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[Thibbledorf26]

Glory of the Grey
 
The human’s footsteps sploshed in the filthy gutter-water of the Alienage, in the city of Rorlach. Grey was the reflected moonlight off his grey armour, grey were the shoddy wooden buildings in the night. The stars seemed a world away amongst the squalor and faces both infuriated and suspicious; that glared at him from behind hoods and windows. Gherdwin, or previously Gherdwin of Aragost, had left behind his status as heir to a wealthy Bann owner, to live the glorious life of a Grey Warden. Entering the bar, he was overwhelmed by the smell of harsh spirits and wines, the delirium of choice among the local people.
 
Chiselled elven jaw lines bore ugly expressions of hate and fury, pent up and concentrated. Gherdwin swiped away an incoming rotten apple core with his left gauntlet, before it could reach his sensible if frazzled haircut, or his wide, imperious face. Gherdwin’s heavy-set jaw, wide forehead and thick nose enhanced the serious impression one got from a Grey Warden, but amongst these folk it was a terrible thing. They hated any pretence of authority. Gherdwin ordered a glass of water, or something close to it, and spoke the agreed upon word to the dwarvish fellow sitting next to him. ‘They’re running loose in the cellar in the Millers, Warden. We believe an employee of the mill found a way to communicate with the beasts, and opened a doorway for them, in exchange for what reward we do not know’.

‘No doubt such creatures would have mysterious items that could tempt a man… or should I say elf and dwarf, since those are the people who work in this area’ Gherdwin responded. The dwarf, an ex-soldier turned spy for the Rorlachian barony; licked his lips in worry at Gherdwin’s comment. Peering around the bar, he saw no evidence of a threat so he continued. He failed to notice the subtle smile that played on the human’s lips as he sipped his water.
 
The dwarf drained a mug of ale and motioned for another. ‘The elves at the mill have a few people keep watch during the operation of the mill, with magic and wolf-bane items; people have been ignoring the deaths of stragglers at night. The common belief is that the werewolves (he said the word softly) will leave eventually, bored of the city’.

‘Well, it’s nice to see people look out for each other here’ Gherdwin muttered darkly.
‘It is not like you have done ought for us, human scum!’ the shrill voice of a female elf shrieked.
As Gherdwin turned he noticed the upraised knife in the approaching woman’s hand. He deftly grabbed her arm and shoved her against the bar, squeezing the knife out of her grasp. Three or four male elves were standing up, faces a mask of violence. Gherdwin shoved the lass away from him, and placed the knife in his pack. After glancing to make sure none of the men had any plans for violence, Gherdwin threw a copper on the bar.
‘Appreciate the information, Jhordrak’.
 
The colourful, if filthy, interior of the inn with its brown wood and orange of torchlight; gave way to the familiar grey of the street. Gherdwin strode towards the mill, gauntleted hands flexing. Smoke rose from dwellings, trying desperately to escape the dour city. A few merchants were making their way home, but apart from that the streets were empty. The longer you walked, the wetter your boots got, mused Gherdwin. It’s not the only thing that will get wet today, he decided, grasping the hilt of his sword. He was here, the door of the Old Mill loomed a distance away. Gherdwin suddenly tensed. Alley on the right, one enemy. Squinting, the man could see the orange pin-pricks of light from the beast’s eyes. Gherdwin slowly walked towards the alley way, and when he was too close for the beast to run, he drew his sword; his face showing not fear but genuine hatred of the foul beast. The beast jumped out, a heavy behemoth of fur and fangs, dog-crooked legs out of place on a monster. They clashed, furious claws raking armour and sparking against the Warden’s sword. Gherdwin shouted in outrage and swung, first a slash then a vicious curving thrust. The attacks landed home, with the second one sending the beast squealing like a shamed pup.
 
The werewolf, towering two feet over the man, attempted to jump on the man, raking all the while. The Warden dodged to the side, not falling over but wrestling with the beast. ‘Maker take you!’ he yelled as he plunged the sword into the beast’s back with his free hand. The work was done, the monster bleeding its  life-blood onto the filthy pavement. He didn’t wait for it to die, but continued into the Old Mill. It was dark. It always was. Scanning every nook and cranny for lycanthropes, Gherdwin eventually found the cellar. It consisted of one tunnel, curving once. Eyes glowing, Gherdwin walked into the Lair of death, seeing through the dark. Barrels and crates lay here and there, but there were no enemies in sight. Rounding the corner, he sensed two Werewolves hiding amongst the debris.
 
‘Come out, minions of Hell’ Gherdwin bellowed as he mentally intoned a prayer taught him by the Chantry. Intense silver light spiralled towards the fiends, burning their fur and flesh, blinding them. The two beasts rushed the Warden, it was a battle of fur, fangs and fury. The horrifying, twisted features of the monsters were matched by the zealousness and almost insane resoluteness on Gherdwin’s face. Some claws and fangs found their mark, but armour and sword served well. Sweeping strokes of his sword weakened the enemies, and thrusts into the shoulder blade finished them.
 
Covered in blood, the Grey Warden, eyes still glowing, entered the bar. The patrons wore the same mask of hatred, but also bore reluctant respect on their countenances. Sitting at the bar, Gherdwin commented to the wide-eyed Jhordrak, ‘I don’t usually drink, but I think I’ll have an ale before I move on’.  Gesturing at the bartender, his drink was served. An elf sipped wine next to him. ‘I appreciate your slaying of the beasts, human, but it does not erase the suffering of elves in Alienages across Ferelden’. Gherdwin smirked, sipping his ale. ‘Many human commoners and farmers experience hardship too, much human blood gets spilt in battle against the Darkspawn. I make no excuses for the treatment of elves… but when monsters attack the innocent, people like you sit in your homes and your inns and tremble, afraid to risk your life for others. It is my duty, my path, to fight every monster that threatens man, dwarf, or elf. No matter how terrifying they may be, no matter how much my sense of fear and preservation tells me to hide. My reward is the scorn of people like yourself. Such… is the ‘glory’ of being a Grey Warden’.