149 réponses à ce sujet

[Ardonia]

Im loving this story more with every paragraph.

[bloodtallow]

Thanks Ardonia!

[Sisimka]

You do realise you are spoiling us with so much goodness so quickly? We demand more!

[bloodtallow]

Well, I wanted to make up for my weekend-long absence!



More coming soon - tomorrow at the latest. Now that Neria's here, she wants to get going!

[bloodtallow]

Chapter Seven, Part Three

"A what?" Oghren's confused question spoke for all of them.

Neria met Alistair's gaze, but her eyes were shadowed.

"A godstone. The Dalish believe it is a gateway... a conduit to the divine. The ancient keepers of Arlathan would have used the stone to commune with the Creators. But its power is undiminished, even now that the elven gods no longer speak."

"So the Tevinter mages used it for their own purposes," Simon said, his face ashen, "to commune with the old gods of the Imperium."

"And the darkspawn believe they can..." the words died on Alistair's lips.

Maker, they can use it to find an old god.

"We have to protect it," he said fiercely, "or... or destroy it."

To his surprise it was Oghren, not Neria, who responded.

"And what kind of power would it take to break that stone? You can't even touch the thing without getting all quivery," the dwarf stared at Alistair. "Who's to say that whatever we did to destroy it wouldn't be worse than keeping it here?"

"But we can't use it," Alistair continued, trying to sit up and wincing as pain shot along his chest. "We tried..."

"The Circle tried to figure it out, sure," Oghren said, "but ancestors only know if they didn't try the wrong things. They had that stone for five sodding years, and couldn't use it to light a fart on fire." He turned to Neria. "She's our best chance of figuring this thing out."

The elf mage spoke, her voice soft.

"It is your choice, Your Majesty. But I believe it when I tell you that the Dalish can safeguard the godstone, and perhaps decipher its power."

"I--" Alistair paused. "I want to see them." He gestured to the field outside, where the calls of the wounded and dying still echoed. He couldn't make this decision lying on a cot in a tent, not without seeing his army in broad daylight.

"Very well, Your Majesty," Simon said softly, "but know that it is worse here than it was at Vigil's Keep."

Together, Simon and Oghren lifted Alistair's cot and maneuvered him out of the tent, Neria holding back the flap as they went. As his eyes adjusted to the sunlight, Alistair suppressed a cry of dismay.

Simon's words had not prepared him for the sight that greeted him here. The hills surrounding the Tower docks were blackened with blood, the grass charred by the tainted spells of the darkspawn. Above him, the ruins of the Circle Tower stretched like a skeletal hand into the sky, the spell-seared stone and wreckage still smoldering. Furniture,
masonry, and the bright-clad bodies of dead mages and templars lay scattered like shrapnel from the blast.

His army was literally bleeding onto the earth, as survivors and walking wounded moved the injured away from the tainted ground to the makeshift infirmary near Alistair and his companions. In the valley below, soldiers and Wardens picked among the ruined village buildings and the broken bodies, looking for survivors. Before the Tower itself,
pyres were already blazing for those who had not survived the onslaught.

Alistair closed his eyes at the sight, feeling anger surge within him.

"Your Majesty," Simon whispered, "perhaps it would be best if--"

"No." His eyes snapped open. "This cannot happen again."

He clenched his free fist until the knuckles turned white, glaring at the fires and the broken bodies and all the blood as if they were living enemies he could cut down, beasts he could fell to find some order beneath all the chaos. He would find a way to answer for the death that surrounded them.

"Oghren," he said grimly, "Take your division and make for Orzammar. We need answers from the Deep Roads. Bhelen has to have some idea where the darkspawn are coming from, some way we can stop them. I don't care what excuse he has this time."

The dwarf laughed darkly.

"Aye. I'll get an answer, if I have to put Antivan whiskey into Bhelen's chowder and drag him off to Bownammar myself."

"Simon," Alistair turned to the Orlesian, "take the crown scouts with a message to Redcliffe. Tell them to prepare for the wounded."

Simon frowned, opening his mouth and shutting it again, before giving a terse nod.

"Neria," Alistair continued, and if the mage was surprised at his command, she did not show it, "please, help as many as you can. Get them on their feet again."

She nodded, meeting his gaze, her eyes reflecting his own anger and sadness.

"As soon as I can move, we're heading north. I'm going to call in a favor in Highever."

Modifié par bloodtallow, 10 mars 2010 - 06:35 .

[Sisimka]

Good, good, good!

[Freckles04]

Very good. Take charge Alistair! Awesome. He's all kingly. ::sigh::



I'd like to meet this Alistair in-game someday.

[Sandtigress]

I King Alistair

[bloodtallow]

Interlude - Questions

Simon left before sunset, and after a night of grumbling about sleeping on the stony ground, smelling the stench of the battlefield, and listening to the strange, bleating cries of the Dalish halla, Oghren gathered the surviving soldiers of his detachment and headed west to the Frostback Mountains.

Alistair remained, resting on the cot, half in and half out of the tent, giving instructions to the crown lieutenants, and taking stock of the remaining forces of Denerim's army, or later, when Neria's  medicine began to wear off, sending shooting pain along his legs and broken arm, gazing out along the blasted hillsides as the army recovered its footing.

He watched the injured arrive in the infirmary, screaming in pain or silent in death throes, bleeding from sword wounds, magical wounds, or, worst of all, wounds infected by the taint. He watched as Neria and her handful of Dalish mages ministered to them, chanting spells, crushing herbs, and winding linen strips to fill the never-ending call for bandages. He watched the clouds roil around the broken Tower spire, and tried to get his thoughts into a semblance of order of what needed to be done when they reached Highever. He watched as more pyres were lit like beacons along the Imperial Highway, for the ever-increasing toll of the dead. And he watched as his lieutenants reported that all who could have been saved from the battle-torn valley had been, as the infirmary sprawled over the hillside, filled with those preserved, through magic or medicine, from death at the hands of the  darkspawn.

Exhaustion written plainly on her face, Neria sank to the ground next to Alistair's cot, resting her chin on her hand. But she sat there only a moment before rising again, this time to check Alistair's wounds.

"I should give you more herbs for the pain," she said, reaching for the bag of medicines on her belt.

"Leave them for those who need them," he said, shaking his head slowly.

"As you wish," the mage raised an eyebrow, "though you may think twice when I start mending your legs. Healing was never my gift."

Alistair looked out at the ocean of cots and blankets spread on the grass for the wounded.

"Thank you," he said softly, "for saving them. I wish--"

He wished a lot of things, as memories of the last day echoed like a dirge in his mind: over and over again the same faces covered in blood, while the Tower burned and fell from the sky. But wishing would not rebuild the Circle, or banish the darkspawn, or bring the fallen back.

"Well," he said finally, "thank you."

He watched her, hands held uselessly in her lap, fingers twitching from casting too many spells. Her face was drawn as he knew his own was, from watching the specter of death lurking in the valley, oozing with the blood into the earth, or blown with the ashes on the wind over the lake. Consciously, he turned his thoughts elsewhere.

"I must admit, you're the last person I would have expected to see charging down the hill on a halla."

She smiled tiredly, a quick flash before her face dimmed, became unreadable.

"Indeed. A lot of things have happened that I would never have expected."

"Hmm."

A detail which hadn't registered through the blurred events of the past day was declaring itself plainly now. With his free arm, he gestured to the insignia of a green griffon on Neria's elven armor, a broken smile crossing his lips as he realized that the same symbol was emblazoned on the armor of every Dalish who had ridden with her.

"Does that mean what I think it does?"

"I would imagine so, Your Majesty."

"Then..." he stopped and looked at the Dalish soldiers scattered across the battlefield. There were more than forty of them - digging trenches, lighting pyres, tending to the wounded, or standing vigil against
another attack.

"Then all of them are..."

"Wardens, yes."

"How..." Questions filled his mind, teeming together so violently that for a moment he was unsure what to even ask. "How did you manage it?"

She looked down at the ground, fingers idly brushing the grass at her feet.

"Manage to recruit Wardens, or manage to come back to Ferelden?"

"Anything. Everything. I--" He tried to turn on the cot to see her face, and winced as pain shot across his chest.

"Don't move," Neria said softly, this time reaching for her herbs and fresh linen to change his bandages.

She worked in silence for a time, eyes focused on her task. Then, finished, she sat once more, looking out at Lake Calenhad.

"Do you remember..." her voice trailed off, and this time he had no doubt what she was thinking.

"I remember what we both said," he said softly, "when we parted."

“Despite what I said when I... when I left Denerim, I did my best to live up to my promise, in my own way. I am still a Warden Commander.” She gestured to her soldiers. “We are the Wardens of the Elvhenan. There are more of us in Arlathan.”

"More of you?" Alistair repeated, amazed. "In Arlathan?"

She nodded slowly.

More questions competed to be heard, and if it didn't hurt so much, he would have shaken his head to clear it.

“But..." he finally managed, "how did you get the materials for the Joining? And how did you find so many recruits? And, of all things,” he asked, a sudden eager curiosity spurring him onward, “how did you do any of it without my knowing about it?”

“Do not underestimate me, Your Majesty—" her voice hardened, and he held up his free hand.

“Please stop calling me that. You of all people should never call me that.”

“Alistair, then.”

“Thank you.”

“The Circle in the North Reaches was kind enough to provide the resources I needed. And as for the blood of the archdemon, well...” One corner of her mouth twitched, a ghost of amusement echoing across her face.

“That was you?!” Alistair asked incredulously, wincing again as his body complained at his enthusiasm. He remembered a scene almost nine years ago, when his court chancellor had informed him that overnight, exactly one half of the stockpiled archdemon blood had been stolen, and that there was absolutely no trace of the thief.

“Well, it was Zevran, really,” Neria smiled. “I thought of telling you, but it would mean admitting what I’d been up to, among other things.”

She fell silent, smile vanishing as fast as it had come.

“I’m impressed," he said softly, "truly, I am. When I... five years ago, I sent a letter to the Free Marches. I thought--"

"I got your letter. At the time, I didn't know about the godstone. When I finally learned what it was... I thought it might be best to tell you in person."

For one breath, her eyes sought his, brow furrowing as if she were looking for something.

"I wanted--"

She stopped suddenly, clapping a hand to her mouth, before letting it drop.

"I'm sorry," she said, standing up again, looking out over the hillside.

"Neria--"

She wouldn't meet his eyes.

"I should go."

Modifié par bloodtallow, 11 mars 2010 - 10:24 .

[MsSouthpaw]

I'm really addicted to this, Bloodtallow! It's so different from any other fic I've read, I have no idea where you're going with it, and I love that.

[Freckles04]

You never post enough, you know. Just saying.



(This was very good, as always. More more more more.)

[Sandtigress]

Aww, what a terrific chapter! And I love the idea of a whole contingent of Dalish Wardens. I mean, seriously. Archdemon shows up, pow, archdemon is dead. *is totally Dalish at heart*

[Sisimka]

*agrees with all the above comments* Don't want to sound redundant, but we need more...

[bloodtallow]

Sorry for the short installment today. More coming as soon as I can! Thank you all for reading!
--------

Chapter Eight, Part One

The next morning Neria announced that it was time to heal his legs and arm. This time, she suggested that Alistair take herbs for the pain, though at his insistence, she didn't give him enough to put him to sleep. After all that had happened, he knew he would rather face the pain of real blood and bones than the wordless apparitions of guilt and despair which clouded his dreams every time he slept.

It was an odd feeling, watching magical energy flow from Neria's fingertips and feeling it connect with the broken bones and tissue. Pain grew like a fire until every limb was aching, and Alistair found himself unconsciously whispering the chants he had learned as a templar as Neria's healing progressed, grateful for any distraction. So whispering, he turned his head to watch the mages tend to the injured, while the crown soldiers and Dalish Wardens continued their vigil against another attack. They were all on edge from the battle, he knew, and tense, just as he was, from watching the rolling grasses on the hills, or scanning along the Imperial Highway, looking for intruders or more darkspawn. But the hours crept by, with no new sense of taint marring his senses. The darkspawn were gone, for now.

"There."

Neria's soft voice startled him, and he turned his head. His limbs felt different - the bones and muscles whole once more, though he shook with fatigue. Grasping Neria's arm tightly with his right hand, he sat up, feeling the pain gradually diminish. Then he stood, half-smiling, half-grimacing and took slow, shuffling steps around the cot.

"How do you feel?" Neria asked when they had completed two halting circuits.

"Better than I would have expected," he smiled, "you are more of a healer than you admit."

Neria gave him a half smile, and was about to say something, when hasty footfalls made them both turn.

"Your Majesty," Basil, one of the crown lieutenants approached, face stained with ashes and dirt from lighting the funeral pyres. "We've found the First Enchanter."

Alistair winced. He had known Petra was dead when the army commanders had completed their sweep of the field. No one could have survived the nights trapped in the wreckage of the collapsed Tower, not with the oppressive pollution of the darkspawn taint that still oozed from the broken stones like blood from a feverish wound. He had thought himself prepared for the announcement ever since. But now that word had come, he felt pain and anger rise in him anew, killing off the faint specter of hope he hadn't realized was there.

Only one mage from the Tower had recovered enough to help tend the wounded - a young apprentice with flyaway hair and terrified, staring eyes. Now she stood, trembling, mouth open in shock as she stared at the lieutenant, before she fell to her knees, weeping.

"Take me to her." And leaning heavily on Basil's arm, he walked slowly down the hillside, trembling from fatigue like a man newly risen from a lengthy illness. They made their way along the Imperial Highway, passing dozens of pyres until they reached the Tower entrance. Basil and his soldiers had built a new pyre here, and there, amidst the flickering flames, Alistair saw the First Enchanter.

Unable to balance on his weakened legs, he sank to the ground, resting his head in his hands. The ghoulish faces of the dead, and the blood-tinged emotions of anger and helplessness he had tried all day to avoid broke forth anew, rushing over him until he wanted to scream. For some reason he could picture Petra's face more clearly than the others. Her self-assured smiles from the times they had met to discuss the godstone all ran together, one after the other, falling and splintering across his
mind like cracks in a stained glass window.

This is my fault. I brought this upon you. He gazed upward, peering through the smoke clouds at the ruined Tower, ignoring the sting of the ash and cinders. I brought this upon you all.

A small sound behind him made him turn.

Neria had followed them down the hill like a wandering wraith. Now she stood, looking from the burning pyre to the shattered bones of the broken Tower pinnacle, tears running down her cheeks. It was as though a veil had been lifted from her, and now he could see clearly the sadness and anger written on her face, and the hollowness that had crept behind her eyes. 

"I never..." her voice sounded like a breath of wind in a tomb. "I never thought I'd see it like this."

"I'm sorry," was the only thing he could think to say.

She sank to the ground beside him, body shaking with silent sobs, clutching uselessly at her knees, her shoulders, her hair, as though trying to rid herself of what she saw.

"I'm sorry." He repeated the words, time and blood and the regrets of the dead swirling like the smoke around them, until he felt he would choke.

Blindly, he reached out, fingers grasping for a contact they had not had in years, almost forgotten.

Her hand met his, fingers clasping his own, as though they were two drowning swimmers, trying to keep afloat amidst a sea of darkness.

Modifié par bloodtallow, 17 mars 2010 - 03:30 .

[Sisimka]

Short but worth it! I could really picture the awful devastation.

[Sandtigress]

I hope you know what a fantastic author you are, bloodtallow. Terrific chapter, as always, you have a real way with descriptions. And still loving King Alistair!

[bloodtallow]

Thank you, Sandi! That's such a wonderful compliment!



And I'm glad you like the Dalish! There will be more from them!

[Freckles04]

Very, very nice. I really like this perspective, so long after the game. Alistair really comes across as a man here, and not a boy. Well done, as always!

[Trooper Guy1]

 Wow this is really good, seems like it shows the true side of Alistair. I wouldn't know how to explain it but it does. The leader that was hidden inside (He is son of Maric after all) and not the mask he was wearing in DA:O as some confused lost child.

[Ardonia]

I was wrong before im falling more in love with thos story with every sentence.



Im so glad the Dalish are in this wonderfully writin story.

[bloodtallow]

Chapter Eight, Part Two

Four days had passed since the siege on the Tower, and finally, the army had seen to all of the dead and wounded.

Alistair sat in the grass overlooking the battlefield, finishing a letter. The sun had finally lanced through the choking haze of smoke and the dark, magic-spawned clouds of the battle, and for the first time since the fall of the Tower it looked like summer again. The army was packing, gathering weapons and supplies as the last of the walking wounded got to their feet.

He had written three letters this morning, and with a final splatter of ink on parchment, he completed a fourth before laying it on the grass to dry. The first missive was a letter to Eamon, telling the regent of the outcome of the battle, with various instructions for Teagan and the cavalry when they returned from the Brecilian Forest. The second was a letter to Wynne, telling her to look after Norice, and asking for a full report on all Tevinter pirate activity in the area upon his  return to Denerim. Both of these would be sent with a runner to the capital.

The third was a short note to Simon. Alistair knew that his Warden Commander hated to be sent away on what he thought was a fool's errand, but he explained the risk in leaving Lake Calenhad and its surrounds undefended. He was sending the rest of Simon's Wardens to Redcliffe this afternoon, and charged Simon with holding vigil against further
darkspawn attacks in the region. And, while Simon might hate being asked to serve as watchdog, he knew that the Orlesian Warden would at least ensure that Redcliffe was warned in the case of another attack.

As for the fourth letter... well, he would deal with it when he reached Highever. This was the missive which had given him the most trouble, and as he watched the glistening letters dry, he shook his head. The godstone, it seemed, was going to be cause for writing more awkward and unanticipated letters than he had ever believed he would have cause to write. Though, as he watched Neria's Wardens form ranks along the hillside, their green armor glistening in the sun as the halla stood around them, watching and waiting, he considered that despite the difficulty of writing such missives, the outcome was not, in all cases, a bad one.

He collected parchment, ink and quill and stood up carefully, swaying slightly on his newly-mended legs. He felt stronger with each passing day, but Neria had warned him that it would be many days, if not weeks, before his full strength returned. Walking slowly, as though every step was new, he returned to the makeshift tents of the infirmary to collect his shield and sword before joining Lieutenant Basil and the other army commanders in discussing the journey to Highever.

Alistair was dividing the army, with a small force accompanying the more seriously wounded to Redcliffe. Neria's Wardens, his own men from the crown squadron, and two divisions of archers and footmen would go north with the godstone.

Neria approached as Alistair was giving the last orders to his lieutenants, leading one of the halla. She waited in silence as Basil and the others departed, before she spoke.

"Here," she gave a half-nod to the halla. "You'll need a ride. You shouldn't be walking too much yet, not while your bones are still healing."

"You mean..." he hesitated, considering the strange animal. "You mean for me to ride to Highever? On a halla?"

"Yes, I do. Doctor's orders." She looked sideways at the halla, a ghost-smile flashing across her face. The halla turned its head, looking from Neria to Alistair, and though the creature's face was unreadable, Alistair had a suspicion that elf and beast were sharing a private joke.

"I'm not really used to riding without a saddle," he said lamely, adjusting the shield on his back.

"Don't worry. This is Shann. She's the matriarch of our halla clan. She won't harm you."

Maker.

"All right. How do I..."

As had been required of him to oversee the Denerim cavalry, Alistair had learned well how to ride in peace and in battle. But those had been horses, with full saddle and stirrups, not a wild forest beast standing half a head taller than the largest mount in the crown stables.

As if sensing his thoughts, the halla - Shann, Alistair repeated to himself, remembering that the Dalish viewed these creatures as friends and allies, not beasts of burden - stepped forward, fixing him with her large golden eyes. A presence, wordless and alien, but not harsh or hostile, announced itself in his mind. As Shann gazed at him Alistair could not help but feel his apprehensions dissolve.

Neria spoke a single, soft word, and Shann knelt before them in the grass, allowing Alistair to climb onto her back. Then she stood, slowly and smoothly, and began walking down the hillside.

As they joined the army now beginning the journey north, Alistair noticed that he was not the only member of the walking wounded to undergo such treatment. A number of recovering crown soldiers dubbed too uneasy on
their feet were now riding halla, escorted by the Dalish Wardens.

Neria disappeared among her Wardens while Alistair rode slowly to the front of the line to lead the army northward. For a time he rode with the crown soldiers, listening to the chatter that naturally accompanied travel slowly pick up and filter through the ranks. He was glad to see the smiles on his soliders' faces as they turned north with a new purpose, and relief in their eyes as mile after mile passed with no new threat from the darkspawn. He could not help but share the feeling, now that they were leaving the blasted remains of the Tower. The sorrow that had held them all in its grip was dissipating, however slowly, as the ghosts of what they had all seen faded with the horizon.

"Your Majesty rides well," a sudden voice jolted him out of his reverie. Neria had joined him again, this time riding a halla of her own. "It suits you far better than I would have thought."

Her smile grew then, until it was bordering on a smirk, and Alistair drew breath for a riposte to her half-joke. His reply was cut off by a barking laugh from both halla.

Alistair sighed and shook his head, allowing his own face a brief smile as he looked back over his shoulder at the crown army, the Wardens, and Neria. They all needed to laugh.

#

As he had hoped, the banners of Highever were flying as they approached, the laurel wreath of the Teyrn's family shining brightly under the summer sun. The journey had been uneventful, though Neria hadn't exaggerated when she'd said he would need a ride. Even though his legs hurt from riding, Alistair knew the pain was far less than it would have been had he walked for the three days they had spent hiking through the Coastlands. Gratefully, he stroked Shann's neck, feeling an equally gentle pressure from her presence in his mind, a parting salutation.

"Thank you," he said softly, surprised at how he had come to trust the halla over the course of their journey.

The Dalish Wardens and their halla were an exotic sight in the courtyard of Highever castle, and the teyrn's soldiers were showing good-natured amusement at their unexpected guests.

Teyrn Fergus Cousland met him as Alistair dismounted, grinning as though he thoroughly enjoyed the sight in front of him.

"Your Majesty, what a pleasant surprise." But as Fergus moved closer, his face fell as he saw the wounds borne by
some of the crown soldiers, and the blood-spattered armor they wore.

"Maker's mercy. What happened?"

"It's a long story, Fergus," Alistair said, feeling the grimness and anger of the past several days settle back upon him. "And I will tell it. But first, I need to commission a ship. One that can sail to Orlais."

Modifié par bloodtallow, 17 mars 2010 - 03:43 .

[Sandtigress]

Ooo, why are we going to Orlais? Me wants to know!

[Freckles04]

Hmm. What's in Orlais? Leliana? I'm eager to know!



This story is so beautifully written, bt. I love every chapter you put up.

[Sisimka]

You keep sneaking in chapters when I'm not on the boards. I need alerts! And... why are going to Orlais?

[bloodtallow]

Chapter nine has undergone a bit of a hitch, partly because of plot snags, and partly because today is DA:A day. I will post the next installment as soon as I can, but for now, here's the first half. Thank you all for reading!
---------------------

Chapter Nine, Part One

Fergus' face darkened as Alistair told his story, going from the paleness of shock to the simmering purple of rage. Despite this, the teyrn was endeavoring to be a gracious host to his unexpected guests. He had called for food and drink from the castle kitchens, and now most of Alistair's army sat on benches in the great hall, or outside in the castle gardens, with Neria and her Wardens. The army was digging in, clearly showing through seemingly bottomless appetites their enthusiasm at finally having left the Tower.

Alistair ate with the teyrn in the castle atrium, though the fragrant plants and bubbling fountains did little to ease his mind. He had asked Neria to join them once she had seen to her Wardens and their halla, and now as he finished his tale the mage appeared, wiping the summer dust from her hands.

"Fergus, you remember the Hero of Ferelden," Alistair said by way of re-introduction, knowing the man might not recognize Neria after so long.

"Of course. A pleasure, my lady. My wife has sung your praises many times since the Blight ended."

"Thank you, Teyrn Fergus." Neria nodded, accepting the bread and cheese and a tankard of ale that Fergus offered.

Fergus turned back to Alistair, brows re-knitting as he returned to the subject at hand.

"So what would you have me do? How can we protect this... god-stone, was it?"

"Neria believes the Dalish of the north can better protect the stone than we can in Ferelden," Alistair explained. "I was hoping to send the stone with her Wardens to the Free Marches as soon as possible."

"The Dalish?" Fergus' eyes widened in surprise.

Neria nodded.

"It's true. We have outposts throughout the Free Marches, and the support of allies in Antiva. But not only that, I believe the Dalish may have the means to use the stone, perhaps even against the darkspawn, if we can. When I leave to return to Arlathan I will take enough Wardens with me to see to its protection. Once we cross the Waking Sea, I believe it will be safe."

"When you leave?" Alistair blurted the question before he had time to think, his words echoing off of the atrium's walls.

"I..." Neria paused, looking at him, surprised. "Yes."

"But... given the circumstances, I thought you would stay here." He ignored Fergus' curious stare. "The darkspawn are still a threat. We may even need to leave for the Deep Roads soon, if Oghren can't get any answer from Bhelen."

A distant memory tugged at him, and for a moment Alistair was painfully aware of the last time he had asked Neria to
remain in Ferelden. He shook his head. This was different. This was more important. He couldn't find words to explain to Fergus, Neria, or anyone why he was suddenly determined that the mage should stay, but his mind remained fixed.

Though if Oghren were here, I'm sure he'd have plenty to say about it, he thought ruefully.

The expression on Neria's face was unreadable. Surprise was clearly written in her eyes, but he could not tell what other emotions else his impulsive request had elicited. Was the flash of color beneath her tattoos anger? Or was the set of her jaw hiding something else?

"You are the Hero of Ferelden," he said after a moment, realizing it sounded like an excuse.

It's not just that. It's something different. He felt suddenly like he was losing his footing.

"I... all right," she said slowly, her face still unreadable. "Then I shall send Thoris, my first lieutenant, with a squadron of Wardens. They can sail as soon as you're ready."

"Good." The word sounded strange on his lips, as though his tongue had developed its own agenda. He shook his head again, trying to clear it.

Fergus looked at Alistair, a flash of a smile dancing across his face.

"But you need two ships then, don't you? If you intend to commission one to Orlais?"

"Indeed." Alistair nodded, his expression darkening. He knew the man would not like what he had to say next.

"I also need to ask a favor from your wife."

Modifié par bloodtallow, 17 mars 2010 - 03:46 .