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peopleofthedas2011-02-09 08:32 pm
bamftastik) wrote in peopleofthedas2011-02-09 08:32 pm
No More Heroes, Chapter 3
Title: No More Heroes, Chapter 3
Characters: Sten & Dog, Jowan
Rating: T
Words: 1,550
Summary: The Blight has not ended. Alistair departed during the Landsmeet and both Loghain and the Warden perished in the siege of Denerim. In its wake, the scattered companions undertake a search for a wandering drunk and the witch that could save them all.
Previous Chapters
He was dreaming of death.
He did not toss; he did not turn. This was a good dream, a dream that any man would welcome. The ogre charged, roaring with surprise as he slipped aside in the final moments, his sword swinging round to slice it behind the knees. The blood that flowed over his hands was strong, hot and surging. He set himself, ready as it turned and charged again.
This time he struck, plunging the blade deep into the creature's thigh, grunting as it was ripped from his grasp. Beneath its ragged scream it noticed him, saw him disarmed. If such a thing were possible, the ogre seemed to laugh. But pain bloomed from his wrist before its blow could land, the piercing bite of tugging and insistent teeth. This was a new sort of wetness, his cry one of frustration as he was pulled aside, out of the ogre's reach, away from that welcome death.
But that tug was gentle now, lapping at the tiny wounds still peppering his arm. Sten opened his eyes. For once he had not woken screaming.
"Pashaara. Get off of me."
The mabari whined, sitting back on its haunches. It had been it that had denied him death, it that had buried its face in the staggering ogre's throat after pulling Sten clear. Now it cocked its head, licking at lips that were freshly reddened. Looking down, he saw the chicken between them.
Sten grunted. "You have my thanks."
The hound gave a happy back.
He rose stiffly, stoking the tiny fire as he set the kettle for their breakfast. Turning the bird round in his hands, he quirked a brow. "I see that you have already taken your share."
With a sniff, it stretched beside him, laying a patient head on its paws. Not for the first time, Sten wondered if he should think of something to call the creature. "Scraps," She had named it, but this would do little to strike fear in the hearts of its foes, held nothing of the warrior and unflagging companion that he had come to know.
It had been weeks since they left Denerim. The ogre had been only a brief diversion, but already he had seen that the battle was turning against them. Men were returning to the gate in straggling twos and threes. At first he had cursed them for their weakness, but then they had begun to speak. Both of the Grey Wardens had fallen.
He had paused at that - longer than he ought - but there was a choice now before him. He could remain to die with honor and futility, or seek to regain the advantage that they had lost. The decision was made before his blade was sheathed. If the archdemon required a Warden, then he would bring it one... even if he had to drag the coward kicking and crying.
And so he had left that place, assuring himself that it was merely a matter of tactical practicality. The mabari had followed without command, without apparent regard for its master's fate. He supposed it simply knew, the same as he. After a time, he found himself almost grateful for the company.
Once his belly was filled they set off again, leaving the hills of Redcliff behind them. Sten had suspected something of Alistair's character well before his outburst at the Landsmeet. His outrage had been expected - perhaps even justified - but if he had truly wanted the man Loghain dead, he should have drawn his blade and made it so. Instead, it had been only a child's bleating that echoed in that hall. And while a child the man had called that hillside town his home. It had seemed a logical place to start.
But Redcliff had been abandoned and again Sten faced the task of attempting to think like such a man. Where would he go if his spine had so shriveled? Where would he flee if he left his steps to the whims of sentiment?
He growled beneath his breath, looking down into the valley below. A passing band of refugees had mentioned a spirit lurking in the small town nestled there, answering the Qunari's questions with a fearful eagerness to be away. One among them had seemed less frightened than the rest, naming instead a wandering stranger, haggard and slinking but with a bearing that was once perhaps proud.
And so they had returned to Honnleath. There were no darkspawn now that he could see, either moved north to join the horde or fled after their last visit. Either way, he did not draw his sword as he crossed beneath the gate. If there was one thing he trusted, it was his own work.
Cresting the hill he paused, looking toward the empty square. It was a pity that he had lost sight of Shale during the battle; its - her - might would have been a welcome thing. But there had been other golems, he reminded himself. It was simply a pity that the dwarves had not had time to make a hundred more.
Had he truly been thinking like his quarry, such nostalgia might have been cause for distraction. But he did not miss the quiet footfalls behind him, the shadow slipping between buildings on the edge of sight. The mabari laid back its ears, the low growl in its throat an echo of his own.
Sten whirled and charged cross the square in a single motion, pinning a struggling figure against the wall of the nearest home. The force of it lifted the man bodily, fear mingling with the stink of his thin and filthy robes.
He was accustomed to humans cowering at his appearance, but the man's eyes narrowed, his lips twitching in recognition. "You!"
Lank, black hair framed pale and sunken cheeks, the beard patchy and thin, a half-hearted shadow that would shame even a child's chin. Sten scowled, letting the man fall. "Mage."
"Jowan, actually." He darted low, making as if to pick up the contents of his fallen sack. But he paused in mid-crouch, seeming to think better of it as he blinked up at the looming Qunari. Defiantly snatching up one of the tomes, he scrambled backward, attempting to meet Sten’s glower with a sullen glare of his own. “She sent you here to find me, didn’t she? Thought better of letting me go?”
Odd objects littered the stones, flasks and vials, worn books, a broken bit of crystal. This last Sten nudged with his toe, crushing it beneath his boot with a slow and simple gesture. “She is dead.”
"Ah. Well." Spotting the mabari, Jowan’s eyes widened, tongue flitting cross his lips.
The dog growled a warning.
"It-it's not stealing, you know. Not if the town's abandoned. And whatever mage lived here has got to be dead; I don't think I could have gotten in otherwise." His eyes remained locked to the hound's, perhaps wondering if it would be more reasonable than its companion. "...Powerful, though. Some of this might even be enough to get me back into the Tower, if they hadn't closed it off. I don't know which would be worse, being made tranquil or ending up in some darkspawn belly... or multiple darkspawn bellies."
But already Sten was starting back down the hill.
"Hey! Where are you going?"
"Away."
"Don't you even want to know how I’ve stayed alive? Avoided the templars?"
"No."
Jowan made as if to follow, but stopped short. "Scattered you all to the winds, didn't it? Without the Warden around, I mean. At least you look better than your friend."
Gritting his teeth, Sten turned slowly round
"Funny, when you think about it. That I made it farther than your templar."
The big man took a heavy step forward.
"Hah. So it’s him you’re looking for. Now you're interested in what I have to say." At the next step, he paled even further, holding up a warning hand. "I'm a maleficar, you realize. You can't just—"
Sten closed the gap, twisting the mage's arm.
"Oh, ow!"
"Speak. And I may let you keep your tongue."
"R-Redcliff. Not a week past."
"I have been to Redcliff." He did not tighten his grip, but still the other man flinched. "It is abandoned."
"Then you obviously weren't looking very hard. They're all shut up in the castle. Same as in the Tower. Same as everywhere else." Jerking his arm away, Jowan sniffed. "But not your templar. I almost didn't recognize him at first, filthy and hairy and lying beneath a table in the ruins of the inn."
"...Dead?"
"Drunk." He chuckled - a nasal, hiccoughing sound. "Not a dry bottle left in the place."
Sten's fists clenched at his sides. Useless, all of them. But it was said that the Warden who faced they archdemon would not survive; perhaps the beast had only to devour him to be sated. Perhaps he might find some enjoyment in this after all. With a sigh he turned back to the road, leaving the mage standing amongst his broken treasures.
"So you're going to help him, then?"
Sten did not turn round, scratching the dog behind an ear as it fell into step beside him. "Something like that."
Characters: Sten & Dog, Jowan
Rating: T
Words: 1,550
Summary: The Blight has not ended. Alistair departed during the Landsmeet and both Loghain and the Warden perished in the siege of Denerim. In its wake, the scattered companions undertake a search for a wandering drunk and the witch that could save them all.
Previous Chapters
He was dreaming of death.
He did not toss; he did not turn. This was a good dream, a dream that any man would welcome. The ogre charged, roaring with surprise as he slipped aside in the final moments, his sword swinging round to slice it behind the knees. The blood that flowed over his hands was strong, hot and surging. He set himself, ready as it turned and charged again.
This time he struck, plunging the blade deep into the creature's thigh, grunting as it was ripped from his grasp. Beneath its ragged scream it noticed him, saw him disarmed. If such a thing were possible, the ogre seemed to laugh. But pain bloomed from his wrist before its blow could land, the piercing bite of tugging and insistent teeth. This was a new sort of wetness, his cry one of frustration as he was pulled aside, out of the ogre's reach, away from that welcome death.
But that tug was gentle now, lapping at the tiny wounds still peppering his arm. Sten opened his eyes. For once he had not woken screaming.
"Pashaara. Get off of me."
The mabari whined, sitting back on its haunches. It had been it that had denied him death, it that had buried its face in the staggering ogre's throat after pulling Sten clear. Now it cocked its head, licking at lips that were freshly reddened. Looking down, he saw the chicken between them.
Sten grunted. "You have my thanks."
The hound gave a happy back.
He rose stiffly, stoking the tiny fire as he set the kettle for their breakfast. Turning the bird round in his hands, he quirked a brow. "I see that you have already taken your share."
With a sniff, it stretched beside him, laying a patient head on its paws. Not for the first time, Sten wondered if he should think of something to call the creature. "Scraps," She had named it, but this would do little to strike fear in the hearts of its foes, held nothing of the warrior and unflagging companion that he had come to know.
It had been weeks since they left Denerim. The ogre had been only a brief diversion, but already he had seen that the battle was turning against them. Men were returning to the gate in straggling twos and threes. At first he had cursed them for their weakness, but then they had begun to speak. Both of the Grey Wardens had fallen.
He had paused at that - longer than he ought - but there was a choice now before him. He could remain to die with honor and futility, or seek to regain the advantage that they had lost. The decision was made before his blade was sheathed. If the archdemon required a Warden, then he would bring it one... even if he had to drag the coward kicking and crying.
And so he had left that place, assuring himself that it was merely a matter of tactical practicality. The mabari had followed without command, without apparent regard for its master's fate. He supposed it simply knew, the same as he. After a time, he found himself almost grateful for the company.
Once his belly was filled they set off again, leaving the hills of Redcliff behind them. Sten had suspected something of Alistair's character well before his outburst at the Landsmeet. His outrage had been expected - perhaps even justified - but if he had truly wanted the man Loghain dead, he should have drawn his blade and made it so. Instead, it had been only a child's bleating that echoed in that hall. And while a child the man had called that hillside town his home. It had seemed a logical place to start.
But Redcliff had been abandoned and again Sten faced the task of attempting to think like such a man. Where would he go if his spine had so shriveled? Where would he flee if he left his steps to the whims of sentiment?
He growled beneath his breath, looking down into the valley below. A passing band of refugees had mentioned a spirit lurking in the small town nestled there, answering the Qunari's questions with a fearful eagerness to be away. One among them had seemed less frightened than the rest, naming instead a wandering stranger, haggard and slinking but with a bearing that was once perhaps proud.
And so they had returned to Honnleath. There were no darkspawn now that he could see, either moved north to join the horde or fled after their last visit. Either way, he did not draw his sword as he crossed beneath the gate. If there was one thing he trusted, it was his own work.
Cresting the hill he paused, looking toward the empty square. It was a pity that he had lost sight of Shale during the battle; its - her - might would have been a welcome thing. But there had been other golems, he reminded himself. It was simply a pity that the dwarves had not had time to make a hundred more.
Had he truly been thinking like his quarry, such nostalgia might have been cause for distraction. But he did not miss the quiet footfalls behind him, the shadow slipping between buildings on the edge of sight. The mabari laid back its ears, the low growl in its throat an echo of his own.
Sten whirled and charged cross the square in a single motion, pinning a struggling figure against the wall of the nearest home. The force of it lifted the man bodily, fear mingling with the stink of his thin and filthy robes.
He was accustomed to humans cowering at his appearance, but the man's eyes narrowed, his lips twitching in recognition. "You!"
Lank, black hair framed pale and sunken cheeks, the beard patchy and thin, a half-hearted shadow that would shame even a child's chin. Sten scowled, letting the man fall. "Mage."
"Jowan, actually." He darted low, making as if to pick up the contents of his fallen sack. But he paused in mid-crouch, seeming to think better of it as he blinked up at the looming Qunari. Defiantly snatching up one of the tomes, he scrambled backward, attempting to meet Sten’s glower with a sullen glare of his own. “She sent you here to find me, didn’t she? Thought better of letting me go?”
Odd objects littered the stones, flasks and vials, worn books, a broken bit of crystal. This last Sten nudged with his toe, crushing it beneath his boot with a slow and simple gesture. “She is dead.”
"Ah. Well." Spotting the mabari, Jowan’s eyes widened, tongue flitting cross his lips.
The dog growled a warning.
"It-it's not stealing, you know. Not if the town's abandoned. And whatever mage lived here has got to be dead; I don't think I could have gotten in otherwise." His eyes remained locked to the hound's, perhaps wondering if it would be more reasonable than its companion. "...Powerful, though. Some of this might even be enough to get me back into the Tower, if they hadn't closed it off. I don't know which would be worse, being made tranquil or ending up in some darkspawn belly... or multiple darkspawn bellies."
But already Sten was starting back down the hill.
"Hey! Where are you going?"
"Away."
"Don't you even want to know how I’ve stayed alive? Avoided the templars?"
"No."
Jowan made as if to follow, but stopped short. "Scattered you all to the winds, didn't it? Without the Warden around, I mean. At least you look better than your friend."
Gritting his teeth, Sten turned slowly round
"Funny, when you think about it. That I made it farther than your templar."
The big man took a heavy step forward.
"Hah. So it’s him you’re looking for. Now you're interested in what I have to say." At the next step, he paled even further, holding up a warning hand. "I'm a maleficar, you realize. You can't just—"
Sten closed the gap, twisting the mage's arm.
"Oh, ow!"
"Speak. And I may let you keep your tongue."
"R-Redcliff. Not a week past."
"I have been to Redcliff." He did not tighten his grip, but still the other man flinched. "It is abandoned."
"Then you obviously weren't looking very hard. They're all shut up in the castle. Same as in the Tower. Same as everywhere else." Jerking his arm away, Jowan sniffed. "But not your templar. I almost didn't recognize him at first, filthy and hairy and lying beneath a table in the ruins of the inn."
"...Dead?"
"Drunk." He chuckled - a nasal, hiccoughing sound. "Not a dry bottle left in the place."
Sten's fists clenched at his sides. Useless, all of them. But it was said that the Warden who faced they archdemon would not survive; perhaps the beast had only to devour him to be sated. Perhaps he might find some enjoyment in this after all. With a sigh he turned back to the road, leaving the mage standing amongst his broken treasures.
"So you're going to help him, then?"
Sten did not turn round, scratching the dog behind an ear as it fell into step beside him. "Something like that."
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A couple of errors I spotted:
The hound gave a happy back (bark)
the Warden who faced they archdemon (the)
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I am already excitedly anticipating who will catch up with him first, and what they will do with/to him when they do.
Well done!