not much to say, i suppose, except that everything pertinent belongs to Bioware and i claim no ownership over their characters or story.
oh, and I really like this horizontal line thingy
Prologue: Sadly Extinct
"Never," the young man spat. "I'm not leaving my home to follow some damn shem. Let me at those bastards and I'll show them just how 'weak' elves are!"
Duncan watched impassively as Adaia's son lunged at the six heavily armed guards standing stiffly nearby. The elf was held back by his father, Cyrion, and Valendrian, Duncan's old friend, before he could succeed. He still struggled furiously and snarled at the guards, who seemed more amused than angry.
"Enough!" Cyrion eventually snapped. "Stop making a fool of yourself before you get us all killed." His son stilled, yet his face was still contorted in a snarl.
"We are truly grateful for your intervention, Duncan," Valendrian said calmly as he released the younger elf into his father's care. He offered Duncan a look of supplication. "I hope the boy's temper will not change your mind."
"I will not revoke the Right of Conscription," Duncan assured him. He bowed his head slightly to the half dozen guards who were still milling about uncertainly. "This situation is no longer yours to mediate," he told them. "Do not force retaliation from the Gray Wardens." They snapped to attention at Duncan's address and filed out of the Alienage, many of them with clear reluctance.
"I'll talk sense into this stubborn child," the Cyrion said. His son had his gaze fixed on the ground, but his eyes were alight with barely repressed fury.
"I will wait at the gates of the Alienage," Duncan replied cordially. He bowed to the two older men and left for the Market District.
It was a relief to be out of such a dilapidated place. The buildings of the Alienage were worn and rotten, the ground caked with soggy dirt. It smelled like sewage and sickness, and there was evidence of both around almost every corner. The place was also disturbingly quiet, save for the hungry calls of beggars and stray dogs, as though everyone were too frightened to say a word.
All the elves looked ragged and miserable, their heads bowed in defeat and gazes fraught with terror the moment they had noticed a human among them. Only a few young men and women had a spark of defiance in their eyes, and Adaia's son seemed the most tenacious of them all.
Learning of Adaia's death had been an unexpected blow to Duncan. Her unrelenting spirit had made her seem immortal, as though nothing in the world could touch her. Even she could not cheat death, however, as the limitations of a very mortal body spared no one. According to Valendrian, it had been that demanding personality which had gotten her killed. She had refused to submit and allow herself to be taken by guards who wanted nothing more than to crush such an overpowering soul. She had fought until the end, her will unbroken even while her form had been battered and torn beyond repair.
The guards responsible had never been punished afterwards.
It was difficult to accept these realities, but Duncan forced himself to be detached. After all, there was divine providence even in such horror. Adaia's son had the same defiant tilt of the head and confident swagger, the same willpower. If Adaia had been here, she would have fought tooth and nail to keep her son away from Duncan. In her absence, Duncan could take the opportunity to succeed with the son where he had failed the mother.
Denerim was Duncan's last stop before returning to Ostagar for good. He had found his most promising recruit here, and Duncan could only hope that the young man's father and Valendrian could convince him to see reason.
It would be good to have companions again after all this disheartening travel. He had been searching for promising recruits for weeks now, venturing farther and farther from Ostagar for people of skill and honor, but few had caught his eye. The Gray Wardens were not so esteemed as they used to be, so fewer warriors were willing to pledge themselves to a life of solemn duty.
Ser Jory, the knight from Redcliffe, had practically begged Duncan for a place in the order. He wanted, Duncan knew, the reputation of the Gray Wardens, the prestige and respect. Duncan could not feel ashamed for taking advantage of that consuming desire, as the man had proven himself an able fighter.
Daveth, on the other hand, was desperate for any life other than cutting purses for an evening meal. The moment Duncan noticed a touch on his coin pouch, Daveth's fate was decided. Daveth would have lost his hand at minimum for such an infraction, and fear was a good enough reason to fight. Duncan had given him a choice: join the Wardens or face lawful punishment. Daveth had eagerly decided to join and had spent the rest of the journey to Ostagar chortling at his good luck at being caught by a Gray Warden of all people, at how he was now untouchable.
The two were not ideal, perhaps, but they were fighters. All they needed to do, Duncan reminded himself, was survive the Joining. Currently, he was not recruiting for the honor of being a Warden, but rather to swell the ranks of an army that could combat the impending blight. The country needed the desperate, not the best.
While he waited for his third recruit, Duncan ruminated on life's ability to present the unexpected. He found himself wondering if it was a Gray Warden trait—this call of destiny that seemed to follow him as he roamed. No one, perhaps not even the Warden-Commander himself, truly understood the repercussions of the Joining, after all, so Duncan indulged himself with the occasional flight of fancy. His favorite postulation by far was that the Wardens' tainted blood attracted not only darkspawn, but also the eye of the Maker himself. Whether that gaze was approving or not, however, Duncan could never determine.
Perhaps all of this was simply the musings of an aging man who spent far too much time on his own, but, right now, Duncan felt the familiar air of unease that preceded his Maker-given luck.
It took him a moment to locate the source, but he eventually realized that people were slowing down, an abnormality here. Denerim was a busy city, the very picture of impatience. Vendors hawked their wares aggressively at those who passed, but everyone had places to go and no one lingered for long. The clamor and bustle remained at a near-overwhelming intensity during all daylight hours.
This was especially true of the Market District, and yet the passers-by were slowing, craning their necks, some even halting completely just to watch an event in the square. From the gate of the Alienage, Duncan could not see what the fuss was about. He shifted his stance, reminding himself that he had what he came for and that this was nothing to be distracted by, yet he found his feet drawn towards what was now a small flock of onlookers.
As soon as Duncan was near enough, he understood the cause of the disruption. Two templars were posted outside of the Gnawed Noble Tavern, fully armored and armed with backs straight as pikes. Their heavy helmets gave no insight to their thoughts, not even when a crash followed by a shriek rang out from the tavern.
As the loud noises continued for several more seconds, the scene grew almost comical. No one could see inside the building, but it sounded as though various kitchenware was being thrown about. Clattering wood, breaking glass, tumbling pots, and heavy footsteps on polished floors rang out until one of the templars finally turned towards the door. He leaned forward to pull it open.
A resounding clang of heavy oak on metal echoed across the square, made more intense by the utter silence that followed. Just as the templar had been about to reach the handle, the door had shot open and hit the man's armored head with exceptional force.
"...Oh... shit," a voice breathed out.
Duncan craned his head to find that the speaker was a young woman in the tavern's doorway. Her right foot was partially raised off the ground and she was being held tightly by two other templars.
The woman's words seemed to break the spell holding the scene in place. Many in the crowd laughed at the templar's plight until the man himself stepped out from behind the door. He had removed his helm, most likely because of the surprisingly large dent marring its surface, and was glaring murderously at the young woman.
"S-sorry," the woman stammered, her large eyes bugged so far out of her head that they seemed about to fall to the ground. "That was... ehm..." She swallowed hard but then offered the two men holding her a friendly smile. "This has been fun, but I should go," she said simply. "I've got, uh... shopping."
Caught off guard, neither templar reacted when she wrenched her arms from their grips and barreled straight through the templar glowering at her. He tumbled to the ground, unstable in his heavy armor, and the woman dashed off. The other templar guarding the door, however, had the presence of mind to rush forward and snatch the back of her small maroon shawl.
"Enough resistance, mage!" the templar shouted as she hauled the woman back. The accused was a tiny slip of a thing and looked terribly young, so the trained templar easily kept her in place.
"I'm not a"—The woman, still struggling to escape, accidentally choked herself on the collar of her own clothing—"mage!" she finally gasped out. "I'm not a sodding mage, you barren heads of wheat!"
The other two templars had finally regained their senses to help subdue the girl, but the last one was still struggling to his feet, much to the continued amusement of the crowd. The levity dissipated, however, when one of the templars backhanded the young woman across the face.
"You were seen using magic," the templar growled dangerously, "but even if you are innocent of apostasy," something the templar's tone made very clear he did not believe for a second, "you have resisted arrest and have assaulted a templar." He emphasized his last words by leaning very close to the woman's face.
After a pregnant pause, the woman replied in a sulking tone, "It's not my fault he was in the way. If someone got arrested every time they accidentally hit a bloke with a door, then I'm sure all of you would be convicts yourselves."
By now, the fallen templar had staggered to his feet and, in three hasty steps, reached the captured woman. He snatched her from his fellows and held her up by the front clasp of her clothing. Their heights were so disparate that Duncan could see the woman straining to balance on the tips of her toes.
"Assault of a templar is punishable by hanging," he spat, red-faced with anger and most likely a fair amount of embarrassment.
There was another tense silence, and then the young woman slumped. "Well," she mumbled, "that's a stupid way to die."
Before she had even finished speaking, her knee rose up and rammed the man in the groin. Duncan would have assumed the templar to have protection there, but the anguished howl of the quickly crumpling man contradicted that assessment. Free once again, the woman made to flee but was grabbed by the three remaining pairs of gauntleted hands.
"Andraste's reeking chamber pot!" the woman shouted in frustration, wriggling with all her might as the templars tried to keep their grip on her. "I'm not a sodding mage!"
"And now you've assaulted a templar three times," one of them said, her tone strained with effort as though she were trying to lynch a fish rather than hold a tiny girl still.
"It doesn't count if it's the same templar!" the woman yelped.
"Yes, it does," the templar retorted.
"Well... it was self-defense!"
Before the templar could reply, Duncan saw it. One of the girl's gloved hands twitched, her exposed fingers falling as though playing a descending scale. She let her legs stop holding her weight and tumbled to the ground. Duncan was watching the templars, curious as to why they suddenly lost their hold as though the woman were too heavy to keep up. Glancing back to the woman, he again noted the same dancing fingers before she sprang to her feet. The templars tried to halt her, but she slipped from their grasps like a buttered eel.
The sudden but unmistakable scrape of steel caused her to freeze in her tracks. Duncan swore the woman was staring straight at him, but her hazel eyes were glazed and unseeing. Veiled panic rapidly filled their depths.
"Hands up," the previously fallen templar hissed, "and turn around." His voice had seemed cold before, but at least had held anger. Now it was calm, far too calm.
Slowly, cautiously, the woman raised her trembling hands and turned to find a sword tip at her throat. She swallowed audibly.
"As an apostate," the templar continued without emotion, his eyes glittering like gems as he held the woman's gaze, "and having assaulted a templar thrice while resisting legal detainment, the Chantry grants me the authority of immediate execution."
The woman's trembling increased drastically, and Duncan could hear her breath hitch as she tried to hold back tears. Then, she took a deep breath, stood a little taller, and began to move her hand.
"Enough!" Duncan shouted, striding out from the gathered crowd. All four templars turned towards him, and immediate recognition flitted across the one visible face.
"Ser," the templar said gruffly, immediately snapping to attention. His sword arm relaxed slightly, yet his eyes were unyielding, almost threatening. "This is within the jurisdiction of the Templar Order, not of the Wardens."
Duncan nodded once. "Indeed, Gray Wardens are bound by neutrality in all matters," he said diplomatically, "except during a blight." There was a collective gasp from those surrounding, and even the templar began to lower his arm. "As such, I invoke the Right of Conscription." He tilted his head to indicate the woman without looking at her. "This woman is now a recruit for the Gray Wardens. You have no authority to arrest or execute her."
Recruiting two lawbreakers in the same city was a risk, but Duncan was intrigued by this young woman, just as he had been impressed with Adaia's son. The Wardens needed everyone they could get, ruffled feathers be damned, and the impending blight should help them forget that Duncan had circumvented their justice system twice in one day.
The templar opened his mouth and then snapped it shut without speaking. His lips were pressed together so tightly that they were turning white, in stark contrast to the angry red that was taking over his face.
"I see," the man said in a voice more controlled than Duncan would have expected. He turned sharply and sheathed his sword with much more force than necessary, then curled his hands tightly. With a nod, he stepped away and made for the ring of bystanders, who parted to let him pass. The other three templars followed more hesitantly, most likely wanting to argue further, but thankfully did not.
Duncan closed his eyes with a soft sigh before turning to study his newest recruit. She was staring at him, head tilted up so that she could meet his gaze, mouth open wide and eyes wider.
"My name is Duncan," he introduced himself, as the girl did not seem inclined to speak. "I am a Gray Warden." Still no response. "You will be coming with me." Finally, she blinked, but her mouth remained agape. "You will be a Gray Warden as well," Duncan finished.
The woman snapped her mouth closed. She blinked twice more and looked around, where the crowd had already dispersed now that the standoff was over. She turned her head back to Duncan and scratched the side of her nose.
"You're a Gray Warden?" she asked.
"I am," Duncan patiently confirmed. He knew that conscripted recruits often took much time to adjust to their new life.
"So…" She tilted her head to the side, studying him critically. "Where's your griffin?"