This was actually written over a month ago and was published on the Cheeky Monkeys of Dragon Age fanfiction forum. It is republished here by the kind permission of Josie Lange and Shakespira (who've both been very good sports about this!) and I strongly recommend a trawl through their published work on FFnet - you lose half the jokes here if you haven't read their M rated Loghain short pieces. Nods here to Terry Pratchett and Jane Austen (and no prizes for spotting either!). Pure slapstick, and a chance for our favorite reticent Teyrn to finally get his own back...
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man over the age of twenty five is likely to have at least once in his life woken up in a state of complete confusion after a drunken binge, with any or all of the following questions running through his head - what time is it, what day is it, where on earth am I, why have I got a policeman's helmet on my head, where have all my clothes gone, why am I handcuffed to these railings, dear God, what happened last night?
This being the age of gender equality, while the likelihood of this scenario is generally less for a woman over the age of twenty five it is still a possibility, rendered significantly more likely if the woman involved has completed a degree at one of our older universities. Students remain students wherever they are.
However, when two women both awake in a state of undress and the questions running through their heads are I don't remember getting drunk in the first place, where are my clothes, why are my wrists handcuffed and chained to the ceiling, where on earth is this place, what world am I on? Then all one can really say is that the odds are, this is not a hen party that went wrong.
Eyes slide left
Eyes slide right
"Josie?"
"Shakespira?"
"That can't really be you, is it?"
"I was about to ask you that?"
"Where on earth is this?"
"Looks like Fort Drakon. But it can't be. Can it?"
"Of course it can't be. This is a game. I mean Dragon Age is a game. I mean."
"I know what you mean, but..."
Silence as realisation dawns.
Tyanilth. She actually wrote it, didn't she. Oh hell.
Footsteps coming down the hallway. Heavy boots. Plate armour. A man's step. Door opens, behind both. Door closes.
"Well. I cannot say that I ever thought I would have the...pleasure of meeting the pair of you. Still less so under circumstances like this.
Oh, that voice. That voice. If Simon Templeman is the imitation and this is the reality, then Simon does not for an instant do Loghain justice. That voice is deep, and strong, and has a rough edge to it probably gained from bellowing at soldiers over battlefields for decades. A voice as smooth and rich as bittersweet chocolate, and still tinged with that perfect irony.
And the game graphics do not do the man justice. He's older than the artists draw him, there's more grey in that hair, the face has more lines, more scars. None of these detract from what this man is - raw strength, raw power, held tight leashed. And those ice-blue eyes surveying his two captives - the artists got that right at least. But they didn't catch that life in them, that spark like storm light in midwinter. Those eyes must be truly terrifying in anger. At present, they aren't angry. If anything, Loghain looks...amused.
Of course, it isn't hard to look amused when the two people who've caused you a lot of trouble are chained up naked in front of you.
Loghain sets two boxes on the table. Black boxes, roughly the same size. Both appear to be heavy. Both clink as they are set down.
"As both of you probably are very well aware, I rarely interrogate women. It is a task I have always preferred to leave to someone else. But under the circumstances, I thought it might be best if I did carry out this interrogation personally. Though I have to say that if you preferred, Howe and Gregoir did offer to take over for me. They were most - insistent in fact. I can let them do this if you prefer?"
Two frantic shakes of two heads.
"Funnily enough, that was what I thought you were going to say." He turns to the table, looks at both boxes. "Now - which one is Shakespira?"
One nod, wide eyed.
Loghain removes a gag from the box. "Isolde sends you this with her compliments. She wishes to inform you that it is a duplicate of the one you gave to Gregoir for her, and she says you ought to try wearing it for an hour before you inflict anything like that on one of your characters again." Strong hands buckle it into place. "Now, what else do we have in here."
He rummages in the box. He looks seriously puzzled at what is coming out. A roll of saran wrap. A keyboard covered in saran wrap. A collapsible telescope covered in saran wrap. "I'm going to have to have a word with Tyanilth. I have no idea at all what any of this lot is in here for."
But he chuckles as he lifts out the riding crop at the bottom of the box. "Ah, this was what I was looking for. " He sets it down on the table directly in the eye view of both of his prisoners. "Now. Shakespira. I could forgive you for Joss and Teagan. I perhaps, in time could forgive you Isolde. There's even a possibility that I might eventually forgive you for Gregoir. But you destroyed any chance of mercy when you chose to finish that episode by shipping me off to Orlais. You must have laughed and laughed at that one." He raises his eyebrows. "But, the boot is on the other foot now, isn't it?"
Another silent, wide eyed nod. Given the gag, it's a little difficult to respond in any other way.
Loghain's attention turns to his other captive. "But Shakespira's offences pale into insignificance, frankly, Josie, when I consider the trouble you've put me through."
The second captive quivers.
Loghain lifts a bottle out of the second box, and pours about three fingers of the clear amber fluid it contains into a glass. The glass is wafted under Josie's nose. "Does that remind you of anything?"
Head shakes
"Taste it"
Josie chokes down a swallow of the spirit. Eyes raise at the taste.
Loghain takes a gulp from the glass. "That, Josie, is Antivan brandy. And no matter how good the Antivan brandy is, you had managed to feed me enough of it by the end of your first effort that I agreed to a threesome with that whiny brat Jowan, and had to burn a perfectly good desk as a result. I might forgive you eventually for the threesome. But I liked that desk."
He looks in the box and extracts a square of coarse fabric. "Do you know what this is?"
Head shakes
"This, Josie, is the last remains of what was once a perfectly good tent. Which I also had to burn because of what you made me do inside it. And who you made me do inside it. Wynne of all people. Not to mention a memory of Howe that is going to be seared into my brain until my dying day."
He wads the canvas into a roll, pours some of the brandy over it. Drinks the rest of the glass in one long gulp. Then gags Josie with the brandy soaked cloth.
"Now, while I have your full attention, and neither of you can answer back, let me make something quite clear to both of you."
He indeed has a captive audience. In every sense of the word. He wanders behind both captives and trails strong hands down their bare backs. Two shudders. The caresses become more intimate. He raises an eyebrow. "It couldn't be that the pair of you are...enjoying this, could it? Dear, dear." Then he is back by the table and regarding both sternly.
"I have no way of controlling what your twisted little imaginations come up with. And I would not even attempt to try. But..." and he punctuates the word by slamming his hand down on the table. "I intend to leave you both with a memory that you are going to find just as hard to shake as the ones you have inflicted on me."
He indicates the door. "I am going to release you from those cuffs. You are going to accompany me to the room next door. And the pair of you are going to show me exactly what you can do with those twisted imaginations to make this whole thing up to me. And you had better both make it good. Really good. Alternatively, I can leave you exactly where you are and call Wynne, Gregoir, Howe and Isolde in to settle the score. Is that what you would prefer?"
Two frantic headshakes.
He chuckles. "Somehow, I had a feeling that was what you were going to say."
Two sets of cuffs are unbuckled. The gags are left in place. He indicates the door with mock courtesy. "After you, ladies."
As they precede him into the adjoining bedroom, two minds have but a single thought.
Tomorrow, Tyanilth dies. But today...we get to make the most of this first.