. There was a brief pause, then Eamon emerged, straightening his collar.

“We’ll see you back soon, I trust,” the older man gripped Alistair’s hand firmly, as though imparting a request instead of a wish.

“As soon as I can ensure that Amaranthine is safe. But Eamon, if something happens... I want you to give her this.”

He fumbled for a moment, finally taking off his gauntlets so that he could remove the fine chain from about his neck. His mother’s pendant shimmered as it met the dawn light, and for a moment Alistair held it in his hands, considering.

Suppose I never make it back. Suppose this is all she ever has to remember...

He thrust the thought away, grimacing, and pressed the pendant into Eamon’s hands.

“If the time comes, I will.” Eamon’s face darkened. “But Maker preserve us, I hope I never have to.”

 
#

 
The general of the foot soldiers of the crown sat alone in the garrison dining room. The table in front of him was littered with half-empty plates and overturned bottles. As Alistair entered, he drained his tankard, took a last bite of what appeared to be a mostly-devoured nug, and stood, pulling the king into a hug.

“I hear last night was a long one. Sodding nug-runners, I never thought—” The dwarf’s voice broke off, and he shook his head. Alistair nodded, knowing what his friend was trying to say.

“Thank you, Oghren.”

The dwarf gave him a sad smile. Then, as though remembering something, he began rummaging in a backpack on the dining table.

“Here,” he said after a moment. “It may not be the best time to give it to you, but I got it as a baby present.”

Alistair looked at the metal flask in Oghren’s hands. Even stoppered, he could smell the nostril-cleaning fumes of some strange liquor.

“Okay, you got me. That isn’t really a baby present, is it?”

The dwarf grinned.

“If you have to ask, you must know even less about babies than I thought. Trust me, you’re gonna need it. When Felsi had Owen I drank a pint every day. It got me through the little nug-duster’s teething. Well, that, and some chainmail socks.”

He couldn’t help it. Alistair laughed, trying to picture his friend – the stalwart slayer of darkspawn and a general of his army – suffering through his young son’s penchant for biting ankles. The smile felt good on his tired face, and for a
moment the two friends stood still, enjoying the easy silence.

“Anyway,” Oghren said finally, “we’re ready to march on your order.”

“Good. Let us be off then.”

Together, they emerged from the garrison building onto the broad, sundrenched training fields to greet the assembled army.

In all the times he had seen them, the crown’s foot soldiers had seemed a tough and dedicated bunch, though Alistair would expect no less from those serving under Oghren’s watchful eye. Many of the older soldiers had served during the siege of Denerim, though the dwarven general’s strange charisma had attracted many new recruits in the years since the war. With the expansion of the city’s Alienage district, many elves had joined the army, proving themselves worthy additions to the ranks. And with the improved relations between Orzammar and the surface, there were even some dwarves to be seen here and there among the eager faces.

The good-natured din of expectant soldiers hushed as they approached. Though he had grown accustomed to, if not accepting of every eye following him while out in public, Alistair suddenly felt overwhelmed at the thought of speaking to his soldiers. He stood for a moment before the assembled troops, trying to get his thoughts into some kind of order. It was not only customary for the king to address troops before battle, it was an expected honor, and one he had performed before, and gladly. But today... the words just wouldn’t come.

As though sensing his very thoughts, Oghren moved easily forward, taking a central position before the soldiers.

“You know the routine,” the dwarf grumbled, pacing along the ranks. “Ferelden’s in trouble and it’s up to us to fix it. It seems those Wardens have got a bigger hassle on their hands than they’d like, and they’ve asked us for help. So the
sooner we get out there and kill those darkspawn, the sooner we can get down to the more important stuff, like ale and food!”

It had to be the strangest rallying speech Alistair had ever heard. For a moment he didn’t know whether to shake his head or laugh aloud. Then he realized that while Oghren had been speaking, every single soldier on the training field had straightened, until all were attentive, watching and waiting, ready for their commands.

Looking into the eyes of those assembled, he could read no fear on their faces, only a fierce-burning pride. He smiled as Oghren unhooked the dwarven-made axe from his back and brandished it before his riveted soldiers.

“Let’s show them our hearts,” the dwarf growled, his voice growing to a roar as every soldier of the crown cried with him, “and then show them theirs!”

And they were off, making good time along the northern road to Amaranthine.

Modifié par bloodtallow, 23 février 2010 - 07:43 .

[Freckles04]

Nice chapter! I'm eagerly awaiting the next.

[Hirdas]

I do like it so far.

[Sandtigress]

Sounds good so far!

[bloodtallow]

Chapter Three - Part Two

The terrain grew rougher as they approached Amaranthine, with trees and hillocks camouflaging both the grey walls of Vigil’s Keep, and the white-capped ocean beyond. The sky had darkened as afternoon slipped into evening, but as the army crested the last hill before the keep, it seemed to Alistair that the darkness was more oppressive than that of the coming night. It was as though a veil had been drawn across the fading sun. When the trees finally cleared, he saw  why.

Vigil’s Keep was burning. Smoking corpses of darkspawn and Wardens dotted the battlefield, staining the grass red with blood. The keep gates were shattered, a ruined mess of splintered wood and warped iron. From the buildings and towers of the inner courtyard, fires blazed, consuming everything but the stone itself. Screams echoed off the blasted stone of the keep like a horde of banshees feasting on the tumult.

Andraste’s blood, we have to get in there.

He turned to Oghren, reading the same dismay on the dwarf’s face that he felt on his own. Together, king and general bellowed for the charge and the army rushed toward the keep.

Most of the darkspawn were already inside, and any stragglers had clearly not expected their approach. Working in tandem, Alistair and Oghren led the way across the battlefield, cutting down genlocks and hurlocks mechanically, their weapons timed so perfectly it appeared that sword, shield and axe were just flashing cogs in a well-oiled machine.

But as they drew closer to the keep, Alistair flinched, his sword losing its momentum, his senses reeling. They had used magic to get the gate open. He could feel it on his skin, taste it in the air. The stones around the gateway were cracked and blackened, and the earth at his feet was scorched. No mere fireball had done this – this was the work of a powerful magician.

From the other side of the wreckage, he heard the familiar, crackling build-up of arcane energy, and the guttural snarl of a darkspawn mage. He charged forward, downing a surprised genlock with one quick slash of his sword, before pivoting and striking out with his shield three times in an overpowering move against the emissary. The magical energy fizzled, and he stepped past quickly, hearing Oghren move in for the killing blow behind him.

Broken stone and burning wreckage littered the inner courtyard, culminating in a massive pile of twisted bodies and charred wood. Whatever blast had broken through the front gates had clearly taken out most of the Wardens with it. Bedraggled survivors were scattered everywhere, fighting mobs of darkspawn, but without anywhere to run, most were swiftly being overwhelmed.

Alistair roared as anger swept over him. Not again. He would not lose the Wardens again. Maker, he would find every last one of them if he had to walk through the fire himself. He turned to his army.

“Split into squadrons here. Find every Warden you can. Save the keep!”

The soldiers broke off immediately into teams, fanning out into the courtyard.

Alistair concentrated, sifting through his muddied senses to find his target – the head of the onslaught. Vigil’s Tower – the highest point of the keep. The blackened snarl of tainted magic radiated from there like a cloud of poison.

With Oghren beside him, he made his way to the tower.

“Bloody nug-lickers!” Oghren swore as they entered.

Two Wardens lay just inside the tower door, their bodies crumpled, their armor warped with the clear effects of a  massive magical discharge.

Cursing, Alistair knelt to check their bodies for a pulse, when an explosion rocked the tower.

There was no time. Bile rising in his throat, he hurried up the tower’s spiral staircase, with Oghren at his heels.

Both his Warden senses and his templar training were broadcasting very clearly that something here was very wrong. It wasn’t just the darkspawn taint he was feeling, it was something stronger – a twisting sense of corruption he had never sensed before. He could hear another spell sizzle through the air above them, and a scream rang out against the stone walls.

Half way up the tower the staircase widened, revealing a barracks room with two more Wardens, lying unconscious and bleeding from whatever spells the darkspawn had unleashed.

“Oghren,” Alistair called, his throat hoarse, “help them, please.” Then he turned and lunged up the stairs.

I have to stop it, before it kills anyone else.

He hurried up the twisting spiral, thrusting away the sense of dizziness, and the choking haze of tainted magic. Finally, the staircase widened again, and he burst into the top room of the tower. 

There were two figures silhouetted in the glow of the keep fires. One, whom he recognized as a Warden, lay gasping on the floor. The other was the largest hurlock he had ever seen. It was a giant, so tall it nearly scraped the tower ceiling with its horned helmet. In one massive hand, it gripped a black saw-blade, stained with blood. On its other arm it bore a heavy metal shield, and it was the shield which it had clearly just used to knock the Warden to the ground. Snarling, the beast drew closer to its prey, raised its sword hand and barked one guttural word.

Fire shot down the length of the darkspawn’s sword, swirling with a deadly light as the hurlock took one final step toward the prone Warden.

Without pausing to think, Alistair cried aloud the words learned during his templar training, unleashing a bolt of energy at the towering hurlock. The darkspawn raised its shield, deflecting the bolt, but the spell had at least diverted attention away from the other Warden. Alistair charged, throwing his rage into a fierce barrage of shield blows which knocked the hurlock back against the tower wall. But the beast growled in fury, emitting another guttural cry, and suddenly a burst of crackling energy knocked Alistair backwards through the air.

He landed heavily against the opposite wall, ears ringing and vision blurry. From across the room, the hurlock began chanting, an eldritch light dancing across the blade in its hands. Quickly, Alistair rolled to the side, as a black bolt of energy sizzled overhead and smashed into the wall, cracking the stone. Then, before the creature could cast any more spells, he charged once more, lashing out with his shield and driving his sword into the hurlock’s chest.

As the beast gurgled and seized before him, Alistair closed his eyes and concentrated, purging the last of the tainted magic from the room.

Then he turned to the Warden, and a sudden wave of relief flooded him as the man opened his eyes.

“It’s good to see you alive, Lieutenant,” he said, hurrying forward to take the other man’s arm.

“I am happy to say the same, Your Majesty,” the Warden replied, grimacing as Alistair helped him off the stone floor.

“It seems you got here just in time. Another moment and he would have taken it.”

“Taken what?” Alistair asked, but before his companion could respond, a cry of shock filled the chamber.

“By the ****** of my ancestors!”

Oghren stood in the doorway, his gaze fixed on the hurlock’s corpse. In another moment he was on his knees,  scrubbing at the bloodstained shield with his gauntleted hands.

“That’s Branka’s shield!”

Modifié par bloodtallow, 24 février 2010 - 09:59 .

[Freckles04]

More, please!

[Sisimka]

This was really exciting to read Bloodtallow!

[ParalyzedHero]

The recent chapter was so good that i had to force my self away from the PC!