165 – Hopeful

Shianni hadn't exaggerated; Drystan's bride was lovely. Her features were delicate, finely crafted and perfectly symmetrical, but her smile was crooked, tilting upwards slightly higher on the left side and bracketed by a charming little dimple. Hands on her slim hips, she studied him from top to toe, her eyes lingering in places that made him blush.

"Do you like what you see?" Drystan asked, hiding his embarrassment behind sarcasm.

"I believe I do." Nessiara spun in a circle, skirts flaring to reveal dainty feet and slim ankles. "And you?" she asked, breathless and laughing, one hand held out in invitation.

It only took him seconds to make up his mind. A wife like that, who had a smile full of mischief and good humor, who was bold and teasing, who appreciated his lean waist and muscled arms—a wife like that would bring him much more happiness than the Grey Wardens ever could.

He took her hand and held it between both of his, turning it over so that he could explore her scarred, calloused palm. Despite the long fingers and the clean nails, this was the hand of someone who worked hard every day of her life. But when he looked up into her bright green eyes, Drystan saw only joy. And he found it impossible to resist. "I think we will be very happy together."


77 – Leaving

The Hahren's house was the finest dwelling in the alienage: it had four walls and a watertight roof, and fresh, herb-scented straw spread out across the floor. The furnishings were plain: shelves, a few stools grouped around a carved table, and a low bench in front of the hearth, where glowing coals lay buried beneath a mound of fine gray ash. Everything was clean and well-kept, though shiny with age and wax polish. It was small and homey; a place of safety, where any elf could find comfort and counsel.

But Drystan saw through the lie. There was no protection to be had for him here.

"I'm leaving the city," he announced, his voice hoarse, throat raw from screaming curses and wordless battle cries. "I need your help to get to Ostagar."

He knew he was being selfish and reckless, that his flight guaranteed someone else's death. If the guards did not find him they would simply pick another random elf out of the crowd and execute him for Drystan's crimes. They might pick several someones, because how could one elf possibly kill half a dozen guardsmen and four noblemen, Ferelden's natural born leaders? Never mind that the bastards were drunk and drugged, their pants hanging around their ankles as they fought over the corpse of his betrothed and flipped a coin to see who would get to rape Shianni first. It had been ridiculously easy to gut them like the pigs they were, even when armed with the most pathetic dagger he had ever scrounged, rusted iron held together with leather strips.

Drystan had achieved his revenge, and now the alienage would pay for it. There would be restrictions, which would lead to riots, which would be ruthlessly repressed with blades and blood and fire. It would be a massacre, and the senseless deaths of all those faceless elves would be his fault.

He couldn't bring himself to care.


007 – Purpose

The King and his cavalry had departed Denerim the morning of Drystan's ill-fated wedding. It was a glorious spectacle: armored men on horseback, bright banners rippling in the breeze as they galloped down the road towards Ostagar. A day later, following at a much more sedate pace, one hundred wagons pulled by slow, disinterested mules trudged out of the city, accompanied by scores of clerks and servants and foot soldiers, the essential but rather boring backbone of His Majesty's forces. With the help of his grandmother's cousin's daughter, Valendrian was able to find a position for Drystan, and the fugitive elf disappeared into the barely controlled chaos of the army.

It seemed impossible to Drystan that he could move so freely amongst these people without anyone recognizing him as a wanted criminal, but his pointed ears and plain tunic were an effective disguise. He was just another anonymous servant, utterly beneath the notice of his so-called "betters". At their behest, he fetched and carried and washed and folded and skinned and stirred and sharpened and shined. Whenever he had the chance, he observed the training drills and listened to the soldiers' gossip and studied the maps that the lords scattered so carelessly about their tents, taking special note of the marks that indicated the possible presence of a Dalish camp. It was nice to have options, but Drystan had already made up his mind. He was tired of being invisible.

Seven days after his escape from Denerim, he made his way to the Wardens' campfire and volunteered to join their order.