The innkeeper dropped his tray with a discordant clatter. Tankards rolled beneath the tables and several plates shattered into a dozen angular shards against the flagstones. The rest of the tavern was frozen: a tableaux in an Orlesian setpiece drama. Even the hearthflame seemed to writhe more slowly in the grate. The three men crowded in the doorway, were shadowed by three more at their back; each one clad in the distinctive, dark livery of the teyrn. Their unsheathed blades were held before them; the aggressive jut of steel at odds with the sedentary ebb of the tavern.
Before them stood a woman who had cloaked - and carried - herself as though she were old; but this had been a lie along with the perception of her frailty. Yet, there was still contradiction in her appearance. She was clad in the humble, roughspun garb of a lay sister, the Makerdawn embroidered proud across her breast. The pungent odour of Chantry incense rolled from her flesh, as though she had daubed it on her neck and wrists like lady's scent. A string of prayer beads were looped around her wrist; the wrist currently elevated in support of a curved length of yew. The other hand was drawn back to an exposed ear, an arrow nocked in the bowstring. The jagged tip was no more than three feet from the first man's face.
"What the fuck are you," said the first man at last, doubt and incredulity strewn across the coarse landscape of his face. "Some sort of - "
The arrow cut through the air with a snap. It thrust the man backwards with the force of its impact, pinning him back against the door by the ear. The man let out a grunt of shock, eyes rolling in confusion. Then came the pain; a contorted writhe and frantic clawing.
"That's no way to speak to a lady, " sang the woman, her bright, wintersky eyes stinging. "But it's clear to me that you are no gentlemen. Now, will you stand down or will you taste the loving wrath of the Maker?"
The rest of the tavern was still frozen in shock, though the innkeeper and his boggle-eyed wife had made a hasty retreat behind the bar. Mac Tir's men gauged the odds: five of them still standing, armed and at close range, versus one deranged, bow-wielding priestess. Deciding that the balance was in their favour, the first two began an erratic lunge.
The attempted charge ended abruptly as a wooden bench hit them square in the face. Instantly there was a sickening crunch of flesh and bone. Both men staggered backwards and went tumbling out of sight, along with the unexpected missile. Alistair, who had left his sword in the bedchamber, had been forced to improvise with furniture. He had hurled the bench that he and Flora had been sitting on nearly fifteen feet across the tavern; striking true.
With one man still fixed to the door and two groaning on the ground, there were three would-be assassins left standing. The woman swiftly nocked another arrow - she had not flinched as the bench hurtled past - and aimed it directly at the face before her.
"What will you?" she asked, and her voice had the lilting, melodic cadence of the west. "If you run, I may shoot and if the Maker wishes you to live, He will direct my arrow to miss."
One man turned and, with a gibber of fright, began to stumble across the square. Two women, on their way to the market with baskets under their arm, startled in alarm. When an arrow planted itself between his shoulder blades with a solid thump, and he fell face-first onto the dirt, one of them let out a little shriek.
"The Maker chose penance ," the woman breathed, her eyes alight with devotion. "And I am but the humble tool of His will. Pray with me for his soul!"
She dropped to her knees, the bow lowered to the floorboards beside her. Her eyes closed tightly, her hands moved in a flowing, circular gesture, and she began to murmur under her breath. The two remaining assassins were at an utter loss for what to do - their leader was still pinned to the door, moaning. Such was the force of the strange woman's will that they both sunk to their knees and closed their eyes.
The innkeeper and his wife took one look over the top of the bar, then hastily ducked out of view. The distant sound of the market filtered in through the doorway; the prosaic rumble of barrels unloaded and muffled chatter seemed at odds with the strangeness of the scene inside the tavern. Blood from the man's punctured ear was trickling in steady rivulets down the wood; two converged as they reached the ground. The other patrons were still sitting motionless in their seats, astonished and strangely fascinated; as though they were watching the performance of some peculiar play.
Alistair dug an urgent elbow into Flora, who was standing open-mouthed at his side.
"Flo," he hissed down at the top of her head, which was all he could reach in the circumstances. "Flora, let's go; let's just get our stuff and get out of here. The woman's insane."
Flora nodded rapidly, her eyes round as silver coins.
Before they could make a move towards the stairs, the priestess rose to her feet in a fluid, seamless motion. The remaining men, stunned at the abrupt reversal of their fortunes, tugged their leader from the door - he let out a howl - and stumbled away; abandoning their companions slumped senseless beside the toppled bench. The two young recruits froze in their tracks as a long, slender and surprisingly callused finger (for a priestess) angled itself towards them.
"Grey Wardens."
The woman turned to face them, giving them their first full view of her since the dramatic decloaking. The Chantry robe could not hide the long, hard body of a racing hound; the arms, swathed in prayer beads, were sinewy and muscular. She was twenty five, or perhaps as old as thirty. Her hair was a bright, autumnal copper and shorn to functional length; a watchful, austere face alight with intensity. Her eyes, in contrast to the angular sharpness of her body, were a soft and beautiful blue.
"And she's Orlesian," Alistair added, even more alarmed. "Maker's Breath! Are you ready with your shield? She's coming this way."
"Um," replied his sister-warden, looking entirely unprepared.
The woman moved with the fluid assurance of a creature in its own territory. She came to a halt before them, the yew bow slung over her shoulder like a recalcitrant child. There was a splatter of blood across the Makerdawn embroidered on her chest.
"Wardens," she said once again, and her voice was rich and mellifluous. "I am very glad to meet you. Do you know who I am?"
There was no arrogance in the query, just a mild curiosity.
"Yes," breathed Flora. "Queen Anora."
The stranger appeared slightly wrong-footed.
"Come to avenge your dead husband!" Flora said, deciding that she would not mention how Cailan had once undone her shirt buttons. "By joining us and defeating the Darkspawn!"
Despite the fact that they now had indisputable proof that Mac Tir was set on hunting them down, Alistair wanted to laugh. Instead of correcting her, he remained silent.
"I am not the queen," said the woman, then let out a laugh that sounded like the tinkling of bells. "Certainement, there is nothing royal about me."
Flora frowned, looking about her as though Anora might have been crouching behind the freestanding kegs.
"I don't know why she ain't here," she said, more to herself than those around her. "If my husband got killed before he could defeat the Darkspawn, I'd come and finish the job."
The young mage returned her attention to Leliana. The rest of the tavern was slowly returning to normalcy: the innkeeper crept out from behind the bar, the yawning elf resumed his drinking. The innkeeper's wife, in a practised motion, rolled the two unconscious men from the doorway into the gutter outside. She tugged loose the arrow from the frame and wiped away the smear of blood with her apron, tutting.
"My name is Leliana," said the woman, as smoothly as if she were introducing herself at a society gathering. "I am a lay sister of the Chantry. It is wonderful to meet you both."
"Not like any lay sister I've ever met," muttered Alistair, barely moving his mouth.
"'Sister Leliana finds you'," Flora said, repeating the innkeeper's earlier warning. "Thank you for paying for our room. And for our dinner."
The woman bowed her head, spreading her long-fingered hands in a my pleasure gesture. Alistair inhaled the incense daubed generously on her skin, eyed the prayer beads around her wrists and a wave of apprehension rolled up from his belly. Out of the two recruits, he had had far more exposure to the Chantry than his sister-warden. He had heard - many times - their warnings about mages, their lectures on the dangers of magic and the deceitful nature of the spirits that they consorted with. Templars-in-training were taught that those who drew power from the Fade were unnatural; aberrations of the Maker's will who needed to be suppressed at all costs, and by any means. The chief role of the Templar was to protect the population from such dangerous creatures. Alistair had not always paid attention to such dire warnings - he had not been the most devoted of novices - but he had absorbed enough prejudice through the skin to be wary of Flora when they first met. He had built a barrier between their bedrolls and denounced her magic as weird; he had watched her coolly from the tail of a narrowed eye. He had lingered outside Duncan's tent each time that she mended him; ready to burst in and defend his commander if she somehow lost control. He had been resentful of her beauty, ashamed that he could not stop himself from admiring it, and confused as to why the Maker would bestow such a blessing on a mage .
Don't glower at her, Alistair, Duncan had chided him. She's one of us now. Her magic is a tool, like you or I might wield a sword.
Now, as he took in the trappings of the Chantry draped over this strange, sinewy, bright-eyed woman, Alistair felt a similar surge of protectiveness. This time, though, it was not on behalf of their dead commander, or for the benefit of others around them. Now, he suddenly feared for the safety of his sister-warden, for she was a mage, and the Chantry despised her on principle.
He took a step closer to Flora; she looked up at him, astonished.
Leliana also noticed the young man's vigilance. Instead of showing affront; a forbearing smile drew the corners of her mouth upwards.
"I understand your wariness," she said, earnest. "Is this the first time that you've encountered men sent to kill you?"
Flora thought about it: Darkspawn were not men, yesterday's bandits were not sent.
"Yes," she replied, eyeing the assorted tips of the arrows clustered in the woman's quiver. Several were notched, two were wound in cloth and one was coated in something dark and oily.
Leliana nodded, with the assurance of one who knew exactly what was going on.
"They will be the first of many, Wardens," she said, loosening the quiver strap on her shoulder. "Assassins, mercenaries, soldiers, desperate bannermen. Loghain Mac Tir has put a price on your head that would make a man rich. You will be hunted the breadth of Ferelden."
"You know an awful lot," interjected Alistair, suspicion narrowing his eyes. "For a lay sister in a rural Chantry."
The woman allowed herself another, more private smile.
"The Maker sent a message to me in a dream," she said in a hushed tone, as though sharing a secret. "I saw myself, riding a silver griffin through the sky as firestorms raged below me. When I awoke, I knew immediately that I had been charged with a divine duty - to assist the Grey Wardens in the defence of our homeland."
"Our homeland?" repeated Alistair, dubious. "You sound fresh out of Val Royeaux."
"My mother was from Denerim. Malheureusement, no one else in the cloisters would believe me, but I knew that I was correct. And then I overheard you Wardens conversing in the side-chapel. More proof that I was destined to join you."
"You want to help us because of a dream? Really?" His hazel eyes were narrow and slatted with suspicion.
Leliana assumed a pious expression.
"It is not for me to question the will of the Maker," she said, softly. "He has shown me great kindness after… after tumultuous times. I must follow His guidance. Although…"
Her smile flickered slightly. "Although, I did not think that you would both be so young."
"I'm three times older in fish years," offered Flora, unhelpfully.
They both looked at her and she stared back, unblinking.
"So, just to be clear," Alistair said, after a long moment of silence. "You want to… come with us?"
Leliana bestowed a smile of confirmation on him, her powder-blue eyes glinting as though to say: no, I will be coming with you. Her fingers danced from her bow to the beads dangling from her wrist, back and forth in a practised motion. The other patrons of the tavern were still watching in mild astonishment; fortunately, nobody dared move to summon the guard.
"Let me just… speak with my sister-warden for a moment."
He drew Flora behind one of the wooden posts that supported the staircase, hoping that the structural feature would mask his words. Flora had reclaimed her cold and congealed bowl of eggs from the table and was eating them as quickly as possible; aware that they would soon be on the move.
"What do you think?"
"Eh?" Her mouth was full. "About what?"
"Sister Shoots-A-Lot joining us."
Alistair grimaced, darting a look back around the pillar. Leliana had not moved from the centre of the tavern; her eyes were shut and her lips moving in small, silent patterns. Her fingers - the tips callused - were pressed together tightly. She might have been praying, or perhaps she was confessing; after all, she had just slain a man.
"Did you see her pin that man's ear to the door?" Flora was caught between admiration and a healer's distaste for violence. "She's got good aim. I wonder if she's ever tried spear-fishing?"
Her brother-warden looked unconvinced.
"Who's to say she isn't working for Mac Tir? I don't buy that she's been a lay-sister long. Only new converts get this zealous. I don't fancy listening to sermons for hours on end."
Flora puzzled over it for a moment, her pale brow furrowed. Her spirits remained stubbornly silent on the matter; she eventually decided that their reticence meant that Leliana posed no direct threat.
"You know," she said at last, thoughtfully. "If there really are mercenaries and assassins and soldiers after us, we should have some help. Morrigan might just keep disappearing when we get into fights."
Alistair ground his teeth. He was unsure how to shape his worries into words. Flora saw the grimace, and misinterpreted it. She reached out and tapped her fingers lightly against his sleeve.
"She can sermonise at me," she added, solemnly. "I have a good 'pretending-to-listen' face. I used it a lot at the Circle."
He looked at his sister-warden for a long moment; forcing himself to see beyond the arresting pull of her beauty. Below the sooty fringe of her lashes, rested faint violet crescents; a discolouration of the skin near-invisible to the naked eye. Alistair remembered that she had only claimed a few scant hours of rest, sacrificing sleep to offer her mending to the refugees.
"Fine," he heard himself say. "Fine, she can join us, but you're still sleeping next to me. I don't give a nug about propriety."
Flora smiled up at him; the corners of the full mouth bowing upwards.
"Merveilleux," interjected the lay-sister; who had been blatantly eavesdropping. "Let us leave without delay."
AN: I LOVE Leliana! I've ramped up her initial zealotry because it's more fun XD This was a really good chapter to write, in the original, Leliana introduces herself by just walking into the Wardens' room. So this time I wanted to do something more in line with how the game introduces her! Also lol I can't believe we've been in Lothering for like 5 chapters hahaha. thank you for the reviews!
