Chronicles of an Elven Bed-warmer
Chapter the Last
Finale
I do not own Dragon Age
It was the day of the long awaited Landsmeet. Queen Anora was beside herself with anxiety, but managed admirably to maintain an appearance of outward calm.
"Alright, alright," she spoke to her select group of elven witnesses, or victims rather, though she was loathe to think of them as such. "Is everyone ready? Had a wash and a trip to the loo?" She surveyed the small mob of young elven women before her. They were the very picture of humble innocence; only some kind of deranged racist would doubt their honesty. But considering they were going before the nobility that gave them about an even chance.
Anora nodded her approval. "Now I've heard all your stories and as long as you stick to the facts you should be fine. Remember, no exaggerations or extemporizing, Right Melody?"
The tiny elf in the violently pink dress blushed lightly and nodded in response.
"Shianni, you're on last. Does anyone have any questions? No? Okay. Let's go make history."
0-0
Meanwhile at the Cousland estate, Eleanor was making sure everyone was properly attired.
"No Elissa, you can't wear hunting clothes. Go put on that nice dress I picked out for you. It wouldn't kill you to try and look a little more feminine once and a while. Think of how surprised everyone will be."
Elissa, who had been about to protest, let lose a deep sigh. "Yes Mother." Even the mighty Elissa "Crusher" Cousland knew better than to argue when her mother was in this state.
Eleanor moved on to her next target. "Aedan...that's fine actually, simple yet elegant. Good show."
The young lord sent his sister a smug look. She rolled her eyes as she headed back to her room to change.
Nearby Kallian looked on anxiously. Having spent the previous evening fastidiously cleaning her armor and weapons, and the next morning receiving one of Elle's "special" baths, the elven rouge practically gleamed. She looked every inch the professional she almost was. Months of training under Elissa's unrelenting tutelage had given her sinewy limbs greater definition and she was at least twice the fighter she had been previously. Etiquette lessons from Elle had gone less well but at least she wasn't going to unintentionally embarrass her master.
"Kallian, stop fidgeting," commented an amused Lady Cousland.
"Sorry, Milady, bit nervous."
Now Eleanor sighed. It was rather an important day for her son's paramour; not only was she making her first official appearance as Aedan's bodyguard, but the future of all the elves in Ferelden was to be decided. It was enough to make anyone a bit twitchy.
"Well try to relax. You look as if you're going to explode at any moment. People will be watching. Now where's Bryce…" she trailed off and went to go look for her husband, leaving the poor elf to stew in her own juices.
Aedan quickly moved to reassure her with a hand on the shoulder. "Just relax everything will work out."
Kallian put her hand over his. She turned to look up into his calm visage and sent him a shy smile. "Thank you, that actually helps."
Elissa chose this moment to return, elegantly sulking in a simple but exceptionally flattering dress. The rouge was a little shocked that her..."master" pulled it off so naturally.
Eleanor returned, having retrieved Bryce from where he had been playing with the cat.
"See Elissa, isn't that better?"
The young lady responded with an elegant grunt of annoyance.
And without further ado the House of Cousland made its way to their waiting carriage and on to the Landsmeet.
500 years later;
The cold chill of winter faded into the warm embrace of spring as the eternal cycle of death and rebirth ran its inevitable course. In another cycle of change the latest batch of seniors from the Denerim Municipal School systems descended upon the former Fort Drakon, now the Museum of Ferelden History. They were a typical mix of graduates: humans, elves, Dwarves and Tal'vashoth, all educated together in... relative harmony. The tour guide was a statuesque young Qunari woman with scholarly spectacles (who had much more important research she needed to do if she wanted to have her latest thesis ready for peer review, but who had upset the director and was now forced to lecture a bunch of disinterested brats as atonement for her perceived sins).
Thankfully this was the day's last tour. Just one more exhibit, her personal favorite and the museum's feature attraction, and then she could get out of these heels, put her feet up, (maybe she could get her boyfriend to massage them) and get lost in to some real work so the day wouldn't be a total waste.
"And here we come to the highlight of our tour." She gestured towards a medium-sized canvas, hermetically sealed behind many panes of bullet resistant glass. It was a painting of a large bearded gentleman looking with unmistakable love to an artfully arranged elfin girl with her head in his lap sporting a blissfully content look on her sleeping face. "Leonardo de Antiva's 'Lovers in repose'."
The students made the appropriate impressed noises – "Nice tits!" – and a few inappropriate ones as well.
"They are rather exceptional," responded the guide. "Notice how they seem to follow you around the room. Mr. de Antiva was certainly a man who know what he liked." All the boys and quite a few girls agreed. "The man is, as you know Lord Aedan Cousland, also known as Aedan the Just, or Aedan y llawn Gyfartal to the Elves. The first and only human to be charged with the care of Ferelden's elven citizens, which he did faithfully until he ceded authority to a council of elven elders in 990 Dragon. His fair and equable treatment of an otherwise persecuted minority set a pattern for Ferelden as a place of equality under the law." It was actually quite a bit more complicated than that, but this was a museum tour, not a college course.
Someone in the back raised their hand. "Yes?" the guide acknowledged
"Who was she?"
"That is an excellent question,"
The probable honor student looked smug.
"The identity of the young lady has unfortunately been lost to history, but there are many theories. The most credible is that Lord Aedan is reported to have had a Dalish bodyguard for most of his life. It is probable that this is her, which tells of a much more intimate relationship than would have been common knowledge at the time."
The class giggled at the implication, and a select few began crafting historical romance stories in their heads to post later on the humanxelf kink forums.
"Another theory is that she is purely allegorical in nature. Leonardo was known to have done that in some of his later works. It is possible that she represents all of elf-kind, symbolizing how much he cared about his charges. One very obscure theory states that she is Kallian Tabris, the elven hero who saved her entire bridal party from the ravenous son of the lord of Denerim during the Denerim Wedding Massacre. This is highly unlikely, however, as that heroic individual is recorded to have died under torture in the dungeons of this very fortress. More wishful thinking and folklore, but her act was not in vain, as the incident initiated the events that led to royal acquisition of the Alienages and Lord Aedan's appointment as steward."
"Now, that's the end of the tour! Please follow me to the cafeteria for your complimentary meal."
And History rolls on.
End
A/n: Believe it or not this is the ending I've had planned for years, I just figured everyone would absolutely hate it so I've been putting it off to try to think of something better, which is why it drags a bit in the middle. But then I got involved in doing some other thing and this just sort of sat here. Ultimately, I thought you guys deserved an ending, even a kind of shitty one. So in ending I'd like to thank my many betas, as well as anyone who's stuck with this thing from the beginning. Hopefully you enjoyed yourselves. I know I did.
But if that hasn't put you off of me forever, I'm going to plug my latest Project:
An ORIGINAL FICTION tentatively titled Placeholder: A Post Industrial Fantasy story.
Synopsis: Magic Regulation Bureau Agent Solomon Grimes must solve a rash of mysterious disappearances threatening the safety and sanity of the multiverse while wrangling a swarm of bloodthirsty fairies living in the basement, wrestling with his feelings for his rookie catgirl partner, and maneuvering the antics of his scheming wife, a mischievous nine-tailed fox spirit who is plotting not-so-secretly to bring the three of them together.
It's over on fictionpress under the exact same Author: Swartzwald
Here's a short sample:
Placeholder: A post-industrial fantasy story
Chapter the First
Not a dark and stormy night
It was not, in fact a dark and stormy night, much to the consternation of a certain nefarious group of individuals wearing ominous robes in the basement of the (Placeholder) Community Center, (All parties welcome! See Sharlene to register a room for your group or event today!) As was to be expected there were various mystic and arcane symbols spread liberally about the room – some of them were even real – seemingly scattered randomly without rhyme or reason. Along with the aforementioned robes the atmosphere had a very "we are meddling in affairs beyond the ken of mortal men" kind of vibe that all really legitimate evil mystic cults tried to cultivate.
"The paper said a big thunderstorm was supposed to happen tonight. They're usually pretty accurate," said one of the lower ranking members to a man in a much more expensive looking robe, most likely the leader (probably called "High One" or some such).
"Well," the probable High one replied. "It's not actually a requirement of the ritual, it's just recommended, so we should be fine." He cleared his throat loudly. "Did everyone hear that? We are proceeding with the ritual. Prepare the human sacrifices!"
Attention moved to said sacrifices, whose protests and struggles against their bonds took on a renewed vigor. The most-likely High One was quite pleased with the group of vacationing college students his followers had managed to abduct. They were all conventionally attractive, ethnically diverse young people of both genders. (Worshiping an eldritch horror beyond the comprehension of mortal man didn't necessarily mean that one wouldn't support ethnic and gender diversity.) The sacrifices were manhandled up onto the sacrificial alter (i.e. some folding tables wrapped in gold foil with arcane sigil drawn on them with a silver colored sharpie) and secured with some off-brand zip ties.
"Is all in readiness?"
The congregation acknowledged that yes, it probably was.
"Okay then, just like we practiced, a-one, a-two, a-three!"
The cultists began to chant ominously, the purported High One was pleased. It sounded very authentic, especially considering he had gotten it off of 4chan. He paused for a moment, enjoying the atmosphere, before producing a ceremonial dagger he had purchased off Amazon for nearly $150 (the handle was shaped like a dragon with (fake) jewels for the eyes!).
"Oh Great Hastur," the former Performing Arts major turned self-styled High One intoned, sliding the capital letters neatly into place. "We Your Unworthy Disciples Give Unto You These Sacrifices That You Might Prevail Against the Dread C'thulu And Awaken the Great Old Ones From Their—AAARRRGGH!"
The High One screamed like a little girl as his wrist was cut to the bone by a streak of light from out of nowhere. He dropped the dagger in panic (and because the tendons in his wrist had been severed) and his head swiveled wildly around in search of the attacker so he could sic his goons on them. What he found, hovering mere inches from his face, was a seven inch (17.78-cm) tall woman with sparkling dragonfly wings, carrying a fourteen inch (35.56-cm) long razor sword. She winked at him, then made a rude gesture and flitted away.
"Alright ladies and gentlemen," boomed a deep resounding voice. "This is a raid! The Magic Regulation Bureau charges you with attempt of a non-sanctioned ritual to a known hostile entity!" The speaker was a rather large burly gentleman in a nondescript gray business suit under a long trench coat.
The cultists made to attack the interloper, before noticing at least a dozen more of the small flying women, all of them armed with a mix of razor swords and long, thin, very sharp-looking spikes. They had the cultists surrounded, and looked eager for a reason to use their weapons. After a quick discussion amongst themselves, the cultists all raised their hands and surrendered. Having secured the scene, the mysterious man and his gang of winged women withdrew so that local law enforcement could arrest the offenders while emergency medical personnel saw to the Not-Really-That-High-After-All One.