Stray and Enchanted
Chapter 1
Alistair had remained impassive as Loghain was brought to his knees, Elissa's sword resting on his shoulder. He had bit his tongue as she had not immediately dealt the killing blow, her usually steady hands faltering as the senior Grey Warden, Riordan, called for her to cease.
Alistair could not, however, remain voiceless as Riordan tarnished everything he had ever believed in. He could not stand by as the woman he loved considered welcoming Duncan's murderer into their order as their brother.
"Anyone with the skill and mettle to take up the sword against the darkspawn is welcome amongst us," Riordan had issued pointedly.
Alistair would have no part in it.
He'd said as such, his eyes pleading with Elissa as he reminded her of the numerous evils Loghain had committed. He reminded her of Duncan's death, reminded her that Loghain had forsworn their very order; hunting them across the far reaches of Ferelden. Were their positions reversed, Loghain would not have offered them any mercy.
Elissa had heard him out silently, but her blue eyes had been steely with resolute determination. She had made up her mind and nobody, not even he, could sway her.
She had agreed to Riordan's terms, removing her blade from the kneeling Teyrn's shoulder. She had cast him one final look of rueful pain before turning back to Riordan and Duncan's murderer with hollow eyes.
And so Alistair had left.
That had been the last time he had laid eyes upon the only woman he had ever loved. The last time he'd seen the man who had destroyed everything he had ever held dear.
Without him they became the saviours of Ferelden. Without him they became heroes.
They became heroes as he wandered; a shell of the valiant man he had once been. He wandered, alone in his hatred and self-pity.
.. .. ..
Nayla straightened her back with a sigh, flexing her shoulders to ease her cramped muscles. She tossed the soapy bar rag into the water pail and glanced around the near empty inn.
The Yellow Wyvern was quiet this warm night. The few usual patrons of the tavern were present, but the hustle and bustle that should have taken place after a long day of work was not. It came as no shock to Nayla. Those that had the money had travelled to Denerim, jubilant with dreams of seeing the noble hero of Ferelden with their own eyes.
Nayla had scarcely managed to keep up to date with the progress and state of her country, the time between traders and merchants growing from weeks into months. She had found herself wondering, on more than one occasion, how long it would take for her remote town to realise if the country had in fact fallen to the darkspawn. Eventually, however, heralds and hawk carriers spread the news to the far reaches of Ferelden, telling of the killing of the Archdemon at the hands of the final two Grey Wardens; Elissa Cousland, and their town's Teyrn; Loghain Mac Tir.
It was odd, us such, that a stranger sat amidst the sparse regulars this quiet night. With but a glance, Nayla knew that this haggard man did not belong amongst the loggers and fishermen of Gwaren. Whilst it was true that his hands were rough and his shoulders strong, his hooded cloak and the tell tale bulk of hidden weapons pinned him as an outsider. He did not bear the insignia of the yellow wyvern, which would have marked him as one of the town's guardsmen, bringing Nayla to wonder at his elaborate state of arms.
He'd yet to order anything from the bar; choosing to quietly sit atop one of the splintered old stools at the end of the long narrow bench. Others sat in groups, three loggers occupying the far corner with a round of ale, and two fishermen from the docks enjoying some warm stew at one of the tavern's tables.
Nayla had occupied her hands with the cleaning of some freshly lacquered oak mugs, the dry towel so grey with dirt that it almost negated the well meant notion. It was as she cleaned that the lone man motioned to her with an upraised hand, as silent as he had been the moment he'd walked in. She made no step closer at his beckon, nonchalantly continuing her cleaning.
"Some ale?" she queried of him with a raised brow.
She watched him from beneath the barrier of brown hair that had fallen before her eyes. He said nothing in reply, merely nodding as he held up two fingers.
Throwing aside the towel, Nayla emptied the warm ale into two newly cleaned mugs from the barrel behind the bench top. Biting at her bottom lip she carried the ale to him with trained hands, heavily placing them on the chipped counter before him.
He grunted in an ill-attempt at manners, reaching for the first of the two from beneath the folds of his great cloak.
Nayla lent against the bar, unconsciously pulled her long matted hair behind the visibly pointed tips of her elven ears, openly trying to distinguish anything beyond the shadows of the hood. Bloodshot eyes, pale skin, and an unruly blonde beard were all that she could clearly make out.
He ignored her probing stare, downing half the contents of the mug in one pull. He made no move the wipe the liquid that had escaped the corners of his lips onto his beard.
Nayla had worked at the bar for the majority of her life, receiving no days of leave or weekends for rest. She worked for her food and a roof over her head. Such experience had left her able to seize up customers fairly suitably. The trait had allowed her to know when it was time to encourage an increasingly drunk patron to head home, or to know the likely candidates that would seek to cause trouble enhanced by the liquid courage that she served. The quality also allowed her to pin point those that did, and those that did not, have the money to pay for what they drank.
This man did not.
He forcefully placed the mug back atop the bar, the dry oak soaking up most of the spilt ale upon his ungainly placement. He dragged his backhand across his chin, half-heartedly whipping aside residue of the ale that had begun to drip from his beard down his front.
Nayla extended her hand when he reached for the mug next. Her slender fingers wrapped around his wrist, disallowing him from continuing his drink.
"You got some coins for that, stranger?" she probed. "This ain't a charity. Four copper bits, even."
Sighing, he reached for his person, his arms falling behind the counter of the bar. When they appeared next they were not grasping coins as Nayla had silently hoped, but the metallic white and blue plated gauntlet that had previously armed his left forearm. He dropped it atop the counter, silently returning to his ale and downing the last of it.
She picked up the armour with both hands; the item lighter than it appeared, appraising it with unqualified eyes. Shaking her head ruefully, Nayla reached with her free hand for the second mug, pulling it back across the counter and out of his range.
"Look," she started in exasperation. "Maybe I didn't make myself clear enough. This here ain't a pawn shop, just as sure as it ain't a charity. It's a business, and if I don't make budget, I don't get dinner. No money, no alcohol. Savvy?"
He made no motion to reach for a hidden coin purse, nor did he reclaim his armour. He simply issued a dry chuckle, the mere effort sending him swaying on his stool. The telltale rock told Nayla that he'd been drinking well before stumbling into this tavern. He'd probably already been thrown out of the Bronze down near the docks, she readily deduced.
"Bold for an elf," he muttered.
Nayla had been momentarily shocked by how young the voice was. Barely an adult, she assumed.
She did not, however, have time to retort in reply to such a comment, the large tavern owner choosing then to make an appearance from behind her. The door that led to his home establishment, which had been built onto the tavern itself, clicked shut behind him.
He was human, William, and large even by their standards. He had founded the tavern before Nayla had been born, the man's age showing in the white highlights of his beard, the spots of his aging skin, and the recent forming of his rather round belly, long ago having lost the activeness of youth.
"Stop talking and get back to work, elf," he barked.
Whilst the man meant well, he had never come to fully accept Nayla, something she had come to expect and had grown quite accustomed to. Such was the life of an elf, a second-class citizen in Ferelden. He made her disposability to both him and the running of the tavern known, each elf being the same as the last. Despite all this, however, he had yet to throw her out.
Nayla knew this had less to do with any feelings of responsibility on his behalf, and more to do with his wife. Whilst William may well be the head that regulated all that transpired beneath the roof of the Yellow Wyvern, his wife was the neck that silently controlled which way he turned.
The older woman, Elaine, cared on some level for Nayla. She had always ensured that Nayla had food to fill her belly, clothes to hold her warmth, and a roof to keep her dry as long as she worked for her keep. The reasons for having initially taken an interest in the orphaned beggar girl all those years ago remained unforseen to the elf, however.
"Would if I could," Nayla replied, her eyes downcast, "but this guy 'ere won't pay for his share of ale with standard Ferelden currency."
William's dark eyes fell on that of the stranger, his expression stern. Nayla stepped back, unconsciously grasping the gauntlet tightly in a two-handed grip. The metal was cool to the touch and the craftsmanship was smooth, but rust and grime was building amongst the crevices and fissures of the armour due to a considerable lack of care.
"The gauntlet is made of Silverite; it will fetch you a hefty sum on any market," the man offered flatly, "My drink?"
Sighing, William approached Nayla, relieving her of her burden. He studied the piece of armour momentarily before chuckling, a foreign sound to Nayla's tipped ears.
"Well, I'll be damned," he muttered under his breath.
When next he looked up, William's yellowed teeth were glistening in the low candlelight of the tavern, his lips pulled back in a smile.
"Give 'im what he wants, elf," he issued, "and then get back to work, this place looks like a sty."
"Right," Nayla replied through a sigh.
Chuckling and enwrapped in the visage of the armour in his hands, William left back through the door to his home, disregarding his reason for having initially entered the tavern main.
Once the door was firmly shut and the sound of a latch falling into place clicked, Nayla pushed the mug back into the man's awaiting hands.
"Make the most of it, stranger," she started. "He's not going to be in a giving mood like that again. Not unless you reveal that you can crap gold too. I'll set you up a room when you're ready."
With a tilt of his head, he silently knocked back the contents of his mug in one guzzle, finishing with a hearty belch. Slamming down the empty mug he sighed, his steady sway increasingly evident.
"Just keep them coming," he issued flatly.
Retrieving the mugs and refilling each, she returned to him with a ruthful shake of her head.
"Just try not to vomit on the bar, you hear? It takes an age to rinse out the stench," Nayla warned him.
She left him to his ale, topping up the last of the patron's mugs without further hassle, and went about cleaning the leavings of those that had already come and gone. It was only when he was the last person left that she again paid him any extra attention.
He sat in a ring of empty mugs, his head resting atop the bar, cushioned by his arms. His hood had fallen from his head at some point, but the majority of his face was still hidden by his folded forearms.
Nayla cleaned away the last of his mugs, his form all the while unmoving as she worked about him. It was only when the tavern was locked up and all was quiet that she dared to breathe a sigh of relief.
It was with strained muscles and heavy lids that Nayla approached the stranger, resting a hand on his arm.
"Come on, Shem," she urged. "I'm sure you'd rather a bed than a rickety old stool, ey?"
He moaned, looking up from his folded arms with unfocused brown eyes. His cheeks were tainted with a pink hue from the alcohol consumption, and his blonde beard was damp from the ale. But, through the dirt and sweat that made his shaggy hair stick to his forehead, Nayla knew that this man, with forgotten creases from a lifetime of laughing, had once been handsome. His abuse of liquors had aged him beyond his years; the man, on very close inspection, looking to be merely in his mid twenties.
"What? 'Lissa?" he slurred groggily.
His eyes were still hazy, as if he were still trapped in the dreamscape Fade.
Nayla's humourless chuckle seemed to awaken him fully, it taking only a moment for his eyes to finally focus on her own; eventual recognition settling in. Groaning, a large calloused hand went to his forehead to wipe aside the dirty sweat that had settled there with an equally unclean palm.
"It's you," he said blearily, a hint of frustration underlying his tone.
"Yep; me," the elf replied, rolling her light hazel eyes. "Though, I do prefer Nayla."
He said nothing more, his lids finally drooping closed before his head fell back atop the bar. A dull thud resounded within the tavern. Nayla instinctively cringed at the sound despite the man showing no outward recognition of pain.
Nayla sighed heavily, wanting nothing more than to go to her room and sleep through what remained of the night. It was not often that she got a tavern room for herself, sometimes having to settle for the hay bails that were piled beneath the cover of the horse stalls. Only now, there being so few patrons that weren't locals visiting the Yellow Wyvern, were there rooms to spare.
Determination clear in her eyes, Nayla curled her fingers around his upper left arm. She pushed with all of her might, the bulk of the man great. He murmured in reply to her effort, unconsciously shrugging her off without any exertion on his behalf.
Hands on her hips, she felt any lingering patience she had leaving her.
"Come on, Shem," she issued, "You cannot stay here. William'll have my hide if he knows I've let a drunkard like you sleep within arms length of his drinks."
He grunted in reply, groggily lifting himself from the stool in one jerky motion. He halted for a moment; an attempt at regaining his balance and orientation of the world.
With a steadying hand, Nayla ushered him to the flight of stairs leading up to the tavern's rooms. He dragged his feet and had to stop often to steady himself, slowing the process. Nayla, barely half of his size in both directions, followed from his side, her hand merely steadying him as they advanced up the staircase.
"It's odd that you're all the way down here in Gwaren," Nayla commented. "You're missing out on the coronation of Anora, the presentation of the new hero of Ferelden, and the funeral of our town's very own Teyrn; Loghain Mac Tir."
The observation was more for her ears than for the barely conscious mans own, filling in the eerie silence with her own inquisitive speculations. He made no attempt to quench her curiosity.
The stranger, without warning, halted his already slow progression up the stairs. Silently, he heaved forwards, retching all of his previously consumed ale. The acidic fumes of the clear liquid caused Nayla's eyes to burn as she gripped the man's arm in a tight, yet reassuring, hold.
"Who am I to talk?" she muttered with a dry chuckle. "You've got your own one man party going on right here. Denerim will be jealous."
He did nothing to wipe the remains of his stomach's uprising from his beard, merely continuing up the remainder of the stairs, as silent as he had been before. Once the stairs had been braved, she ushered him to the first door, unlocking it with her own master key.
The room within was dark, the only light coming from the torches that hung in the steel brackets along the hallway's walls. It was plain; complete with an empty chest placed at the foot of a small mattress stuffed with hay from the stables, a deceivingly comfortable home made pillow filled with old down, and an itchy flea-ridden cotton blanket with more stains than Nayla could count.
"You've been ripped off for that bracer of yours, if you ask me, Shem," she said, somewhat apologetically, through a chuckle.
His voice was as sudden as it was deep, causing Nayla to give a small jolt.
"If you call me Shem, does that mean I get to call you knife-ears?"
It was not only the suddenness of his comment that took Nayla by surprise, but his unexpected words had rung with newfound clarity. Maybe that purging of alcohol on the stairs did him good, she found herself thinking.
His opinion of her double standard left Nayla smirking.
"Then give me a name to go by, Shem, and I'll use it," she offered, "Deal?"
He chuckled, the sound quickly turning into a hacking cough that made his whole body shudder. Nayla encouraged him into the room, her hand still steady on his arm. They were by the bedside when his fit of coughing ceased, silence falling about them once more.
"Al," he offered suddenly, his voice wavering. "I'm Alistair."
Reviews are always greatly appreciated.
I hope you enjoyed thefirst chapter of many. I've pre-written them all this time, so I won't get bored a few chapters in like I usually do.