Chapter One: As Luck Would Have It
Duncan stood on the precipice of the cliff just beyond the Kocari Wilds, sword in hand. A Hurlock gurgled at his feet.
He frowned— then stabbed it through the throat and kicked it over the edge. The body tumbled far below, plummeting into the mist. Beneath him spread a wild woodland and swamp, swathed in a murky haze as red as a burning fire and misting a fog so green it looked like poison.
Dark times indeed were falling across Ferelden.
"Duncan."
He turned.
A young man climbed the hill, bearing a sword and shield, and looking vaguely as if he were nursing a growing migraine. He dressed lightly in the same splintmail he'd been wearing for the past three years— ever since Duncan bought it off a merchant in Redcliff as a gift for joining the Wardens.
Though honestly, Duncan was beginning to regret it. The boy never washed the thing willingly. His stench alone could fell even the greatest of the darkspawn. Not a compliment by any means, yet when Duncan brought it up at a conversation two weeks ago it wound up like this:
"Isn't that a good thing? Imagine how high my kill-count would be."
"No, Alistair. Your kill-count would include our allies, as well as much of the land and its surrounding inhabitants."
"Maybe we should all smell then. That way no one dies."
"Alistair— everything will die."
In the end, Alistair did not wash his armor and Duncan continued to suffer for his act of kindness. He had since then stopped buying gifts for the recruits.
"Duncan," Alistair repeated as he drew near, looking as though he'd aged about a hundred thousand years, give or take. "You left me behind. You left me behind with them."
Duncan raised his brows. "You mean the other recruits?"
"Ser Jory's fine enough. It's Daveth. Duncan, he tried robbing me in the middle of battle. I almost got my head taken off by a darkspawn!"
"I thought I told you two to keep horseplay down to a minimum while we're out here. It's far too dangerous to be playing games in the Wilds."
Alistair's face first turned bright pink and then red. "Playing games?" he sputtered. "Tell that to him! I'm the victim here you know."
Duncan eyed him for a brief moment before turning his gaze back down over the cliff. "We are all victims in this Blight."
"What," Alistair deadpanned.
Duncan swiveled his eyes back towards his youngest Warden, as if nothing had been said between them at all. "The situation grows more dire. I fear we may not have enough Wardens at our disposal to fight against the Blight."
Alistair cocked his head. "I thought the Orlesian Wardens were on their way."
"Though the King strongly desires their aid, Loghain continually refuses at Cailan's attempts to send word for help."
"Typical," Alistair scoffed.
Duncan reached into the folds of his armored robes. "Yes well it poses a bit of a problem to us. Undermanned, I do not believe we have the might to stand against all the Blight threatens to bring. To that end, I believe we should see about recruiting others into our Order."
"What? Do we even have the time?" Alistair wondered.
"We will have to make the time," Duncan replied grimly. "Still, Ferelden is large enough that I cannot do it on my own." He handed over several parchment maps and notes to Alistair. "I would ask that you travel to Denerim and the Eastern Forests. Go to the Alienage and Dalish Clan respectively, and see about finding those mentioned in the notes."
"The Dalish? They're practically hidden from the world!" Alistair exclaimed. "How am I supposed to find them?"
Duncan smiled. "Trust in yourself and have faith."
That's completely useless advice, Alistair thought blankly, though aloud he simply asked, "What will you be doing?"
"I will seek potentials out from the Circle of Magi and the dwarves."
"Mmh." Alistair furrowed his brows, looking at the papers he was given. Figures Duncan wouldn't want to send him to the Circle. Though his templar training was a thing of the past. It wasn't like he was just going to slaughter every mage he saw...
Around this time, Ser Jory and Daveth finally caught up to them from the opposite hill, covered in as much blood and grime as Duncan and Alistair.
Daveth immediately took to looting the corpses of any human or darkspawn nearby while Ser Jory went incredible pale in the face and began muttering prayers for his own survival. Alistair ignored Ser Jory for the moment, shaking his head at the antics of their thieving recruit.
"I still don't get what you see in him," Alistair muttered.
"Daveth is a man with merit, Alistair, as you'll one day come to see," Duncan lightly chided.
"He robbed you."
"Which of us still has his purse in the end?"
Alistair stared at his mentor. "Daveth. He took it off you this morning."
Duncan paused for a second before something like resignation fell across his features. "He is a quick one. Nevertheless, finding new potentials is the priority here. I will see to matters of my wallet and coin in due time."
"I guess. If you say so—" Alistair stopped mid-sentence as something odd occurred to him. "Hold on. You…want me to go by myself?" he questioned slowly.
Duncan chuckled. "Of course not. You can bring Daveth along with you," he said, as if bestowing the greatest of honors upon his youngest Warden.
"On second thought— nevermind!" Alistair quickly replied, trying to convey all of his earnest desperation to his mentor through his eyes. "I love traveling alone. Did I ever tell you how much I love wandering across the country by myself?" Don't do this to me Duncan. Don't send me on a trip with Daveth. Please, if there's anything in you that's kind and merciful—
"I think it would be best you were accompanied," Duncan answered, warmth in his eyes. "Besides, I'll be taking Jory along with me. We can't just leave our two recruits by themselves."
"Why not?" Alistair questioned, a feverish look on his face. "Can't we send them back to the camp?"
"To twiddle their thumbs?" Duncan chuckled again. "I fear what trouble they'll get into if left to their own devices. Best we nurture them a bit before throwing them in with the other Wardens, wouldn't you agree?"
"You're talking about Daveth, aren't you? You're clearly talking about Daveth, right?"
"Don't worry. You have nothing to be afraid of," Duncan reassured him. "Daveth is quite competent."
Vaguely in the distance came a warbled scream as the man in question tripped over a darkspawn corpse and consequently down the cliff. Alistair stared in that direction over Duncan's shoulder for the longest time, then dragged his gaze back to the older man.
"…Please don't do this to me."
"Well, I'll leave you two to your task." Duncan said, seemingly oblivious. He calmly wiped darkspawn blood off his sword before sheathing it at his waist, apparently not seeing or hearing the shouts of Ser Jory or Daveth as they struggled to re-climb the cliffside.
"Take care of your charge. Recruits are hard to find these days, as I'm sure you're no doubt aware, so make sure neither of you meet an early death. It would do us little good in our fight against the darkspawn."
Alistair frowned. "But I—" His shoulders dropped. He sighed. "Fine. I'll…do my best."
"Excellent. There is much to do. Try your best to return to Ostagar in three weeks' time. King Cailan continues to gather forces for in preparation for the long battle ahead. We shouldn't dally."
"Yes Duncan."
"Hopefully we shall meet one another back at camp with a good handful of recruits each," Duncan said. Alistair merely sighed again and nodded, holding his tongue short of any smart comment winding up his throat.
xxx
Twenty minutes later Duncan managed to haul Daveth and Ser Jory up the cliff and then proceeded to head his separate way from Alistair. Alistair watched his mentor leave with the knight, watched until the pair were a speck of dust on the Wilds horizon— until it was much too late to run after them and beg for a change in traveling partners.
A hand clapped him on the back.
"Why the long face, chump?" Daveth chuckled. "The world hasn't ended yet you know."
Alistair gloomily looked down at the maps Duncan handed him. "Hasn't it?" he muttered. Feeling Daveth's confused but still ridiculously amused gaze on him, Alistair straightened up and squared his shoulders.
Right. He couldn't forget himself.
Duncan trusted him enough to task him with such important work. He had to do his best— and show Daveth who the senior Warden was (even if Daveth was older in age).
"Let's get going. We've got a lot to do," he announced in the strictest voice he could. Daveth cocked a brow.
"What's with you? You gotta take a dump or something?"
"Wha- I— no!"
"Oh? Your voice went all weird for a sec. Like you were stuffed— if ya know what I mean."
Alistair resisted the urge to start crying. "Can we— can we just…go?"
"Hey, I'm following you," Daveth snorted, before proceeding to walk off in a presumed direction.
Alistair looked after him, feeling something similar to his life force being sucked away with each passing second.
"Maker's Breath— You're going the wrong way!"
A/N: There it is. Chapter One. I'm mostly writing this for the sake of fun and because of my undying love for the first Dragon Age game. I've played it enough times (like 50) to be a little bendy with the timeline and story, I think haha.
At any rate, we'll see how and where it goes. Trust me when I say this isn't going to be your typical Warden story.