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mara-xx217 · 2 years ago

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Fear & Hunger- Falling Off the Proverbial High Horse (D'arce/the Knight Fic)

I love this game and the characters/world. I'll probably be writing more it it soon...

They were disgusting in their ways and practices... How could she- a knight of the mighty Alll-mer- allow this to continue unchallenged?! Either way, they would cease in their actions, be it from reform or from the tip of her spear!

Warnings: Explanation Where None Was Needed, Who Struck First Situation, Missionary Work, Religious Fanaticism, Offensive Descriptions, Cannibalism, Human Sacrifice, Nudity, Graphic Violence, Non-Con, Dead Dove: Do NOT Eat

The only reason why she was even here, in this godforsaken place, was because of him, yet D’arce couldn’t stop herself from stopping in her tracks when she reached the little village deep within the bowels of the dungeon of Fear and Hunger. It was… they were savages. Savages that were new to her, but the savagery, itself, was something that she had witnessed before in her times as a missionary for the ascended one, Alll-mer.

A primitive people, scratching a living off of rocks, only surviving with the very bare minimum in every sense and meaning of the word. These… things- could she even call them people?- were hardly better than animals… disgusting and vile in their practices that hung all around their stinking, shit, piss and maggot filled huts that made D’arce’s stomach twist into knots from both the sight, smell and implications that they held.

Human sacrifice… Were they cannibals? Could it even be called ‘cannibalism’? They were so far removed from human beings… Yet she couldn’t deny the similarities that they shared with her own kind.

Standing on two legs, their stances seemed to hang low, but they were more than capable of stretching to their full height- maybe two heads taller than she, who was already tall and broad for a woman of her country of origin. Most wore no clothing at all- regardless of their gender or age-, letting their shame hang loose and shriveling up in the damp cold of the cave air. D’arce had to avert her eyes in disgust and second-hand embarrassment. How could they stand to be so shamelessly uncovered…?

A few of the men- the males- eyed her up as she hovered around the outskirts of their village. They regarded her coldly, not as though she was a dangerous threat per se, but certainly as though that she didn’t belong and was something to be cautious and wary of. D’arce wrapped her gloved fingers around the iron cross of Alll-mer that was mostly hidden underneath her armour, heart pounding in her chest as she weighed her options.

She could just leave-

This wasn’t her task- This wasn’t her battle to fight. She- She’s only here for him- for Le’garde… She has no reason to give a damn about these degenerates living in filth and sin! Though…

D’arce swallowed as she shifted on her feet. Her armour restlessly rubbed together and she repositioned her lance that rested against the length of her body.

It is her responsibility… She took up the oath as a knight to the almighty Alll-mer to always protect and serve in his name… To spread the glory of his righteous ways to those living in grievous sin, so that they may be saved from their wicked ways and eternal damnation to the pits of sulfur. This could be another test for her… Her faith in her god, in herself-

In Le’garde…

So she crossed the threshold into their little kingdom, swallowing the saliva that pooled in her mouth as the smell of rot, decay, and bodily waste grew to an unbearable degree.

These poor bastards are pitiful…

D’arce wasn’t sure where to begin. What should she say? Could they even understand her if she did speak? Would they attack her? She is confident in her abilities to fend off any possible attacks from these people. They are skinny, malnutritioned… She is a strong and capable knight in armour with the weapon of her choice. Thinking of her virtuous captain reinvigorated her drive to do the right thing.

He wouldn’t let this go… Le’garde wouldn’t allow this to continue unchallenged!

“W-Wait- Don’t-!”

CRACK!

D’arce’s stomach dropped as a man’s head was separated from his shoulders. She didn’t realize it in the heat of the moment, but a creature- a butcher?- was dismembering him while she was gathering her courage to speak out. He… He was already dead when she arrived, right…? She didn’t hear anything- no screaming, no fighting or struggling… D’arce couldn’t bring herself to look at the body, nor the creature that had stopped in its butchering the moment she cried out.

More of the creatures stopped in their daily activities to see what was happening. None approached her, but they did group up in a semi-circle around the knight. She was so lost in her feeling of shock and disgust that she didn’t even realize that her only escape route was effectively cut off by the sea of cave dwellers.

“What you have done… You murdered this poor man!” D’arce desperately tried to hide the tremble in her voice with the volume in which she spoke.

The butcher-dweller cocked its- his, she had to avert her eyes- head to the side and turned to face her. There was no distinguishable expression on his face- there was none on any of the dwellers- but D’arce could only feel nauseous and on edge as he set the sharpened rock he used to cut the man’s limbs off down onto the worn stone slab that lay between two nearby huts.

“Don’t you understand?! This is barbaric! It’s- It’s savage! T-This isn’t-” She swallowed a lump in her throat as two more males took a step closer to her. They didn’t break away from the crowd, but they now stood out in her peripheral vision.

“T-There’s- There’s another way! This-” D’arce motioned around to the village as a whole with the arm that held her spear. “-this is wrong! Y-You’re all dishonouring the mighty Alll-mer with these acts of- of-” Blood rushed to her head as rage overtook her initial horror.

“-SAVAGE DEGENERACY! YOU WILL BURN FOR THIS FOR ALL ETERNITY- Y-YOU WILL-!!!” As the butcher began to raise his arm, D’arce’s adrenaline kicked into overdrive.

She didn’t realize that she had pierced him through the heart until the weight of his dead body threatened to tear the spear from her hand. By then, it was far too late for her to get away from the ensuing chaos.

The cave dwellers didn’t make much in the way of sound, but the very air shifted the moment she raised her spear against one of their own. Every able bodied dweller- be it male or female- brought down hellish fury onto the knight that dared to kill one of their own in the heart of their home. D’arce’s thick, plate armour protected her well from their crude and ineffective blows, be it from their fists or from the rocks they wielded, but a well aimed sling cracked a rock against the side of her unprotected head, leaving her vision blackening and her legs weak and unable to support the heavy weight of her armour. D’arce fell to her knees, giving another cave dweller the opportunity to smash yet another rock into her skull, knocking her unconscious.

What would be a fair price for losing one of their own? Death seems like the logical answer: a tooth for a tooth, an eye for an eye, a life for a life… In the breaks of the bleak black of unconsciousness, D’arce could feel the blows that landed on her face and her body. Some were closed fists beating down onto her face, many kicks shook her body, her armour protecting her vitals but the sheer force left her reeling and gasping for air… In the heat of the beatings, a set of thin, boney fingers dug into her hair and yanked her head to the side.

Is this it, then…? Will they decapitate her in the same manner they did to that other unfortunate soul…? When it wasn’t yet another blow that landed onto her, nor a sharp cut that pierced around her neck, but rather something stiff and moist pressing against her face, D’arce managed to crack open one of her swollen eyes-

-and immediately wished she hadn’t.

D’arce should have expected this… after all, they were unclothed savages that butchers men in their town square… A penis, stiff and hardened with blood bobbed in front of her face, occasionally tapping her on the nose and forehead whenever it throbbed. She bit the inside of her cheek, bittersweet bile burning the back of her throat as the cave dweller rubbed it’s… thing against the side of her nose.

The smell-

Two dwellers held either of her arms while a third held her legs. A fourth was tugging at her shin guards, not understanding exactly how the armour worked and that there were leather straps that buckled it all in place. Their primitive minds might be what saves her chastity in the end… D’arce has never- She has never seen- never smelled or even felt a man’s shame before. And she has never wished to do so! N-Not unless it was… unless it was-

Try as she might, D’arce couldn’t stop the savage from prying her sore jaw open and shoving his stinking member into her mouth. She instinctively bit down, but the moment she put pressure onto his penis, the cave dweller struck her in the side of the head. Hard. The blow left D’arce dazed, slipping briefly into the warm embrace of unconsciousness and leaving her jaw relaxed enough so the dweller could thrust into her blood and saliva filled mouth as he pleased.

She immediately gagged as the taste of that thing hit the back of her throat. It was… sour. Bitter- like sweat and dirt and any number of filthy and nasty things that have no business being in another person’s mouth! D’arce’s eyes watered as her mouth was stretched to accommodate the dweller’s penis. Every time he pulled away, she tried to turn her head and gather what little remained of her strength so she could counter attack- but she couldn’t. He was too persistent!

Again, he plunged into her mouth, deep enough that D’arce couldn’t stop the torrent of bile and saliva from surging up from her stomach. Instead of filling her mouth to capacity, the foul fluid shot out of her nostrils with every heave of her chest. It burns-! I can’t breathe!! Tears streamed from her bruised and blood-swollen eyes. Is this how she will die? Is this really it?

Le’garde…

D’arce’s jaw was stiff and scarcely able to withstand being forced open for so long, but the dweller males didn’t seem to care. When his pace became uneven, she didn’t know what to expect. Certainly not for some kind of hot, sticky fluid to fill her mouth and come streaming down from her burning and sensitive nostrils. The taste was terrible- strong and of something that caused her toes to curl and her stomach to reject the contents that she accidentally swallowed. D’arce was scarcely allowed to vomit it back up before another dweller shoved himself inside her mouth.

When will this nightmare end…? Haven’t they had enough?! It’s not enough to kill a human being?! They must desecrate them in such a vile and deviant way too?! One of the cave dwellers picked up her spear and examined it. She could only just see this from the corner of her eye, as most of her vision was obscured by the navel of a dweller that was in the midst of assaulting her.

What was he doing…? D’arce could only gag and choke on the penis that was ramming into the roof of her mouth. She involuntarily screwed her eyes shut as her esophagus and stomach cramped in unison.

A few seconds of violation was an eternity for her. Would she ever be clean again? Would he ever want to be in her presence after learning of this? D’arce’s face was wet with tears, saliva and semen-infused vomit. Something hard nudges in between the valley of her thighs. Her armour protects her… but even it has its weak points. Still… her trousers were still intact and this didn’t feel like male genitalia…

She knows what a man’s shame feels like…

The feeling of something stiff and slender prodding her crotch wouldn’t relent. D’arce clenched her muscles and attempted to, once again, pull away from the dweller assaulting her face. She couldn’t. He threw all his weight into plunging his thing into her mouth, forcing her head to lay back against the ground. D’arce cracked open one of her eyes- she could barely see…- but she did see what was tormenting her in her most vital and precious place.

Her own spear…

They… they wouldn’t- They wouldn’t penetrate her with her own spear, would they?! D’arce’s eyes grow wide with fear and revulsion. Adrenaline renewed, she began to struggle and squirm.

So strong…! They appear to be malnourished but they were made of tightly packed muscle. D’arce couldn't move an inch! She can’t break free! She can’t-!

N-No! Don’t-! PLEASE!!

D’arce bites down on the cave dweller’s penis as hard as she could. It was more than enough to draw blood and for him to withdraw while cradling his shame. A twisted sense of satisfaction and glee pooled in her lower gut as she watched him curl into the fetal position, a stark contrast to how confident he was while assaulting an unarmed woman. The feeling of triumph was short-lived, as several harsh blows rained down onto her in quick succession.

As bitter as the feeling is, D’arce is satisfied that she got one last attack in before her end. Perhaps now she will die a knight’s death, whole and with her chastity still pure… Yes, she couldn’t allow for that to happen. Not that, not now, not ever… One well placed blow left her reeling, limp and accepting of her fate. Between the ringing of her ears and the cotton-like quality of her hearing, D’arce couldn’t hear the other cave dwellers leaving her to her would-be executioner. Not that she could see, either, with how bloodied and swollen her eyes have become…

A brief respite in the beating left her wondering if she had already succumbed to her injuries. Will she feel his pain forever? Was it fair, after everything she did in Alll-mer’s name? After all she did in his name…? D’arce lifted her arm clumsily to her face and felt around. She couldn’t feel much due to the thick leather of her gauntlet, but she could feel the touch on her face.

She… isn’t dead yet…?

“Damn… what the fuck-?” Her heart skipped a beat.

That voice…

It took all her strength, but D’arce managed to sit upright. The pain in her head was unlike anything she has felt before, and she had faced many painful encounters in her short life. Blood pounded against her eye sockets, in her temples, behind her face and in her ears. The pain is blinding but D’arce’s will to live and to see Le’garde again is numbing her to the pain. Just barely, she could see out of her left eye, and what she saw reignited her will to live even further.

A man stood before her, sword in hand and looking a bit on edge- or was he? D’arce can’t see very well…- and behind him stood a small… girl? Or a child, at the very least. He looked down at her, uncertain of what to say in this specific situation.

“Uh- Y-You alright? Or-?” D’arce could feel tears of relief well in her eyes.

“O-Ohhh thank god! Thank Alll-mer!!” She was saved! She was saved and she was saved by someone that was still of sane mind! Or… was he? No, he was! He wouldn’t have spoken to her otherwise!!

“God… i-if you hadn’t shown up…” D’arce couldn’t stop the spittle and blood from streaming down the corner of her mouth- she had nearly lost function to most of her body, in fact! But she must remain strong. She is a knight! A Ser! What would Le’garde think if he saw her in such a state?!

“T-The things they did to me…” Her bottom lip quivered. She was losing it… NO! D’arce swallowed thickly and made to stand up. The man stepped forward to assist her but quickly straightened up upon seeing the look in her eyes.

Pain, humiliation, fear… fury-

“No- Just-” D’arce sighed. She could stand. She could walk. With some time, her sight will return but even so, she can and will fight. She wouldn’t ask, but she didn’t have to. The man rubbed the back of his neck and offered-

“Want to come with us? I’m looking for someone-”

“YES! I-I mean-” D’arce clumsily picked up her spear and leaned her weight against it. Pathetic…

“Yes… yes- That would be wise, yes…” The man looked her up and down.

“Are… you okay to move? You look pretty-”

“Let’s just go. Please-” D’arce couldn’t stop the quiver in her voice as she cut the man off. She didn’t care who he was or who he was looking for- hell, she didn’t even care about herself at this moment! She just wanted to leave this place…. Leave it in ruin with the corpses of its denizens piled high for the rats to feast on-

So she set out with her saviour and the small child at his side. There was something about her that irked D’arce… but- No, it matters not. All that matters is surviving and finding Le’garde in this godforsaken pit and getting the hell out of here! This place can rot for all she cares! It and every miserable beast in here can burn in the sulfur pit! And she certainly hopes they all will for what they have done! They deserve no less for being degenerate scum!!

@prettycutebunny, @infinitewhore, @kennbb, @slutwithadegree, @dead-bxxxtch-walking, @space-arsonist, @pink-soft-shadow, @sinlessdesire, @hoemine

#fear and hunger #fear & hunger #fear and hunger knight #fear and hunger d'arce #fear and hunger mercenary #fear and hunger cahara #fear and hunger girl #fear and hunger le'garde #fear and hunger alll-mer #fear and hunger cavedwellers #tw violence #tw non con #tw religious fanaticism #tw offensive descriptions

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laurelsofhighever · 5 years ago

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The Falcon and the Rose Ch. 48 - No Rest for the Virtuous

Chapter Rating: General audiences Relationships: Alistair/Female Cousland Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Fereldan Civil War AU - No Blight, Romance, Angst, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn Chapter Summary: Someone is waiting for Alistair and Rosslyn in camp, and he has bad news. Featuring Karyna Amell and Cullen Rutherford

First chapter on AO3 This chapter on AO3

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Rosslyn and Alistair returned to the camp just as the last light faded. Following from the previous night’s attack, the perimeter of their temporary settlement had been marked with torches, and sentries nodded to them as they passed through the boundary towards the picket lines. They were met under the canvas by Cuno, who wriggled over to his mistress with almost his old level of enthusiasm, and he gifted her with a wide, lolloping smile as she bent down to scrub his ears. Alistair, standing next to her with a hand on the small of her back, was granted a brief, dismissive glare, and then a polite sniff when it became clear he wouldn’t be shooed away.

“I think I’m forgiven,” he chuckled as the dog licked his fingers. He nudged Rosslyn’s shoulder. “You’re quiet.”

“I suppose I’m just still…” She sighed and leaned closer to him. “You don’t mind.”

“You thought I would?”

She dropped her gaze, smoothing her hands over Cuno’s ruff. “Feared it, I think. After all we’ve been through, if this was the thing that made me lose you –”

“Hush,” he said, and pressed his lips to her forehead. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Whether it was the words or the gesture that calmed her, she relaxed and tilted a smile up at him, turning so she could loop her arms around his back. “I’m so glad I met you.”

He grinned at that, the part of him wanting to tease overwhelmed by her confession, and her warmth, and the glint of merriment in her eyes as they fluttered shut to steal a kiss against his neck.

“I wish we could just stay here, and let the world pass us by,” she murmured.

“There’s too much to do, love,” he answered, with the unfamiliar endearment tingling on his tongue.

The curve of her smile played against his skin, her fingers winding tighter into the fabric of his shirt. “You didn’t have to point it out.”

“You’re right, how cruel of me. However will I make it up to you?”

She hummed and began a trail of kisses up the line of his pulse. “Let me think about it.”

“O–oh? I hope my lady won’t –”

Cuno chuffed a warning. They pulled apart, just in time for the hurried clatter of boots to resolve itself into the shape of Lieutenant Hobbs skidding to a halt in the doorway.

“Thank the Maker you’re back,” he panted. “There’s a templar just come in – nearly killed his horse – says there’s a problem at the Circle and you’re needed.”

Rosslyn glanced at Alistair. “The king has no overview of the Circle.”

“All the same. He’s up at the prince’s digs, Your Ladyship.”

After a moment, and a parting squeeze of the fingers, they followed at brisk walk after Hobbs, once more donning the mantles of Prince and Teyrna. The camp was quiet, most not on duty seeking an early night in preparation for the march in the morning, and it was a relief to see that whatever the templar’s urgent news, it had yet to spread and rouse panic among the soldiers.

When they slipped past the royal guard into Alistair’s pavilion, they found the templar seated in one of the chairs, accepting a cup of water from a servant while Eamon looked on with his brows knitted into one creased, hoary line. The young man’s gaze stared glasslike through the haze of his fatigue, but he looked up when they entered, startled. Rosslyn recognised him. He looked smaller and younger, in only a gambeson and with several days’ worth of dark stubble on his chin, but he was undoubtedly the same man she had met outside the infirmary on the first night after West Roth.

“Your Highness,” he croaked. “Your Ladyship…”

“This man is Knight-Lieutenant Cullen,” Eamon supplied, without even a cursory scowl to ask where the two of them had been.

“No need to stand,” Alistair told the young man as he struggled to his feet. “You look like you need the rest.”

The templar nodded and sank back into his seat, slumping as he dragged a hand down his face.

“What’s happened?”

He shook his head, fatigue in ever line of his face. “I don’t – the Circle was – Maker’s breath they’re all…”

“Lieutenant!” Rosslyn snapped.

Cullen jerked upright.

“You will answer our questions,” she commanded.

“Yes – yes, Your Ladyship.”

“Good.” She softened. “Now, who sent you?”

“Knight-Captain Irminric, Your Ladyship.”

“And you came from the Circle?”

“I did.”

“What happened there?”

Slowly, she teased out the story. The Circle, overrun by blood mages, had been barred shut by Knight-Commander Greagoir, to await the Right of Annulment. Irminric had tried to persuade his superior to take a unit in to limit the damage, but the knight-commander had remained firm.

“He said he didn’t want to send in any more of his own men after the ones already locked in the tower.” Cullen curled his hands into fists. “If the alarm had sounded an hour earlier, I would’ve been – Maker, I’d just come off duty…”

He looked up and stuttered to a halt when another figure appeared in the doorway. Enchanter Amell’s round face flushed when she met the templar’s eye, but she turned and bobbed a curtsey to Rosslyn, asking permission to say.

“Someone said I should check him over,” she explained.

Rosslyn nodded and returned her attention to Cullen.

“What did the first Enchanter have to say about the Right?” Alistair asked.

Amell’s hands froze on the stopper of a reviving potion.

“First Enchanter Irving is… missing,” the templar admitted. “He was in the tower. Please – the Knight-Captain is certain not all of the mages have succumbed, but if the Right reaches the tower before other help does, then any who have survived this long will be killed for certainty’s sake.”

Grim silence met this pronouncement. Even now, the Right of Annulment, the edict viewed as a viable last resort by many, might already be racing to Kinloch Hold, ready to give the waiting templars free licence to slaughter all within. The only source of reprieve might be that, with the grand cleric out of reach in Denerim, Greagoir would have had to send for permission from Orlais or Kirkwall, either of which would take at least a week to reply. In the meantime, however, it still left hundreds of mages in thrall to an army of unbound, hungry demons.

“Not every templar would risk so much to dispute the Right,” Rosslyn said eventually. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because –” Hopelessly, he glanced around, first to Amell and then to everyone else when she refused to meet his gaze. “Templars are meant to protect mages, from themselves if necessary, but from demons first of all. If some of them can be saved… that’s what the Order is for. And there are templars locked in the tower as well. If… if they haven’t been killed, then they will be trying to stop whatever blood magic has taken hold of our charges.”

“I don’t believe it,” the healer said quietly. “The first enchanter would have stopped it.”

Eamon huffed. “I don’t recall asking for your opinion, healer.”

Nobody paid him any attention. Instead, Amell turned to Rosslyn, her dark eyes wide.

“Please, Your Ladyship. The Circle is – it’s my home, and I can’t believe everyone there has turned to blood magic. Asking them to sit and wait to be slaughtered is – it’s monstrous. There are children there.”

“The Circle operates independently of the Crown,” Eamon said. “We cannot –”

“There are children there,” Alistair interrupted, with a flat glare. “Children who have magic, who might be, oh, I don’t know, around ten years old, whose families weren’t well-connected enough to send them out of the Chantry’s reach?”

The insinuation drained the colour from the old arl’s cheeks, and though his mouth twisted in a barbed retort, it remained unspoken and he turned away.

“The Chantry might control the Circles, but it is the crown’s concern if there are demons pouring out over Fereldan soil,” the prince declared. “What, will the grand cleric slap us on the wrist for stopping more people getting killed?”

“if the Knight-Commander believes the circle lost, then surely there isn’t much to be done,” Eamon replied, rallying. “Let the Order handle it. They are better equipped, and the war effort will not fall apart if any of them are lost.”

“But they don’t want to help.”

Rosslyn stood up, cutting off Eamon’s argument. “We can’t deal with mages gone rogue,” she pointed out. Her expression hollowed. “I saw the carnage unleashed in South Reach by one blood mage, and even though he was a magister I dread to think what would happen if the templars failed and we had to face dozens of abominations. We’ll help as we can,” she decided, with a nod to where Cullen was still sitting. “But we’ll need to be careful in our approach. We can’t go in with an army.”

“May I remind you we are due to rendezvous with the king.”

“Are you so eager for that meeting, my lord?” she asked in a mild tone.

Once again, the old man dropped his gaze, and in the silence, she called for a servant to fetch a map of Lake Calenhad from the chest in her pavilion. While they waited, another pair of servants carried a desk over from the corner of the space and unfolded it into a large square, preparing it not only for the map but for the food ordered from the quartermaster. It was only bread and a kettle of thin meat broth, nowhere near as pleasant as the picnic Rosslyn had shared with Alistair only hours before, but it kept hunger at bay and would fuel them through the hours to come. As the stew was ladled into bowls, Amell sidled close to Rosslyn, her hand hovering as if she wanted to touch her arm but lacked the courage.

“Please Your Ladyship – and Your Highness – whatever you’re planning, I’d like to come along. I can help.”

“That might not be wise,” Cullen said from the other side of the table.

Amell frowned at him, stung. “You’ll need someone who knows the Circle, and who can dispel any barriers or harmful magic –”

“A templar could do that just as well.”

“Maybe,” she snapped. “But by now the enchanters will have figured out about the Right, and they’ll probably attack any warriors who approach them to try and defend themselves. Especially if they’re wearing the Sword of Mercy.” Remembering who she was talking to, she straightened and folded her hands in front of her, watching her fingers twine together as she continued in a more restrained voice. “They’d respond better to a mage, and they know me.”

The servant returned with the maps and nudged her out of the way, but she didn’t leave.

“If you want to save people, you’ll need someone who can calm them down.”

“No. it’s my duty to protect you.” Cullen’s scowl was a hard counterpoint to the light curl of his hair. “You would be safer staying here.”

“I don’t care.”

“I –”

“The longer you argue the longer it’ll take to get help to the Circle,” Rosslyn interrupted. “We’ll use you both. But for now, you’re dismissed. Go and get some rest.” Turning from them and whatever look passed between them, she helped the servant lay out the maps, overlapping them so the western edge of Ferelden fit against the corner of Lake Calenhad, then fished in the box handed to her for the two sets of markers.

“And my lord,” she added to Eamon once the pair had left, “We will need to leave as early as possible in the morning. Please go and see to it that provisions are packed and ready, and that horses will be saddled in time.”

“Your Ladyship, this is folly,” the arl insisted. He stood with his arms folded, glowering at the obvious dismissal. “You cannot believe that interfering in a Chantry matter is worth the risk when we are so close to victory against Loghain. I assume you intend to go yourself? What if something happens to you? Would you leave Highever without its champion?”

Her glance cut at him, but Alistair stepped up beside her and answered first.

“You heard her,” he said. “Best catch the horsemaster before he turns in for the night, don’t you think?”

For a moment, the old man stayed frozen, but his upbringing as a noble asserted itself under the combined weight of their disdain, and at last he cleared his throat and limped towards the doorway. On the threshold, he paused as if to say something further, but his lips pursed and with a shake of his head he trudged out into the night. It left only the two of them in the pavilion. Guards were stationed outside, of course, still within earshot, but even that small amount of space, the brief interlude before Eamon returned, allowed fatigue to creep in at the corners. Rosslyn busied herself arranging the markers for Cailan’s last known location. Alistair’s hand had once more found the small of her back.

“If I asked…”

“I’m not letting you go in there alone,” he said.

She sighed. “It’s my duty as a subject of the Crown to at least point out that Eamon isn’t mistaken when he says it’ll be dangerous.”

With gentle fingers, he caught her hand and raised it to his lips. “My duty is to you.”

“Not ahead of the kingdom,” she breathed, unable to resist leaning closer.

He chuckled and kissed her hand again. “You already do such a good job taking care of that, it makes more sense to have someone taking care of you, don’t you think? You know I’m right,” he added, when she opened her mouth to retort.

“Kiss me and I’ll forgive you for it.”

“Ha! That’s just an incentive for me to be right more oft–”

He had to keep in mind that Eamon might return at any moment, that even if his feelings for Rosslyn might be common knowledge, having the camp know about their relationship and having them see was a distinction with monumental consequences. It didn’t mean he had to enjoy the moment when he pulled himself away, but cutting one kiss short would always be better than never getting to kiss her again. He coughed. There were footsteps outside, and he didn’t trust himself to look at her.

The maps. Yes. Right. The maps.

“So, uh…” he started. “How are we going to do this?”

The party caught their first glimpse of Kinloch Hold’s tower on the third morning, having left at first light carrying only bare provisions and bedrolls. Eamon had arranged to take the rest of their force north through Lakehead, and then meet up with them and the main strength of the army in Aeylesbide, where Cailan was waiting for them. Each had led a spare horse, and changed mounts first at the waystation at the mouth of Gherlen’s Pass and then in Ridderby, where Rosslyn also sent a raven on to the king. As an unaccustomed rider, Amell had tired the worst from the hard journey, and she slept soundly now in the hold of the ferry they had commissioned from the small port that served the western shore of the lake. Rosslyn, however, had been too restless for sleep, and with propriety overriding the urge to crawl into Alistair’s arms, she had emerged onto the deck to let the chill of morning wake her fully. Ice clung to the forward rail, catching the first of the late-autumn light as it crept over the water.

“Happy Satinalia,” said a voice behind her.

“What?”

She watched Alistair duck under the beam and edge his way along the slippery deck towards her, his arms open wide to catch her from behind and enfold her in the thick material of his cloak. He pressed a kiss against her hair as she leaned into the comfort of his chest.

“It’s Firstfall,” he said. “So, happy Satinalia.”

“Already?” She huffed, leaning back against him. “I didn’t realise.”

“If someone had told me this time last year that I would be spending the day battling a tower full of abominations and mad mages, I wouldn’t have believed them.” His arms squeezed her coser. “And I especially wouldn’t have believed the part about you.”

“Neither would I,” she answered.

Had it only been a year? There had been so much laughter in the hall; Gilmore had complimented her new dress, turning his ears as red as his hair; her mother had rolled her eyes as her father raised the traditional mistletoe over her head; and Oren – Oren had refused to let go of the soft toy mabari his favouritest aunt had made him, no matter its lumpy stuffing and the wonky set of its eyes.

“Hey…”

She found Alistair’s fingers and wound them with her own. “As long as we don’t make the demon-fighting part a tradition,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

“Oh, I don’t know…” He pressed his cheek against hers. “It beats sitting by yourself, counting coals in a chilly guardhouse.”

Frowning at the forced brightness in his tone, she turned into him and snuck her hands under the outer layer of his gambeson. A sharp inhale answered the sudden chill brought by her fingers, but a moment later he relaxed and tightened his hold on her waist.

“It’s a good thing we have more than those two choices, then,” she murmured.

They watched the dawn grow behind the Circle spire until details could be picked out on the buildings and the vegetable patch that clustered around the base of the tower proper and their intimacy could no longer be hidden by the darkness. Figures stood at attention on the rocky shore, stonelike but for the gleam of their armour, and as the ferry drew closer to the low pier on the southeastern end of the island, some of the templars retreated from their posts to dart up the steps to where Greagoir no doubt waited for word. Silence engulfed them, a kind of pressure like the change of altitude that renders all sound distant, which grew heavier the closer the came to the tower.

The others were already awake. Grimly, they nodded to Rosslyn and Alistair as they pulled on their armour, checked their weapons sat easy in their scabbards, and climbed up to the deck to wait for the slow bump of the hull against the dock. The crew had barely skipped to secure the ropes when they spotted a full complement of templars clanking down the steps towards them. Greagoir marched at their head, his hand tight on the hilt of the sword at his side.

“Irminric told me what he was doing,” he growled when Rosslyn and Alistair stepped onto the dock to meet him. “I will speak plainly. You have wasted your journey here, Your Highness. The tower is not under our control, and my knight-captain has led you on a fool’s errand.”

“We came to help,” Alistair replied. “You would refuse it?”

The knight-commander shook his head. “Abominations and demons stalk the tower’s halls – we were too complacent, and it would be foolish to send anyone in without the Right to back them.”

“That would be the case only if every mage in the tower were corrupt,” Rosslyn pointed out. “Do you have evidence of that?”

“Your Ladyship, I appreciate your desire to help, and I know your relatives among the Clayne believe magic is not a temptation – Knight-Captain Irminric holds the same misguided opinion – but the tower is overrun. There is no alternative – everything within must be destroyed so it can be made safe again.”

With a growl, Amell pushed forward, ignoring the restraining hand Cullen lay on her arm. “How can you just give up like that? There are hundreds of people in there – your people too! How can you abandon them?”

“What are you doing here?” Greagoir turned to Cullen. “Knight-Lieutenant, all mages were to stay on detachment with the king’s army.”

“Why – so you could avoid having to look any of us in the face? I came here to help save my home.”

“I’ll not throw the demons another bit of fodder. I suggest you all leave immediately.” He shrugged, and the veneer of calm slipped to reveal the tiredness beneath. “Once I have confirmation of the Right from Val Royeaux it will all be over.”

Rosslyn glared at him. “And what will you do in the meantime, sit here and polish your armour? Every moment you delay means more lives lost, people who could have been saved if you had chosen to act – unless,” she added with a cold smile, “that is part of the reason for your hesitation, a hope that by the time the Right arrives everyone in the tower will have killed each other off and given your men an easier time of clearing away the mess.”

“What – how dare you!”

“Your Ladyship, please,” Cullen muttered beside her.

She ignored him and stared the old man down.

“I assure you I do not take this matter lightly,” Greagoir grunted. “But I will not risk more of my officers.”

“You would not be risking your officers.”

He laughed. “No, only the goodwill of the king and any standing I have within the Order.”

“And you value your position over the lives of the people in your charge?”

The force of Alistair’s quiet disapproval, standing before him with arms folded brows drawn in like thunderclouds, defeated the bluster already winded by Rosslyn’s argument. The knight-commander sighed, defeated, and gestured for them to walk with him up to the hall that served as the tower’s entrance. The ranks of templars stepped aside to let them pass. Some turned curious glances on Cullen, and followed after Amell with hostile whispers, but nobody stopped them.

“If you succeeded, I would owe you much,” the knight-commander admitted. “I can let you in, but I will not open the doors again until I know it is safe, not until First Enchanter Irving stands before me and tells me it is so.”

“Very well,” Rosslyn answered. “if you have any provisions to spare, they would be welcome, since we don’t know exactly what we’ll face.”

“The quartermaster is over there.”

“I’m going too.” One of Amell’s hands rested lightly on the staff she slung over her back, not quite enough to be a threat, though Greagoir seemed to mark it as one. “I’m under His Highness’ supervision and you can’t stop me.”

Before the knight-commander could do much more than frown at the defiance in the mage’s eyes, Cullen stepped up next to her.

“I would like to volunteer as well, Ser,” he said.

“You were one of the lads on the last duty shift,” Greagoir realised.

“Yes, Ser.”

For a long moment, his superior said nothing, grinding his jaw as he weighed the options set before him. The guards on the door fidgeted. Eventually, he threw up his hands in frustration, barking a command for the quartermaster to add a spare set of armour and some fresh robes to the list of supplies he was rooting for in the storeroom.

The time waiting for rations and water gave them enough time to check their weapons again and glance at a rough map of what lay beyond the door, as if that alone might prepare them. Rosslyn napped on Alistair’s shoulder, having grown into the soldier’s habit of snatching sleep where she could after such a restless night, and he kept fiddling with the straps of his gauntlets to resist the urge to hold her hand. By the time they were ready to leave, the sun was streaming full through the window at the far end of the hall.

“Remember,” Greagoir warned, “Irving’s word is the only one I will accept.”

“We understand,” Alistair replied.

“Then maker turn his gaze upon you.”

The illuminated image of Andraste on her pyre overlooked them all as they trudged to the door, painting bright shadows over the ceiling. At a nod, the guards drew back the wrought iron bolts on the tower door and hauled on the capstan chains to open it, while yet others stood with ready swords in case an abomination lurched out of the darkness before they were ready. But nothing moved. The corridor was empty. As one, the party strode forward, Rosslyn and Alistair in the lead, and the heavy doors closed behind them like a trap.

#dragon age #dragon age: origins #dragon age origins #alistair theirin #alistair x cousland #cousland #rosslyn cousland #cullen rutherford #amell #posting this to make myself feel better

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deepintoforestwego · 7 years ago

Text

Oblivion at bay

The Prince has worse day.

To explain, to those unaware- Lost Prince can only have worse days, because every day is bad day for him. Never does smile cross his features, never does laugh find it’s way from his throat, never does ache leave his bones, never does he find motivation to do anything but languish. Sometimes he spends centuries sitting in one spot, frozen silent, frown marring his face, and not a sound comes from him, not a twitch of muscle. Nothing can move him- world could burn, planes could break, and Prince would sit there, apathetic and uncaring.

So he can only get worse. There are days, ages he spends cupping his face and sobbing (none know for what, and perhaps neither does he), curling in ball and screaming, fainting from exhaustion and tearing his immortal flesh in panic (there is no blood, just darkness and dust beneath ever healing skin). His followers know this quickly- when pale, faded world around them goes gray, when kingdom that is always faraway no matter where you are going from becomes utterly hidden, when sky rains leaden tears, when broken tower starts falling apart even more, when abandoned corpse of city around it rots into dust, when shadows wail, and each inhabitant feels a gap inside themselves, something no food or treasure or person can feel, when ravens mourn and black earth bleeds.

(A note, to remember about lands of Faerie, which you may call First World, Feywild, Elphame or however you prefer- you can judge mood and fate of ldest lords by their domains. Some will tell you that power of archfey is so great that it forces capricious realms to bend to them and their feelings and wishes, others will claim that minds and lives of shapers are intervened with their kingdoms. Third will yet say that Lords and Ladies are but avatars through which land speaks, while fourth yet claim that holdings of Feywild’s almost-but-not-quite gods are just pieces of them thrown up outside. Perhaps none are right, or maybe they all are at same time, or it depends on Lord in question. It doesn’t explain quite bit about mercurial and whimsical nature of their servants-it isn’t easy being dryad in world where sunlight and seasons depend on your ruler’s relationship stability, which is also why all of them meddle in their monarch’s personal lives far too much to be safe or sane).

As first strangled whine left his mouth, so did each thing, a fey and mortal and demigod and beast (no plants, not anymore, not safe enough) cry out in horror and warning, and rush towards throne room- which is never in same place, and in these situations tends to hide away, to shield away Melancholy Lord from prying of others, and from it’s deep seated fear of him maybe ever getting better- after all, it is house built on mourning, and abandonment, and fact there is only one being that sees value in it’s shattered walls and broken roofs. Recovery would take it away.

Still, those fresh and mortal to this land of loss and pity still hope and pray to deities so far away, that they will soon fully leave, that land is not part of Prince, and that it can be convinced to reveal him, for neither does it want him to suffer and harm himself, or if tower is a part of him that there is piece of Prince that wants to be helped, so they run and hope.

Girl who arrives, without realizing at first, is mostly human, with bit of touch of Outsiders- grandmother of her grandparent’s grandfather was a banshee, who grew too close to her clan ( it could make him some sort of divine Father, she thinks, for they say banshees were screamed in existence when Lost Prince realized his mortal followers died, bound to watch and mourn their descendants). Her head is bald, her eyes gold and silver, her clothes wildly colourful, as if she was wearing carnival tent, and there are vials of poison around her belt, and deaths on her blade, innocent and guilty both.

,, My Lord. How can I help?’’ She asks, kneeling low before man who would look almost pretty and wholly gaunt and mostly human if not for red markings ghastly burning on his skin, like coal slowly dying (they like to believe those are symbols, that there is meager joy left in him that they can light up again) and empty eyes, holes filled with void that predated cosmos.

‘‘Get lost!’‘ He snips at her, words as bitter and painful as taste of nightshade, a barbed wire, or thorns sinking in veins. there is force in them, though they are quiet and cold, that makes skin ripple and wind whip at her face. She doesn’t care- Lost Prince never has kind word for anybody, but what it matters when he feeds you, helps you bury your sisters, finds you home, saves you from prison, all in different unremarkable guises until you put together pieces and find way into Feywild and beg yourself in his service.

‘‘ My Lord, what do you need?’‘ She asks again, watching man in front of her, whose age she can’t really guess, somewhere between sixteen and fifty ( in appearance at least), who is breathing harshly, muddy tears running down his cheeks and burning and melting stone below, barely hanging on his throne, hair messy and hands around knees. It is worthless question, but still she asks- they tried everything, brought therapists from every plane and time, but nothing could help this sorrow that existed for itself, that had no name and no history. Still, they have to hope.

‘‘To leave me.’‘ He almost spits, after what might have been minutes or hours.He doesn’t know he doesn’t see, he cries and is lost in fading memories, but he can’t remember name, anything before this tiredness and pain, nothing else.

‘‘‘...I see. If you need us...’‘ he is rude, and cold Lord, but each member of his court has been saved in secrecy, and never has he tried to claim credit for that. Who knows how more he has actually saved, who never realized that. There is no creature here that wouldn’t die for him, whether in battle or by hanging themselves after his despair seeps in them too.

‘‘I won’t. Now please leave me alone.’‘ He begged them, commanded them, go, leave, leave me and this awful cursed place alone, but they wouldn’t, they insist on thanking him, on serving him, as if he wanted that, as if he would have hid his identity if he wanted to call in life debt (how many has he amassed, and let slip through his fingers as ones he saved lived good and happy lives, unlike his peers, who would have bound them unto eternal service).

,,And...sorry.’’ he whispers as doors close, and word spreads through his domain, and girl gets idea.

‘‘You are not one of mine. Not yet. Why are you here?’‘ The Green Mother asks, her bark skin perfectly chiseled, her dress of thorny vines creeping and moving, flowers growing and withering on it. She is beautiful, in way old tree near her former home was, in way flowers bursting through pavement are. Not a grandiose, elevated beauty that is glorious and frightening and overloads senses, but patchwork of ordinary and pretty thing cobbled together in something alluring and subtle. But she is a wooden statue, green thorns growing from her, with hands strong enough to crush skulls, and magic even greater.

‘‘Your Majesty, I am here to bring you information.’‘ The Feasting Flower is one of queens of Faerie. Not like Tiandra, painted by greatest artists with summer’s sun in her palm and costly spear tinged with blood of thousands, or Queen of Air and Darkness, whispered about by frightened mothers and weary travelers, winds searing through night at her command, thousands murdered by winter’s bite at her glance. She is thing of fields and deep woods, sang in ballads of peasants and bored, thief of babies and owner of hundred mortal lovers, not goddess bestowing favor upon virtuous knights and forcing Feywild to bend beneath her scorching fist, not plotter of frozen heart that topples empires, unleashing armies of dark upon world. And not any lesser and safer for that. Just smaller and more common interest. Which may in fact be more awful.

‘‘Are you? Then go on. I hope it is worth my time-you may be rewarded for that.’‘ Or punished otherwise. They call her in mortal world many things, sometimes slut and succubus’s sister and temptress. But carnal acts of lust and seduction are just an aspect of hers. She is intrigues woven in caves beneath earth, growth and decay of plantlife, the charming appeal of evil. Even her seduction is more of that of venus flytrap. She is hungry for secrets as she is for flesh and hearts, in literal and metaphorical meaning equally. Her tight smile is that of mafia boss, of information broker, and she is covered in green and red, like emeralds and blood.

‘‘My Lord-The Lost Prince- is feeling worse then usual. Me and several others have thought that maybe..’‘‘ The thorns writhe and dance, and trees burst in fruits and sap flows freely as girl suffocates from pollen, and Green Mother smiles wide and bloody. The Eldest of fey have lived for long time, and been many things to each other. The Green Mother has bedded each of them, and found sour and sorrowful Lost Prince worst and hardest-for hardly it could be called sex, as she laid over his bare and unmoving body, and he stared in emptiness. Seductress she is, and creature of pride, and she vowed she will show him pleasure that will snap him out of his melancholy. A obsession and hunger that slowly twisted in need to have him adore her, to possess him by whatever means possible.

‘‘Oh? Really? Lovely, perfect in fact. Well then, that is useful information. I would be glad to help- as for you, no poison of your planet’s herb will work on you, nor shall thorns cut your skin, and neither will treants or similar raise a branch against you, and dryads will know you as friend.’‘ The girl’s eyes are wide, but she nods and quickly mutters something in gratitude (not thank you, never that, she isn’t stupid) before running away, moving through still trees, which aren’t taller then mountains or full of diamond flowers and impossible fruits, but are still thick and would tear her apart in heartbeat if their capricious mistress demanded so.

It is truth of life that it always adapts. Lost Prince’s sorrow wrecks the tower, and they learn to live around it. Some leave, some die, some remain, more come, for still Prince helps as he cries. It is one day that they feel arrival, something old and powerful and wild tearing through magics hiding their joyless kingdom from all others, forcing Feywild to reveal demiplane of Crumbling Tower to it.

The doors of tower-one of them- are old wood, rotten and broken, and realm they were grown at is not there anymore. Parts of it turn to dust, others to black mush, held together by rusting metal, but they burst open, wood stretching and shifting, growing younger and greater, rejecting it’s chains, warping until it is young and healthy and alive, with heavy crowns and roots tearing apart stone.

‘‘AND MAMA HAS ARRIVED!’‘ Voice shouts so strong every creature, from giants to microbes knows it. Green Mother stands at entrance, waving, fueled with strength of joy that still can’t make her smile seem warm or her eyes soft, each movement obvious and overly dramatic. She struts along, roots and thorns growing in her steps, cloud of pollen spreading and making everybody cry and choke and flail until they are red in face, and withering once she passes away, not decaying as plants do, turning orange and brown then drying out, but crumbling in dust in seconds, for Green Mother is creature of desire and energy, sensuality and growth, and neither can be found here.

‘‘Hello. What do you need?’‘ Lost Prince asks once it becomes clear she won’t leave, when flowers bloom from his throne. He doesn’t call her by her name, or title, but in language of archfey elder then sylvan, a set of images and impressions describing her.

A dank cave, filled with dirt and clay and dust, stench of decay of decomposing plants, ready to give birth to new life, spiders crawling across walls.

A flower rises from earth. Brilliant and soft red-green, petals wide and spotted, full of pollen. Bees and butterflies come to it, and when they fly down they can’t leave, and it swallows them whole, as it does same to humans and fiends and fey.

There is man, and he is beautiful and wealthy and liar and has voice like honey, and he plans and plots and weaves his webs, and baits unhappy wives and daughters and sisters to his bed, because he has wild urges he will never let go unsatisfied, and he makes them pawns, and he becomes king and there is sea of blood and tears and so many lost, so many unmarked graves, oh the orphans...

‘‘Me? Whatever is needed at the moment. Now, only your smile and affection, my dear.’‘ She moves slowly, but swags and shakes her body (and who knows how it may seem to him, and he to her- for archfey know the truth of each other’s forms, even as they shift themselves in strangest ways. He thinks it reasonable to her to model herself after elves and dryads, for she is closest to them and has had hand in their history many times, and she finds it quaint and sweet how he makes himself in human, for they live so short and but a few will be known and remembered). And him too she calls by his nature.

A historian, old and grey, stands alone in library combs their way through artifacts found beneath ruins of civilization whose name nobody knows, and they takes books of their predecessors and colleagues and pick information from them, and travel through past, recalling what they know and have learnt about symbols found inscribed at walls.

They called children insane, called them abnormal and weird and unnatural, because their brain was missing few steps and didn’t work the same and it was easier to scream then to figure out way to accommodate, and so they made them mad, screaming and broken and crying and never speaking, when all they needed was rest, to calm down and clear mind and filter out so many emotions.

There is a queen, and she keeps her tears inside even as her grief crushes her, for she thought her beautiful husband loved her, but he is cruel king and liar, but she must make her family, her line, all who came before her proud, so she swallows down her pain and lets herself become symbol of loss and pain and strength, lets people put her on pedestal as he screams and hits and cuts her, only as long as she can keep pieces of his rage away from people...

‘‘You won’t find it then. You have wasted your time.’‘ He still breathes unevenly, and cries, and his episode weight heavily on all, even on her, who would have almost shuddered from pain and loss and something like shadow of regret if her power wasn’t as great, if her hunger wasn’t as deep, and if she didn’t remember time before this, when he could be happy. It is thankful that archfey can speak to each other by mind and meaning, for he wouldn’t be able to get a word out as much as he cries.

‘‘Are you sure? I’m good at digging out things people don’t even know they had.’‘ She shakes her body and puts her hands around his neck. Subtlety is lost on one such as him, and if she had human ideals she would have been ashamed of acting like some unskilled, fresh strumpet, but she is hungry thing and means never matter. She looks at him, and wonders whether he has sexual or romantic desires at all, which would mean she would have to make herself his best friend or surrogate sister or something. It is hard to figure him out, when he has desire for nothing, only some strange duty to help the helpless and remember forgotten. It is awful and makes her leaves turn brown at thought of help without debt, without betrayal and regret, but that is why it is so alluring-perhaps he could teach her something too.

‘‘Like this! A great kingdom, known all over it’s realm-now nothing but dust, because it’s emperor became lich, called upon Old Ones and tried to ascend to godhood. You know, classic. But I preserved it’s capitol. Only for you.’‘ She hands him a glass globe, and inside is truly beautiful capitol, and he holds it and watches ruined buildings, watches bodies covering them, hands of dead clutching each other.

‘‘ I see... I think I heard of this. Some centuries ago-yet already ti is gone from memory. had some very unusual trees.’‘ She smiles wider, grasping for compliment, feeling proud of herself, as he stares on thorns and brilliant red flowers covering city, as he stares on all dead families and destroyed buildings.

‘‘I will gift you for this. Now leave my domain.’‘ he stops crying, and she counts it as win, as he stares at globe, hands shaking. With a mimicked kiss she leaves, planning how to continue this ‘‘romance.’‘

‘‘My Lord?’‘ An old woman comes, dressed in colourful clothes, eyes silver and gold. Prince says nothing, just goes over and hugs her, tight and strong, face frowning and eyes narrowed, hands cold, but he isn’t crying as he puts his head over hers, as he gives her globe and says look.

She doesn’t regret it.

#d&d #pathfinder #crossover #fantasy fic #faeries #for my friend owldork1998 #a pathfidner eldest s adapted in dnd archfey

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