Alistair
"And what do we have here?" Alistair, junior member of the Grey Wardens (and, being so, he felt it well and truly his duty to impress upon the newer recruits his awe-inspiring prowess within the order), enunciated slowly and clearly in his much used jovial—and somewhat smug—tone. He placed to each flinching shoulder a grip clad in sheltering, firm chainmail, and under his grasp the recruits blanched.
"Uh…" Jory began, as he and Daveth scrambled from their obviously gossiping positions. "We were… we were, um…"
"Have you seen the new recruit?" His companion interrupted. "The sentries spotted Duncan coming in with one by his side. Odd, that. Usually his forays are more successful. Only one recruit… anyways, they should be here any minute now." Surprised, for waywardness had been his only expectance, Alistair let go of his commanding vice upon the two men. Upon his release, Daveth fell into a nervous silence. Alistair stood straight, his loosely cropped hair catching the final, fading lights of dusk and lighting them into flame. A mischievous grin broke upon his face at the thought of having yet another inferior in rank to him, and, having witnessed the expression so often, Jory and Daveth thought no more of it.
"Well? Are you going to tell me about him or are you going to continue glancing sidelong at each other?" The sound of hooves trotting along well-worn stone saved them from answering, and Alistair turned about, the grin on his face widening as he saw Duncan. In many ways the eldest member of the Grey Wardens stationed at Ostagar was like the father he never really knew, despite the cliché of it. He broke into a run toward his direction, a hand rising into a wave.
His hand never made it to its greeting peak, nor his feet its destination. He froze, scarce a step taken, as he caught sight of the new Warden.
A wraith was as sufficient a word as he could use to describe him. Night embraced the black horse and its unearthly rider. In the fitful torchlight, the most he could make out was a figure, small for a male, adorned in cloth of darkness. The hood of his cloak that enveloped his body so that he could not make out the muscle or height of his stature obscured the features of his face, yet Alistair had the feeling that he was being watched.
And yet it was not mere attire that so disturbed Alistair; indeed, there were many a fearsome sight that fighting darkspawn could bring. No, it was the way that the figure carried himself, with the utmost stillness and silence of the grave, that brang shudders and chills through his body and his joy to a halt. He fought desperately to find the proper tone and phrase of welcome, but for all his struggling, his paralyzed mind refused to respond.
"This is the new Grey Warden recruit," Duncan said, his voice strong. He fell silent, as if expecting the persona of shadow to speak for himself. Of course, he remained silent, and all before him shifted awkwardly, the recruit excluded.
"Ah…" Duncan gestured over yonder shoulder. "You may set your possessions over there, by the Warden tents." That was odd: recruits, and especially army recruits, usually didn't get to take anything to the front. Alistair wondered what made him an exception. "One of the elves will take your horse. You have permission to rest until early morning. I will… send someone for you when I require your presence."
They waited uneasily until an elven servant came, reaching for the stallion's reins. The recruit's hand snapped out, his cloak flaring about his shoulders and yet somehow still managing to conceal his form, and caught the elf's wrist. Ironically, his gloves were contrastingly light enough to see flecks of dried blood on them. Alistair shuddered and averted his gaze.
Something was exchanged. A word or gesture, perhaps, or an evil blood-spell of influence, as Alistair edited for haunting story fodder around a cask of ale. Whatever it was, Alistair didn't catch, but apparently the elf did, for he nodded shakily and pointed in the direction of where the horses rested. Without further ado, he released the elf and led his own horse away, the clip of his boots and of his mount's hooves the only sound in the silence.
The elf fled.
"Well, that was bloody uncomfortable," Alistair said, rubbing the back of his neck. Jory and Daveth had long since hidden themselves in the corners of the castle where they could whimper and whine fearfully in peace, and other than he, Duncan, and the casual person, the grounds were deserted in favor of bedrolls. Duncan sighed.
"Leave the recruit be; not even I have yet before seen such bitter grief as that afflicting the young Cousland."
He furrowed his brow. Cousland… ah, yes; a name of nobility that graced the lands of Highever. Other than pairing the word with a place, he knew of no other clues that might describe more of the enigmatic recruit. A shiver ran up his spine; he wasn't even sure he wanted to know more.
Cousland
At first, Ostagar was not impressive. She would have never have agreed to Duncan's deal if not for the fact that her elder brother, Fergus, would be here, and the fact that he had given her the ultimatum of choosing between dying with her family or joining the Wardens at her parents' behest did not endear him to her at all.
She rode in, oblivious to the looks ranging from sly looks to horrified staring, at his side, submerged in a well of desolate depression and torment. There was a coldness within her, so very everlastingly frigid that no fire could banish it, and so sinister that only vengeance and blood had a prayer of satisfying it.
It was his hair that drew her attention from her pit of loathing and misery; foolish as it was, it reminded her of a time when she took delight in such ostentatious fripperies like shoes and silks. A time before her parents died, a time before that pestilence-rotted bastard Howe had murdered everyone she knew and loved…
It was the color of subtle honey that burst in to an inferno of color when the sun struck it. The color lasted only for a moment, a brief flicker seen only from the corner of an eye, before the shade of night clouded it. There was an uncommon, masculine beauty in him that she had not expected to be seen in an army, and she locked gazes with him, safe to observe him within the inky blackness of her hood. Something akin, but not quite, to horror was clear in his features, and she felt despair began to seep seductively into her again.
It was clear that her presence was but another burden of this war, and she almost smiled in humorless amusement. She sat atop her horse with the ease bred into a noblewoman, cared for her long friend with the expertise of a practiced rider, and endured their scrutiny—covert or not—with the indifference of someone in mortal pain.
Taking the saddlebags to the site Duncan had directed her to sleep, she startled a group of men playing Wicked Grace. The cards fell from frozen fingers into their feeble campfire, and she waited patiently for someone to point to here where her tent was. When no offer became apparent, she picked one close-by that appealed to her in some unknown way and ducked inside, closing the tent flaps behind her.
Inside, she found that her mabari had already established his area of dominance and was sleeping peacefully on the narrow cot inside. Throwing the saddlebags on the floor, she unstrapped her sword and laid it next to the pack. It was hot enough that she considered taking off her armor, although she would sleep with her weapons close tonight. The tragedy Howe had inflicted on the Cousland family had taught her to never again take chances.
She wrapped her cloak about her. Using her dog as a pillow, she settled herself as comfortably as possible before willing oblivion to take her, avoiding the area her dog had shat in.
Cousland
It was the cry of pain that had replaced drunken whispers that roused her, and she sat up immediately. Her mabari whimpered and settled into deeper sleep, snoring softly as she snatched her dagger up. She lunged through the tent flaps, coming face to face with the exact same man that she had been enraptured by before.
"Wha—what are you doing in my tent?" She exhaled slowly when she saw that he had merely stepped into the trap she had safeguarding her sleep. It had bitten deep into his calf just above his boots, but she would be able to remove it without harm so long as he didn't move. "Bloody Andraste, do you even know what the other Grey Wardens will say about this! No! I don't want to think about it!" The man ranted. She ignored him for the most part, prying the iron teeth out of his leg with her knife. He wavered and almost fell. "Ow!"
"Be silent, fool," she hissed, steadying him with a hand. "And if you do not want this trap to take off your foot, you will stand until I am finished." The damned warden almost fell again.
"What… you're a woman!" The sound of incredulity was easy enough to hear, but she knew all too well how his voice would turn into malicious hate. Most men were like that—Howe was like that.
She was up in an instant, the bloodied tip of her small weapon at his throat. He swallowed, the lump in his throat nicking the blade and drawing a drop of blood. She regarded him warily, drawing her hood down over her face ever so slightly.
"I—I mean, nothing wrong with being a woman, right? You're the first, I think, in the Wardens. Don't look at me like that, I'm not some perverted lecher." This last was said rapidly, and she thought she detected a blush in the dimness. "It's just… nice to have some soft company after brawling with the guys, you know? Making cookies, knitting mittens… No? Right, forget I said anything." She stared at him for a moment longer. Soft company? The man had certainly not grown up in her world, where women were as ruthless as their gender counterpart in both politics and battle. She said nothing, pulling her blade from his throat and returning her attention to the trap. She slammed the hilt into its base, and the trap popped open. The man let out a sigh of relief.
"Thanks, although I suppose you did spring that damned thing on me in the first place. I'm Alistair." He held out a hand that she ignored.
"Take off your pants." He gawked at her.
"Please tell me that you did not just say 'take off your pants'."
"Unless you want infection to set in, you will take off your pants."
"Uh, um, no thanks." He stammered. The blush was evident. "I'm not so bad with a bandage that I'll strip in the middle of camp, thank you very much." She stood up fluidly, bringing her fingers to her lips. She blew an ear piercing whistle, and the snoring of her mabari stopped. A few moments later, the dog came dragging her pack on one foot, and the hilt of her sword in his mouth. She took it by the blade, wiping the spittle on the ground before grasping it and hoisting her pack over her shoulder. She brushed past him, her stride fluid and lithe.
"Just so this doesn't happen again, you should know that you don't get a tent until inducted into the Grey Wardens." He muttered. She paused, turning her head slightly to look at him over one shoulder.
"I am a Cousland, and even though forced into something I never wanted, I am still a Cousland." she said archly. "Does that not suffice?" Without waiting for an answer, she walked off. It took less than two strides for her and her faithful hound to fade into shadow, and Alistair stood there, staring at where but a moment ago what might have been the oddest encounter in his life had just occurred.
He recollected himself and entered his tent, only to find, to his utmost dismay, that the war hound had firmly established territory. After scooping out dog droppings and shed hair, he fell face-forward onto the sleeping mat. His nose encountered something soft and leathery, and he groaned, wanting nothing more than to forget the odd woman, who other than the surname he knew nothing about, and hauled himself up, pawing the source of the sensation. He lit a candle with the failing camp fire and brang the object close.
It was a small, thin book probably only containing a score of pages. He concluded it must have fallen out of her pack, and for a moment considered leaving the contents undisturbed, but his impish side of him won out, and he cracked the ancient leather cover open.
At first, the pages were blank, and he flipped through them rapidly. He came upon a name; Ceostre Cousland, and tried the exotic word upon his tongue. The next page had tidbits of random scraps on them; a ribbon here, a piece of metal there. He found a locket stained with blood and cracked it open, discovering a tiny portrait of a woman and small boy. There was a small phrase below, and his eyes strained out to make it. Fergus' beloveds Oriana and Oren. How odd. He flipped a page.
The pictures where copied larger here, in ink of black. A person had been added in, a man of dark hair and eyes. He supposed that would have been Fergus. The drawings were detailed and remarkably realistic, and he suddenly felt the depth of his intrusion. He considered stopping, but something made him go on. There was another drawing, this time with Fergus again, his "beloveds", and a handsome couple with graying hair. They were all poised together and smiling, and the scene brought its own smile to Alistair's face. He noticed that there was a lack of a particular element in each of the pictures: his fellow warden recruit was in none of them. The book grew odder and odder as he encountered a list of names written in messy script unusual from the fine, elaborate captions of before. He flipped more pages, and as he neared the end thought he would see naught more, but on the last page there was one sentence.
Howe will die.
The page had splotches of ink—or blood?—and holes as though a pen had stabbed completely through the parchment. He shuddered and closed the book. He had been wrong to look inside the deeply private collection of memories, but at the very least he knew more about her. Cousland; Ceostre Cousland.
Sleep did not come easily to him that night, and he slept with the book at hand.
Author's Note
So, in case you haven't noticed, I'm postponing my DA2 fan fiction until inspiration strikes. It was unoriginal and unappealing after the initial chapters. Sorry! I just think that this one is so much more… innovative. I'm going to go ahead and finish up this chapter lest it become too long…
Take off the pants… :3