rickonwrites

[rickonwrites]

I watched her as she inspected the shimmering surface of the mirror, its grand length allowing for a vigorous appraisal in which she seemed to have chosen to indulge in relentlessly. From my corner, wedged in the fairly well lit space beside the shut door purely for that reason as well as that there was little nearby to digress my comrade’s attention, my view of her antics were obscured. But not enough that I couldn’t pretend to see and hold an educated opinion of it.

“Ugly and repulsive! You look like a scruffy orphan.” I adroitly directed my gaze to the fine prose of Tennyson. One of the last six copies of his ‘In Memoriam A.H.H.’ to survive the great Book-Burning in the Twelfth Year of His Majesty’s Rule, and I held merely one of the two at my disposal.

A belligerent snort and the toss of her hair –the latter I did not witness but rather assumed and knew to have transpired, as this was her response to everything I did. “Whaddya know ‘bout what’s pretty? You ain’t nothin’ but a fuckin’ old prude!”

Of course I crinkled my nose. I was far from pretentious enough to let such vulgarity slide by unnoticed. Missus Bertha, our resident religious woman, had been taking pains in remedying Fox of her uncouth penchant for swear words. One month into her tutorials, and it was evident she had very little effect.

A pity.

“Now, now,” I clucked, keeping my eyes deliberately on the pages before me, “such language only proves to consolidate your scrappy demeanour. It would not do to be proving everyone right now, would it?”

Another curse, an audible breath meant perhaps to be out of earshot.

“What was that?” My tone was patronising, calm. It chafed at her like a time bomb.

“Shut the fuck up will ya! ‘t’s bad ‘nough havin’ to stay here all humiliatin’ like when I could be outside earnin’ dough.” I lifted my gaze from my book in time to catch her sulky reflection, barely visible from my corner but sufficient enough.

“You mean pick pockets and spread your disease again? I think not.”

I could feel her gaze on me: a brief moment filled with an unpleasant but certainly not unfamiliar amalgamation of her indisposition toward the accuracy at my words but more so for the unabashed contempt I constantly held her in.

[rickonwrites]

Of the Fox and the Moss

Sebastian watched the disgruntled pair with bemusement colouring his gaze. The staccato as his fingers rapidly tapped against the tin bowl on his lap proved only to strengthen the stubborn silence that permeated the air. But to this reinforced discomfort, Sebastian took no notice at all.

The others, however, did. This he could tell by the stiff arch in their spines–though Harkin always did give him the impression of having a pole up his ass–and the dirty sidelong glances thrown at him with hardly any abashment.

In fact, the only thing he was surprised at was not Fox’s outburst itself but by the fact that it had taken so long until it came. Hence, genuinely perplexed by her belated reaction Sebastian returned Fox’s torrent of incoherent expletives with words he would be made soon to regret.

“Took your time, didn’t you?”

Fox gawked at his return to her stream of curses, still unused to his candidly offhand manner. It had only been a month after all, and a month was hardly enough to get used to someone like Sebastian Swift–not that there was anything particularly odd about Sebastian. “What the fuck are you talkin’ about?”

“I mean your ruffled comeback: usually you would have blasted my ears off within the minute I started tapping my pot. Now it took you a good…” he made an exaggerated inspection of the remaining sunlight, “five minutes I’d say before you responded.”

Fox’s eyebrow twitched imperceptibly. Her fist clenched by her side. “And what the bloody hell’s that supposed to mean?”

Sebastian shrugged nonchalantly. “I was just thinking that maybe Cadarinth was beginning to rub off on you. That guy hardly raises a brow let alone a reasonable retort even when one is befouling his mother–”

“Sebastian!”

“You piece of scum!”

Sebastian expected it all really; nothing had come as a surprise: the inconceivable tide of profanities; the threats on his life; Harkin’s stiff splutters; his black eye. It got to the point that Harkin was forced to leave his deigned spot against his tree trunk to haul the hissing, clawing tangle that was Fox and Sebastian’s face apart. Harkin’s effort, however reluctant, made Sebastian’s suffering worth the while as he came out of his forceful reprimand with a daring grin. Fox yowled like some kind of devil cat as if she were suffering a mortal pain. In an attempt to subdue her, Harkin shook her around like a bag of leaves. He knew better than to release her in such a temper.

“What in the world possesses such violence?” The disgust was barely concealed.

Fox snarled viciously, before turning to her captor with a poor imitation of his accent, “And what in the bloody world possessed you to hold me like some bleedin’ wanker?”

Her words were enough. Their desired effect resulting in the immediate severing of Harkin’s handle on her as Fox tumbled to the ground with an awkward roll.

The grin on Sebastian’s face was wiped off as she turned grave eyes on his flinching form.

“Fuck with me, will ya?”

[rickonwrites]

Tabris x Ser Perth 

He expressed respect and courtesy regarding how to address elves. The warden and her group spend the night in Redcliffe preparing for the battle, and with the shadow of death; grave and morbid, hanging over them all an unexpected human seeks comfort in her stoic strength and perhaps, gives her reason to reconsider the worth of shem. He is religious, noble and unfailingly polite.

-

“It is decided then. We will stay the night and help the town prepare for the coming battle.” Tabris paused to look every member of her motley crew in the eye. A stern gaze that brooked no argument, the set of her shoulders firm and determined there was no bartering with their fearless leader.

She lingered the longest, and rather tellingly, on Morrigan. Dark grey, almost black irises locking in with wickedly golden ones. After a beat, the witch huffed and shrugged. “”Tis your death wish, I suppose. Be not fooled that I should not transform myself into a bat and leave the moment things turn dire.”

Tabris grinned, a slight crinkle of lips. “It won’t. We will live, and we will win. Have some more faith in me, Morrigan.”

“After all, what’s a village full of undead compared to the Archdemon hey?” Alistair quirked, shrugging off the moue of disgust the witch threw his way with evident satisfaction.

“I for one look forward to spending a night behind a nice, locked gate, for once.” Leliana proclaims, to a chorus of mixed opinion. “No more having to keep watch and huddle pathetically by the fire!”

“Aye, and to wake with a blade in our faces!” Ogrin said, causing the party to shake their heads and begin preparations. Anyone else and the comment could have been ambiguously construed as sarcasm, but the dwarf’s bloodlust was without parallel.

Tabris could only inwardly smile, hiding her amusement. It would not do to show levity now when she needed to be the decisive, clear-headed leader. She hadn’t expected half the party to voice dissent when she first proposed they stay to help Redcliffe. Morrigan was no surprise, and to a certain extent neither was Sten. But even Zevran had deigned to comment on her becoming soft for a shemlen cause. There was the Blight to consider, and the need to recruit forces. She had thought the decision to be obvious.

But perhaps, she conceded, distractedly nodding in greeting to a passing soldier, there was some wisdom in their concerns. The conclusion seemed already foregone. A poisoned Arl, a wave of undead to plague the village, and only a handful of barely disciplined local militia. Half the town seemed to have already packed up and left, and the few who chose to stay were hiding in the Chantry, praying for salvation in the form of a shapeless, incorporeal deity. Not only that, but should they somehow achieve the impossible and rescue the town there yet lay a darker mystery in the castle itself. A mystery that had the elf’s nose twitching, as if she could already scent the dark magics involved.

Tabris sighed, subconsciously resting her palm against the worn pommel of her blade. And yet she could just as little deny the truth behind the benefits of defending the village. The ever looming if - if they won, if they survived, if they secured Redcliffe as an ally and gathered enough force - would not be so easily dispelled by the mere chance that they could die in the attempt.

Alistair was right, she thought, as her step ascended the wooden stair of the Chantry’s entrance. How could any of them fathom defeating the Archdemon and its hordes of darkspawn if they could not even handle this?

Knots of displaced villagers stilled in an expectant hush as she nudged the heavy, oak doors open. She spared them little more than a cursory glance before she strode forward purposefully to the red-haired man waiting down the long, dim hall.

“These are the people that move your heart to take up sword in their defense?” Morrigan's snide, but softly uttered quip reached her pointed ear.

Tabris did not glance back to shoot her companion a cautioning glance as much as she wished to, though she did lift a shoulder in resignation. “You know were I in their place I would not hesitate to defend my Alienage,” she replies after some thought, keeping her voice low. “It’s why I am here after all. And so you should also expect my mind to be of yours, Morrigan. However, yon bronze-haired buffoon is correct. Our need for reinforcements is too pressing, I would not pass any opportunity to gain allies however few or beleaguered they may be.”

“And risk our lives in the process? Whilst I am no frightened filly to shy away from battle, I am also not so fool as to knowingly join a battle with such odds stacked against us.”

She could feel Morrigan’s piercing gaze at the back of her neck, the woman’s disapproval palpable. Tabris took a moment to look around her, taking in the sight of mothers and children huddling in corners and meeting their wide, baleful eyes with a directness she never thought she could employ amongst humans. My, how far she had come.

“Whatever happens on the morrow, there is no questioning that the Archdemon that lies heart to our quest shall be a thousand-fold worse. Think of this as ripe opportunity to test ourselves and those we call our companions, and judge well before it is too late to turn into a bat and fly off with tail tucked between your legs whether an encounter with the Archdemon is something we may yet survive. If your spells cannot smite a walking bag of bones, then you’ve joined our quest merely to die.”  

There was a terse pause, until finally Morrigan’s conceding grunt was as much indication that the elf’s infamous gift of coercion had worked its intended effect. Satisfied that she would get no more protestations from the witch, Tabris braced herself to deal with her next hurdle.

“Bann Teagan,” she greeted him, choosing not to bow as she felt Alistair fold himself beside her.

The man barely batted an eyelid, gazing at her with open curiosity and, painfully obvious, hope. “Grey Warden, I hope you’ve not returned to tell me you’ve changed your mind?” His voice was light. Lighter than she knew he felt inside. What he clearly intended to be a friendly jest was transparently a poor attempt at concealing his fears, as his voice audibly trembled on the last vowel.

Tabris had no patience for courtesies and gentle rejection. She shook her head adamantly, “No. We stay. We will help you fight - or die in the fucking effort.”

Teagan stilled for a moment before his shoulders went slack, the corners of his lips lifting in an easy and relieved grin. He lifted a pale, lily-white hand to tousle his head of red locks. An oddly boyish gesture for someone of the noblesse. “Thank the Maker! The way you were striding in here I thought you looked far too grim to be delivering good news.”

“The only good news we need to hear is at the end of this battle, when we defeat your enemies.”

He nodded, in easy agreement. “Yes, yes. But with you in the mix I’ve no doubt our chances have increased tenfold. Do not think me a stranger to the legendary tales of the strength and cunning of the Grey Wardens. I am indebted to you my lady. You may count the fiefdom of Redcliffe an ally!” He was delighted, and without a second thought reached out and squeezed her gloved hands; his large hands covering hers neatly. Tabris concealed the jolt of surprise the unexpected gesture elicited and forced her fingers from their instinctive descent toward her dagger’s pommel. Humans were so sentimental sometimes.

Gently extricating herself from his grip, she inclined her head in acknowledgement of his praise. “As I said, such words of debt and gratitude are best left until battle’s end. You speak too soon, ser.”

“She is right,” a new voice, baritone and earthy, joined them. “We’ve still much to do to prepare for the upcoming battle.”

From the corner of her eye Tabris noted the Knight Commander approaching from the Holy Mother*’s chamber. She winced inwardly. She’d not be in favour with the old hag after she had refused the offer of a blessing. Words and goodwill were at the bottom of the list of things needed to win. Tabris was too practical to engage in such pretensions. She knew what needed to be done, and she would bear the cost of it with eyes wide open - not with some incorporeal promise from a deity not of her own people’s.

Ser Perth joined them, a slight sheen of sweat at his temple. He glanced at her appraisingly, an impressed grin tugging at the corner of his lip.

“Fresh from a bit of prayer?” She asked, actually expecting it to be so though her tone gave off the impression of levity.

He inclined his head, brunette locks rustling in the process. He seemed just as undone as Teagan. “Just finished collecting the last of the charms her Holiness blessed for my men and I. I must thank you again for convincing her to do such a kindness for us. Morale amongst the other knights really has seen improvement.”

Tabris inclined her head smoothly in acknowledgement, expertly hiding her thoughts on the matter. Unfortunately, she needn’t have bothered. Zevran spoke up in poor attempt at an undertone, as if lending voice to her very thoughts, “For a blooded, sword-wielding, grown man you are awfully naive if you think a small trinket like that will keep you from a darkspawn’s blade in your back.”

He shot his fearless leader a quick, sneaky little grin - the barest twitch of his lips - before keeping his attention on Ser Perth’s response. It took all her will not to roll her eyes at the assassin. Chastising words would be had. She silently promised him that much.

“You are the Antivan assassin, yes?” When the knight spoke, his voice held none of the obtuseness Tabris had anticipated, especially in one of his ilk.

Zevran inclined his head, corners of his lips drawn in amuse anticipation. “I see my reputation precedes me.”

“I’ve been to Antiva - only once, and only very briefly. But I’ve been there all the same. For all that the Antivan Crows were just another organization run by just another group of deadly men - of which you and I know, there are plenty in the world - talk of them would have you believe them akin to gods. Do you think this so, assassin?”

“We have never called ourselves as gods, and have always declared ourselves as the Crows that we are. Though the comparison is somewhat flattering, yes.”

** TBC **

[rickonwrites]

Tabris x Alastair

Alastair didn’t know about Nelaros, much less about the events surrounding her betrothal that led to her becoming a fellow Grey Warden. He confronts MC after their business in the Alienage concludes and her father insists they stay to dine.

Prejudices between elves and humans arise, as does the affect of MC’s relationship with Alastair when her family finds out about their relationship.

-

“Sooo… Betrothed, attacked by rapists, and murderer of noble heirs. Slaying the Archdemon can’t be as terrifying a prospect for you with that track record.”

Kallian sighed, usually finding comfort in her fellow grey warden’s humour, was finding tonight to be a notable exception. Throwing a furtive glance to check that Soris and her father were occupied with preparing for the impromptu dinner she threw a warning glare at her companion.

“Drop it, Alistair.”

“No, no, no. You don’t get away that easily!” He persisted, though, and she didn’t know whether to be grateful or not for the small mercy, he pointedly pitched his voice lower now. “You know, I was aware you were a rogue from the start. I was there when the captain of the guard dropped a few words in Duncan’s ear about you cutting a some purses in Ostagar, and I’ve certainly seen you smooth talk your way out of a number of messy situations. But,” and he punctuated it with a furrowed brow, “I never thought you would dissemble so well with your companions - let alone me!”

Tabris winced. “Now really isn’t the time, my father’s —”

“Travelling the width and breadth of Fereldan for days upon days together, and after baring my soul to you about- about Goldanna and

**TBC**��

[rickonwrites]

Homecoming

MC returns to the Alienage to set things right, but finds there are loose ends that have been waiting on her since the day she left to become a Grey Warden. Unexpected of all is the suddenly strained relation between her and her cousin Soris. She had thought that she had born all the blame of the events that had transpired on their joint wedding day, however it seems she was sorely mistaken.

Takes place when MC returns to the Alienage, and before she sets out to battle the slavers and reclaim her father.

-

Home had been a constant presence, tugging at the edges of her consciousness in a steady susurrus of duty and obligation. Of blood and kin. Hearth and home.

As often as she dreamt about the Archdemon and the angry, undulating hordes of darkspawn waiting to devour her whole, the faint images of her father, creasing and grey; her cousins; Shianni, fiery, red-hot and Soris, solid, dependable, nut-brown; lingered just as often behind the darkness of closed lids.

No matter how far her feet took her, no matter how deep into the earth she descended, the grasping, insistent call of home never eased. It was there, flavouring her mouth with the acrid, dirt-soil bitterness of the alienage and the mysterious foulness of one of Alarith’s highly suspicious home brews. She breathed muddy, dusty air even in the bracing heights of the Frostbacks, and twitched at the smallest of movements half-expecting a rabies-mad dog, growling for the rags on her back even while sleeping under the solid roofs and walls of an inn, garbed in tough dragonskin.

And how could she forget when home was stamped in her indelibly. The slender, pointed cartilage of her ears. Her small, quick limbs, and even quicker fingers skimming into pockets, tearing open purses and jugulars alike. The tattoos inked, carved, and bled onto her flesh. Dark, fantastic lines and edges that set her apart even from her kinsmen in the woods. Marks of vallaslin and yet not quite.

It was hard to forget one’s beginnings when a glance in the mirror served all the reminder you would need.

Yet in spite of this constant awareness; the familiar weight of family, and clan and home resting on her shoulders for every step of her perilous journey, Tabris still found herself filled with a stupid and irrational anxiety as the now unbarred gates to the alienage loomed closer and closer.

“This would be like a homecoming for you then?” the bard had asked, red brow drawn up in innocent query.

Tabris had merely shrugged, mumbled some kind of affirmation. It had been a while. A very long while. And not just in terms of actual time passing or seasons changing. The last she had seen of her home she had been dragged forcibly and urgently from a promised date with the gallows, drenched in the rank stink of human blood. She had been engaged, and set to begin her life as a pretty little bride. She felt herself a completely different person now. Changed. And somehow perversely still the same.

In spite of it all, the alienage still remained as home.

It was an oddly unsettling realization.

“Would we be meeting your father then? I confess, I am more than just slightly curious to see what kind of man raised his daughter to become a Grey Warden of your ilk.” Leliana continued, strolling along Tabris’ right with her soft-footed gait. “He must have been quite skilled with the dagger, I imagine.”

The comment drew a faint grin. “I did have a mother too, you know.”

Leliana flushed. “I - I didn’t mean to assume that just because she’s a woman…”

“I know.” Tabris shot her a conciliatory grin. I’m just teasing, it says.

“You mentioned she had died when you were young. ’twas only natural to presume that since your father raised you for most of your life that it would be from him that you gained your most valuable of skills.”

“I can see why you would think so, but it’s probably best to dispel any false illusions now so as to keep my father from seeing your disappointment when you finally do meet. No. It was my mother who raised me to the blade. Little enough time together we had as it was, it seems she was an effective teacher.”

“Or, you were just a natural fighter. Like a duck to water.” Overcoming the short-lived stumble, Leliana shot her a grin that was underlaid with an unmistakeable air of respect.  

“I think I remember Duncan mentioning an elven woman from the alienage who would have made for a perfect Grey Warden, once.” Alistair’s baritone joined in. “He couldn’t have meant - ”

Tabris shrugged. “My mother? Perhaps. My father mentioned it once, in passing. It seemed as if he’d met Duncan before too, though there wasn’t enough time for me to really confirm that.”

“You mean before you were dragged off and thrown arse first into this whole saving the world business?”

“Exactly that.”

“With an ignominious exit like that, can I assume that they shall be throwing parades and holding a great revelry to celebrate your glorious return?” Zevran’s throaty, accented voice. He hovered in her peripherals, his step longer and more leisurely than hers. There was a predatory ease about him that made her painfully envious. Granted, he’d practically lived his whole life as an assassin whereas she’d had only a handful of lessons at her mother’s knee and almost a year of the self-directed Grey Warden debacle she was in now. But still. There were times when she knew she moved too heavily or slow in the foot to ever succeed, sleek and powerful, as on the same plain as Zevran.

The muted pad of his Antivan leather boots was almost nonexistent. Hers crunched audibly against the loose gravel underfoot. She frowned inwardly and pointedly tried to lighten her tread.

“Oh yes. And I’ll just bet they’ll bust out a gourmet banquet too. Rabbit stew for all of us!”

Zevran quirked a brow, ever sensitive to the irony in her tone. “Rabbits? In the city?”

As if on cue a large, black thing scuttled lightning quick across their path, disappearing in a tumble down an ominous looking sewerage drain with a series of chirrups and distinctly rodent-esque squeaks filling the air.

Tabris shot him a look before chuckling at his moue of distaste.

“Perhaps another week of rations won’t be so bad.”

She laughed, catching the triumphant glint in his eye at having caused her to do so. So the affectation had been deliberate. Had he noticed that she was more tense and brooding than a long-awaited homecoming would normally warrant?  But then again she’d thought her mood safe considering she held herself as their tense and brooding hero for a majority of their travels. Was she so obvious to read, then? Or was he just watching her too closely? The thought sent the hairs on her neck prickling. An assassin watching her every move? Wonderful.

He was always there, she thought quietly and with some amusement, standing close-by but not too close. From where he was now, he could reach out and tangle his knuckles with the leather of her kilt though he did no such thing. Was it an old habit from when he stalked targets, perhaps? She’d also noted how he seemed to always be burying his daggers in the same enemies that had singled her out in battle. There was many a time she had found herself looking up from a dispatched carcass to meet the assassin’s bright, golden gaze. Who would have guessed he would have become such a loyal shadow?

Or an especially sly one, she thought with a reflexive twitch in her wrist, fingers dangling near the sheath at her hip. Pushing her suspicions aside, Tabris’ thoughts were rapidly drawn back to the present and the familiar scents; dank, rotten and destitute, that assaulted her senses with a force.

The Alienage had never been a place one was wont to call quiet. There were always bodies, both living and not-so-living, populating the streets. Many elves took to sleeping by the roadside, squeezing themselves into nooks and dark spaces behind debris.

Tabris had always known that privacy was as foreign a concept as a shem walking through the Alienage, but now with her honed, warrior’s senses, she found herself subconsciously taking note of figures, still and moving, in the edges of the township. How she had ever found the time to train herself with the dagger without drawing anyone’s attention or causing undue alarm was beyond her.

She caught the eye of an elven woman, pale-faced and curled up underneath a rotting wooden beam propped up in an alleyway and looked away, unsettled by the emotion in the woman’s gaze. Hope. And fear. And somewhat else entirely.

Squaring her shoulders, Tabris marched on, sensitive ears twitching at the sounds of a crowd shortly up ahead.  

** TBC **