Re: Dragon Age - A man of few words (Part 7 uploaded)
*cobwebs, dust everywhere* *kicks down the door, steps in, starts to clean up*
Well, this here has actually been lying around for a while. It's part of the exposition chapter I talked about, but I figure the second part of it will be compressed quite a bit in order to be able to finish this story and maybe get to some Dragon Age II fiction. First things first, here is the next chapter.
The Deepest Roads, Part 1
The undead have a few disadvantages. They're not very attentive, and they're not very smart. And as impressive as their blood red, spiked armor may look, the troops of the Blood King are no different. I quietly slip out of the shadows near that cave entrance they are guarding and knock the skeleton's skull about a mile away. The clattering of its collapsing scraps alerts the others, the walking dead and skeletons. I sneer at them and take off. They follow me. Good.
Laritha told us about that entrance yesterday night, shortly before things fell apart. Another messenger arrived and talked about an army of undead invading the Bannorn. The queen's army holds the fort for now, but they're in desperate need for backup. Sharyn shot me a look like I've never seen it before. Almost apologetic. She probably figured my time as a Grey Warden would be a relatively calm one. In the end, she held me a little speech that amounts to “You'll be fine on your own” and marched off. Left me with Nylenn, Ser Alexander and Laritha. Two Grey Wardens, a heroic maniac and a hot, but mostly hotheaded elf.
Eh, I had worse luck.
Woah, that branch almost took my head off. Watch where you're going, you sod. Almost there.
I'm mighty out of breath by the time I pass through the clearing at the mouth of the gulch we picked for our ambush. Ser Alexander didn't like the plan, but he's not the leader, now is he? He probably wanted to rush right into combat against about two dozen armored, well-armed undead. As I jump over a slight mound a bit inside the canyon I allow myself a deprecating grin. Honorable death or not, you're still dead.
Click.
One of the undead stepped on one of the earth mounds – and he triggers the shrapnel trap. Hmph. I own Laritha a silver. Should've been one of my claw traps. Now matter what the case, the shrapnel blows the sod's legs clear off and bowls over several of his comrades. I skid to a halt and watch amused as the corpse, to its credit, continues to follow me by crawling on its arms. All around it explosions rip its fellow undead to pieces after they were trapped between the jaws of the claw traps, but the brave little soldier is still coming for me. I can hear the string of a bow getting pulled and wave Laritha off. I let it grab my ankle before raising my other foot and stomping its skull in. I was hoping for a cracking sound, but the bones are so rotten they simply crumble. Doesn't do anything to improve my mood. “FINISH THEM,” I bark before breaking out into a cough. My comrades storm out of the bushes and do so.
~~~
I blink at Laritha, completely unable to comprehend what she has just said. It was just way too ridiculous. Here we are, marching through near darkness... and she wants... “What?” She slumps in an exaggerated manner. “Come ooooon, I'm bored. Tell me about yourself.” So I really did hear her right. I motion to my marked throat. “Can't talk.” She frowns and hits me on the upper arm. “Yeah you can. We have time, there's no end in sight to these tunnels. If I'm supposed to follow you I need to know a bit about you, right?” I turn to Nylenn for help, but receive nothing but an apathetic shrug. “Actually, her argument has merit. We all know next to nothing about you. The only thing Sharyn told us is that you were hung unjustly.”
You're a big help. Thanks for sodding nothing. I try to come up with an argument for a moment, but there's really no way around it. So, after a sigh and interrupted by painful coughs, I start to talk.
~~~
I was born near Lothering, out of all places. Lothering is famous for two things: Being the place where Orlais defeated Ferelden – and being razed to the ground by the darkspawn. I don't miss that bore of a town one bit. 'course, I was way too young back then to appreciate anything at all. Pa worked on the field all day, and Mom stayed home and looked after me. She had to, as well. I was a wild kid. Always got into trouble, beat up the weaker kids and stole everything I could get my grubby little hands on. Looking back, I was a real bastard. I think Pa whipped me every other day, but it didn't help much.
Comes as no surprise that I didn't stay at the farm when I came of age. No, I wanted to see the world, savor an antivan whore and fist-fight a Qunari. The kind of shit that every ambitious young man dreams about. The furthest I got was that rundown tavern in Redcliffe. I heard its owner died during the walking dead business that Arl Eamon told me about... Anyway, that's where I met Jossyrn.
Joss was only a few years older than me, but he had so much more experience. Not to mention a gang of thugs that, to me, looked big enough to take over a bannorn. He was a charismatic leader, and he had no problem whatsoever to talk me into joining his gang of misfits. Only now do I realize that I'm wearing my mustache in the same style he did. Just thinking about it makes me want to shave it off. Anyway - I felt like a noble rebel fighting for an honest cause when I left with them, the eyes of the militia burning holes in my back.
The very same night, I killed my first man. That made the “noble rebel” feeling disappear real quick. To this day, I don't know who he was, and truth be told, I don't really want to know. Thinking about it too much is bad. It's outright dangerous – you may realize you like it. The sod was middle-aged and had balding blond hair. The light of a torch was illuminating one half of his face, the other cast in darkness. His wrinkles cast sharp shadows. I remember Jossyrn's hand enclosing his skull, pulling back so I can clearly see the muscles, tendons and veins in his neck working frantically to pump as much life through this body as possible, as quickly as possible. His body knew time was short, and HE knew it as well. I could see it in his eye.
In this night, Jossyrn taught me the Death Strike, as he called it. Up- and backwards, into the base of the brain.
~~~
At this point, I interrupt my little history lesson for a moment to stare into the darkness. Sometimes, on particularly bad days, I wake up to that half-face staring down at me with these terrible dead eyes. It's not like I've seen worse things since then – the amputated ogre still troubles my nightmares – but this nameless wraith has been a haunting companion for way too many years to just fade away now.
A strong hand clasps my shoulder, and I look up at Ser Alexander. “The first man I killed,” he states quietly, “was a street urchin that dared to try and steal from my mother. He didn't even succeed. Still, I hunted him down and slew him without mercy.” He straightens himself slightly and clears his throat. He still can do it, that sodding show-off. “Needless to say I was a different man back then.” I keep on looking up at him and wonder if he sees the thug's face sometimes as well. Then, Laritha chimes in. “The first thing I killed was a rat, and I fried it.” Six eyes turn towards her, silently scolding, and she shrugs. “What? I was hungry, and we had no money.”
I think she's missing the point. Still, I don't feel like explaining it to her. With an inward sigh and a sip from my waterskin to sooth my throat I continue.
