[Natia]
"It's time we packed up," Marcel said, gesturing towards the tents and pelts of the campsite.
It was the first time Marcel had spoken to Natia since he returned with Rica yesterday. After her talk with her sister had reached its abysmal conclusion, Natia had sat sullenly by the fire and Marcel had wisely decided not to venture any thoughts her way. The lack of dialogue continued through their shifts in watch and through the subsequent morning meal. As they had been eating, however, the pair had seen a lone armored dwarf approaching from the gates of Orzammar. Natia immediately readied her weapons, looking forward to taking her lingering aggression out on whatever stupid sod was coming their way, but Marcel had waved his hand at her frantically, motioning for her to put her daggers down as he instead stood and walked out to meet the emissary. Their conversation did not last long, and the dwarf seemed to have no desire to venture any further towards their camp, instead scurrying back towards Orzammar as soon as Marcel turned away. Marcel came back towards the fire, sat down again, and resumed his piecemeal devouring of his slice of bread. It was only now, as the last crumbs of Natia's meal were being ferried into her mouth that her fellow Warden broke the silence.
"We going somewhere?" Natia grunted, stretching as she did so.
"Duncan had left a message for us. We are to meet him at one of the Deep Road entrances to the South." Marcel was picking up the pelts around the fire to place them back into one of the sacks from within the tent. "We will need to leave soon if we want to be there when our brothers emerge.
Natia snorted a bit at the term 'our brothers,' but still stood, handing her pelt to Marcel.
"Beats sitting around here." Natia was more than happy to put those great sodding doors far behind her, along with any other reminder of the city of stone.
[Duran]
Duran trudged silently among the humans who were to be his new "life," if joining such an order could really be called such. He had never understood the warrior caste's fascination with the Wardens. He had respected them, of course, as instruments that occasionally came to Orzammar to beat against the spawn in one last show of purpose before snuffing out. They were skilled enough that any Dwarven regiment would be elated to bear a warden alongside them, and Duran doubted there was any noble in the Diamond Quarter who didn't at least outwardly feign respect for the primarily surfacer order. But a great number of the warrior caste seemed pathetically desperate to join the Wardens, so much so that there were provings for that express purpose. What a waste, to spend a life in transit doing something you could be doing in your homeland, and which was much more vitally needed there. Of course, being exiled had shifted that perspective somewhat. The order was no longer some bizarre but useful receptacle for surface warriors and the second and third sons of the warrior caste, but instead a flame in the darkness of the Deep Roads. A flame that Duran would use to burn his brother to ashes.
And so, despite the bitterness in his heart, Duran walked on through the halls of the ancestors with his new human companions. They had briefly introduced themselves when he had been offered a place among them. The biggest one was called Gregor, and he spoke with a thick, deep tinge to his voice that Duran recognized as an Ander accent, mainly from previous Wardens who had visited Orzammar to embark on their final walk. Of course, Duran didn't know exactly where the Anderfels were, having only the vaguest notions of surface geography, but he remembered that it was relatively distant in proximity to Orzammar. Gregor was bald, thick-bearded, burly, and did not speak at all to Duran, which made the Warden the former prince's immediate favorite among the three. Then there was Bohm, a lithe and wiry human with long black hair, who had incessantly questioned Duran about the circumstances of his exile before Duncan had commanded him to desist. There was one Duran wouldn't mind wandering off into the depths of the Deep Roads, never to be seen again. Of course, that probably was too much to hope for with a Warden.
And finally, there was Duncan. The Warden-Commander had said little since Duran's recruitment, other than telling Bohm off for his inquisitiveness. Of all of them, Duncan wore the closest thing to traditional Grey Warden regalia that Duran could see, with the order's emblem embossed on the metal plates that held together his robes. Perhaps the Ferelden Wardens lacked the resources to garb themselves in their customary blue and silver heraldry, not the Duran cared. He certainly wasn't going to volunteer to wear such drivel, though he supposed it might be better than the rusting armor he had pried from one of his kinsman's corpses several leagues back.
Though Duncan seldom spoke directly to Duran, he often instructed the group as a unit, telling them to wait, or for Bohm or Gregor to scout ahead in the various side passages. It was aggravating for Duran to have to take orders from a human, but he had been in enough skirmishes in the Deep Roads to recognize a capable battle-field commander when he saw one. Not that the Wardens were known for incompetence. Indeed, all three of them worked seamlessly to dispatch any darkspawn that the group encountered. All of their blades were stained with the hissing blood of Orzammar's great bane.
The four of them delved on through the halls of black. Duncan had said they were aiming for an exit from the Deep Roads to the South of Orzammar, which made Duran grind his teeth in apprehension. It wasn't right, to emerge on to the surface with its great fiery orb and cold billowing air, far from the stone's embrace. The surface was no place for any proper dwarf. The former prince wasn't scared; he was never scared… but he wasn't enjoying the wait before the trial. He found the idea of nothing above him… just empty space… alarming, somehow. But this was a necessary measure to pay his brother what was desperately owed to him, so there was no choice. He'd embrace the light of the surface if he had to, as it was one more step towards shoving his blade through Bhelen's chest.
[Natia]
The snow was becoming a real nuisance to Natia, whose stockier form could not easily lift her legs high enough to climb over its mounting drifts, as opposed to Marcel who, while not completely unimpeded, was still able to move forward without either clutching his knees to his chest or forcing them through the powder. And it certainly didn't help that Natia was carrying half of their equipment in the sacks slung on her back. They were headed for the Deep Roads entrance that Duncan and the other wardens were supposed to emerge from. Natia didn't know what the two of them would do if the group failed to appear, but she hoped they wouldn't be going in after them. She had never been in the Deep Roads, and as far as she was concerned, she preferred that lack of knowledge. Dying while trying to find whatever hole Duncan's corpse was laying in was not an idea she could get behind. Of course, the Deep Roads wouldn't have sodding snow.
She had asked Marcel about some of the creatures she had seen as they traveled, all of them utterly alien to her. There were beasts that moved high above, beating their limbs and somehow defying the call of the earth. Marcel called these 'birds', and had listed off a few of the apparent subtypes. Then there were the creatures that ran upon the ground. A thin four-legged animal had dashed away from them through the trees when the pair had gotten close enough, and Natia had barely enough time to see its horns: long, thin, and curved, breaking off into several points, not at all like the rough, squat horn of the bronto. Marcel had called it a 'deer,' and said that he might try hunting them later, as the meat was good. Everywhere Natia looked there was something new to take in. She had walked further today than she ever had before in her life, and always there was a new hill to climb, a new path to take, or a new sight to see. In Orzammar, Natia had never considered what the outside world was like. Why would she? She had walked the same parts of Dust Town, the Commons, and the Mines her whole life; It was the world to her. Out here, under a vast empty sky, Natia was beginning to realize how small Orzammar was. And there was no better feeling than that.
Eventually, after climbing through snowy vales and lines of trees for a few hours, Marcel gestured to her from up ahead, pointing down the hill from their location. Natia trudged up the hill to meet him, and glimpsed what he was declaring as their destination: there was an enormous opening into the face of the mountain, with the familiar Dwarven statues of some no doubt elitist paragons straddling either side of the aperture. The dark gray stone of the edifices was cracked and weathered to the extent that the details of the faces of the paragons could no longer be seen. The light of the surface could only illuminate so far into the murkiness of the tunnel before it failed, and Natia couldn't see anything within the entrance beyond the first twenty meters or so, at least not from where she stood. The path inside the mountain was as cracked as the outside, perhaps the earth had shifted in the past?
"This is the place," Marcel said, his voice in combat with the wind (surface cave drafts) for access to Natia's ears. "Let's get down there and we can take shelter just inside."
Well, as long as 'just inside' meant what was implied, Natia supposed she could manage that. The wind was now causing a peculiar sensation in Natia's body, as though it was inside the cloak Marcel had provided her, and she found her mouth to be moving up and down on its own in an alarming manner, teeth knocking together unless she tried hard to prevent them from doing so. Her fingers had begun to feel as though she had sat on them for a long time. It was not unlike being stone-blind drunk, except that Natia could still see, think, and the sensation was only in her fingers currently; the rest of her body just felt cold. Colder than she had ever been, in fact. Maybe that lava in Orzammar really was good for something other than getting rid of bodies.
After Marcel and Natia had made their way down the hill, Natia almost tripping twice, they ducked underneath the gaze of those blighted statues and stopped a few feet inside the passage. The sky was beginning to dim, and Natia supposed that meant the sun was going to disappear into the horizon again. Marcel loosened the cords that held the canvas sacks upon his shoulders and allowed them to drop to the stone beneath. Upon seeing this, Natia did likewise. Marcel strode forward a few more paces, staring into the darkness beyond, before turning back to Natia.
"We should be safe here. There are no darkspawn about."
"And how do you know that?" Natia grumbled, peering into the gloom herself in mild unease. She heard stories of what the warrior caste fought in the Deep Roads, and she didn't relish the thought of being on their precipice.
"They'd be attacking us, otherwise," Marcel said dryly, reaching towards the sacks he had left. "We should set camp. I don't know when Duncan will be here."
Natia grunted a half-hearted confirmation, and turned to her own bags.
"So, that builder guy in the clouds? He makes the snow, yeah?"
Marcel looked up at Natia, puzzlement on his face.
"Do you mean the Maker? Yes, that's what the Chantry taught me."
"Sodding prick."
[Natia]
The path was beginning to steadily slope upwards. Duran supposed that meant they were nearing the surface. His stomach wound itself in knots at the prospect. Bohm hadn't managed to get himself eaten on the way after all, which was yet another strand of fate for Duran to curse. He had traded the darkspawn greataxe for a greatsword found on the corpse of a legionnaire some leagues back. It was old and flecked with rust, but it was still better crafted than the spawn's arms, and more importantly, didn't appear to have been pawed at by them. It would serve.
Up ahead, at the end of a long sloping path, there was a faint light. Bohm was already sighing, and stating aloud how good it would feel to get out of these tunnels. Duran was really hoping an accident would befall Bohm between here and there.
Their steps echoed off the stone as they neared the light, and suddenly Duran found himself without a roof over his head, and fought the urge to lunge back the way he came, into the waiting arms of the stone. Was this the surface? It was strange. There was a dim glow, like from lava, coming from behind the steep slopes of earth in the distance. The light glistened on the white substance coating the surroundings, which burned Duran's eyes after so long in semi-darkness. Vast, green-covered spears, "trees" if Duran recalled his education on surface resources, peppered the beyond in no scheme or logic, unlike the formulaic planning of Orzammar. And there was a chill in the air, comparable only to the deepest of cave drafts, which settled over everything. It was alien, and overwhelming, and Duran had to shut his eyes tightly to keep his head from spinning. He recited the list of Aeducan kings in his head. Anything to cling to was a welcome distraction. When he opened them he saw two figures approaching from a camp set about ten meters away.
"Duncan," a blond-haired human called out as he stopped in front of the Warden-Commander. "I was beginning to think you wouldn't make it."
"Marcel," Duncan said, as the two moved off to converse in semi-private. "Any problems?"
The new human was bearded in a manner similar to Duncan, and touted a longbow, an exotic surface weapon, across his back. His jaunting voice was immediately grating to Duran's ears, and he recognized the accent as Orlesian, though as before this meant little in the way of information. At the humans side was a dwarf, whose eyes regarded Duran with what he assumed could be wariness, though it was more likely hostility. A hostility Duran freely returned as he sized the waif up. She had a garish brand stamped across the right side of her face, though the dirt on the other side blended itself to its counterpart. Great, this must be the casteless the Wardens had recruited. Though why, Duran couldn't tell from looking. Her stained and ragged armor was pathetic beyond even what the most fallen of the warrior caste would wear, and her choppy, dull red hair was covered in so much grime Duran couldn't be certain it was red. The casteless' entire body was tense as she looked at Duran, ready to strike or the more in-character flee, like a sodding solitary deepstalker or other vermin. This casteless had successfully impersonated Everd? How? Perhaps the Proving Master was going blind in his elder years. What a disgrace, as were the warriors who were bested by this repugnant wretch.
Duran felt his teeth grinding again as he took in the casteless. How far he had plummeted in just a few short days. Before he wouldn't have allowed this duster within a hundred feet of him, and now, she was close enough that he could smell her filth-ridden form, even from a few yards away. Perhaps that's why the Wardens wanted her: bait for the spawn. It would be the only thing that made sense on the surface. But the most disturbing thing about the casteless was that she seemed almost familiar somehow, as though he had seen her features, grime-covered as they were, before. Where?
Gregor walked towards the camp without a word, and Bohm made to follow him, glancing at the casteless in curiosity as he did so. While going further out under the open sky was not something Duran wanted, the thought of showing weakness to the stain in front of him made his blood boil in fury. So, he simply brushed past the casteless to follow the other two, ignoring her probing glare as he did so. Maybe if he never acknowledged her, she would never attempt to speak to him.
The camp itself was similar enough to a Dwarven regiment's Deep Roads camp. There was a centrally located fire and some seats presumably made out of the hide of some surface beast surrounding it. Duran had seen such material in the wardrobes of the more eccentric nobility, and seemed to recall it being described as "fur." The fire drove the fierce chill of the air away as Duran approached and took in his new world with a more careful eye, head reeling as he did so. The faint glow from behind the mountains seemed to be growing dimmer and dimmer, and in its place, tiny blazing pinpricks of light scattered across the void above. Duran's vision swam as he took it in, and he shut his eyes again, trying to keep from covering his face with his hands. When he opened them again, he took another look at his surroundings.
What an open, barren wasteland. No wonder the ancestors forbid going to the surface, there was nothing up here except white powder and trees. No signs of life, at least. Duncan and the other human, Marcel, were returning to the fire. The Casteless was also drawing near, and dared to gird her face with something close to a sneer. Again, vermin.
"Marcel tells me you encountered resistance from Orzammar during your nights in the pass," Duncan said, addressing the Casteless. "Are you alright?"
"Better than they are," the Casteless said, now having taken her daggers from her back and thumbing them, still staring at Duran. He half hoped she planned to use them. Then he wouldn't need to endure her stench on the no doubt approaching journey.
"Who's this one?"
Duncan turned to Duran, his face impassive.
"This is another recruit we found in the Deep Roads. I'm certain he'll be helpful. Perhaps you'd care to introduce yourself?"
"Not to a brand," was Duran's only reply.
The Casteless' sneer turned into a snarl, and her fingers tightened into the handles of her daggers. So, she really was an animal. Perhaps she needed to be put down after all.
"We are all Grey Wardens here," Duncan said; his voice was still soft but there was a clear command in his tone as well. "Dwarven social custom does not matter to our order, a fact that was evident when we accepted you. You will not stand on it while with us."
"You hear that, blighter? We're both in the sodding dirt now. Equal." The sneer had returned to the Casteless, and it made her already repulsive features even more unpalatable.
Equals? No. Never. Was soot equal to a gem? You could put them in the same bag, but that didn't make them equal. Of course, if Duran said that to Duncan, what would happen? Worst case, he wouldn't be a Warden anymore, and then all his plans were for naught. And the only thing that burned more bitterly than standing there and having to swallow the looks the Casteless gave him was that thought. Duran's life had become a simple string of humiliations. So, he said nothing.
"This is Gregor and Bohm," Duncan said, pointing the two men out to the Casteless. Bohm greeted her in his nasally voice. Gregor said nothing. "And this is Duran Aeducan. Recruit Aeducan, this is Natia Brosca, and Warden Marcel."
The Marcel human nodded, but made no greeting. The Casteless, name be damned, changed her sneer to a smirk. "Aeducan? And here I thought the bronto-lickers in Orzammar didn't take a shit without your family's permission."
"Not to my knowledge, but they do empty out the privies in Dust Town, so I'll assume you know more about their shit than me."
The Casteless' smile grew cold, and she began tossing her dagger to herself in what she likely assumed to be a display of finesse, or perhaps it was unconscious. Pointless.
"Enough. You are both needed down South. This confrontation is over." Duncan glanced up at the sky, the light behind the mountains almost completely gone. "We will camp here tonight. Both of you settle in. Bohm, retrieve more firewood."
Bohm gave a high-pitched sigh and stood. Gregor started to poke a stick into the fire pit, shifting the logs around. Marcel sat down beside him on another of the furs, brushing the powder away from the camp as he did so. The Casteless followed, performing obscene gestures towards Duran as she walked towards the fire. He found a place as far from her as possible.
Duncan retrieved some papers from within his own bags, perusing them a distance from the other Wardens, brow furrowed.
"So where to now, Duncan? Ostagar?" The one called Marcel had retrieved a sack and was distributing what the generous could describe as a meal to the others present. He started with the Casteless, who dug into the offerings like the animal she was.
"Not yet, my friend," Duncan said, taking a few slices of bread from the other Warden's outstretched hand. "If I gauge right, King Cailan will be just about to leave Denerim himself, and the last message we received from the capital spoke of few arrivals from the Circle. Against what is brewing in the South, we'll need more mages."
"To Kinloch Hold then? That's where Ferelden's Circle is housed, yes?"
"What's the Circle?" the Casteless asked, face now covered in brand, dirt, and food.
Ignorance. Feh. The Marcel human handed Duran his food and he felt himself tune out the drivel of the other Wardens. Much better to focus on the roar in his ears. Lately it had appeared in Duran's head whenever he pictured Bhelen's face. And that picture pushed its way into his head all too often.
Bohm returned and dumped some scattered pieces of the trees next to the fire. The night wore on, and the sky above seemed endless. Between that and his new "companions," Duran had preferred the Deep Roads.
[Natia]
The Noble had ignored Natia so far, merely staring into the fire, hunched over his fur-mat so he couldn't see the sky. It figured that just when Natia thought she was free of Orzammar, this happened. Not that she was surprised. Her life had been going too well lately for her not to know it was about to kick her teeth in.
So this was the Aeducan. Killed his own brother, if Rica was to be believed. Again, unsurprising. Natia had always known the nobles to be without any kind of familial love or loyalty, given half the stories she'd heard in Dust Town. They routinely schemed and cheated each other, family included. What were bonds of blood to them? Thinking about siblings made Natia think about Rica, however, and the corresponding pang in her heart was not something she wanted to encourage. So instead, she thought about how she might solve her new predicament.
There was no doubt that the noble meant to off her eventually. Look what a bunch of the warrior caste had tried to do at the mere thought of her in the Wardens. To have to battle alongside her, everyday for the foreseeable future? This kinslayer would be looking for the first chance he could to end her life. He'd already killed his brother, what was a Casteless to him? But then again, Natia was waiting for her chance to slit his throat as well. It was the only smart thing to do; she'd never sleep again in his company, otherwise.
Of course, if he did turn up dead in camp, the other Wardens would blame her. And then where would she be? No, it would be better if he wandered away from camp and never returned. Or better yet, died in battle. That was believable, right? She's seen nobles fight before, in glimpses from the trenches of Provings past. Wasn't impressed. He might die on his own, but that didn't mean she couldn't help him along if it came to that.
Assuming it did, which of the other Wardens would be on her side? Marcel? Maybe, but then, he had told her he was a noble too. A human one, at least. Would that make him more likely to back the Noble? Too risky, without knowing more. The thought that she might not be able to trust the one person in the camp who she knew was a little disheartening for Natia, who ignored the feeling by moving on to the other Wardens, though she knew even less about them. The big, bearded one, Gregor, Natia believed he was called, had said nothing to her all night, though unlike the Noble this did not appear to be out of hostility, if the nod he had given her was anything to go by. Instead, the large human had simply chugged some sort of alcohol from a personal bottle, whittling on wood with a small knife rather than conversing. Then there was the thin, slight one. Bohm, was it? He had peppered Natia with questions about how she had got here and other things that were not his concern, until Natia told him in no uncertain terms that he was to sod off or lose fingers. After that, he chatted eagerly with Marcel, an equally talkative but far more tactful human. It was unlikely that either Bohm or Gregor would back her up, given that they had been traveling with the Noble already and who knew what they thought of each other. So that left Duncan.
The Warden-Commander had seen fit to ask Natia a few questions regarding how she was handling the surface before returning to perusing his documents. Given the way Duncan had responded to the Noble before, Natia was reasonably confident that he wouldn't let the kinslayer try anything in camp, or at the very least, if something were to happen, he wouldn't get away with it. Then again, that was a double-edged sword. Duncan was also unlikely to be fooled by anything she tried, and the last thing Natia wanted was to be friendless on the surface. Who knew if she could make it to the nearest human city, or what she would find if she could.
So, that was that. Natia couldn't make a move without the situation changing. But she would keep her eye out, oh yes. She wouldn't shed any tears if the Noble didn't wake up tomorrow, that was for sure.
While Gregor drank, Duncan read, and the Noble fucked himself, Natia took her new mace out and started polishing it again, more out of habit than anything. Marcel tried to bring her into his and Bohm's conversation a few times, and Natia gave enough responses to appease him, mainly because she needed at least one ally in the Wardens. She kept glancing at the Noble from the corner of her eye, always wary. It helped keep thoughts away. Thoughts like Rica…
Enough. Sodding enough about that. Instead, think about the mages. Marcel had mentioned Kinloch hold in his conversation with Bohm, and the way he described it, Natia could scarcely picture it in her mind. A tower, reaching even higher into the sky… Why would the humans build something like that? Why would they want to be further from the earth? Maybe it was a mage thing. They had magic, supposedly, though Natia could barely wrap her mind around what that even was. She had seen Marcel use the rod of fire a few days ago. Just pointed it at the wood and then suddenly... flames. Convenient. Natia kind of wished she was a mage now; was that what it was like? Just think about fire and suddenly there was fire? That was rather unnerving, actually. In fact, now that Natia was thinking about it, she couldn't stop considering fire, which she supposed meant that if she were a mage she would be summoning it. How did that work? Did mages light themselves on fire accidentally? Now Natia didn't want to be a mage.
Wait, if mages could think about anything and then it happened, why didn't they just think about the Darkspawn vanishing? That didn't make any sense. Marcel had said they had to live in the tower. Why? Why couldn't they just think about not living in the tower, and make it happen? Why would anyone want to live in the tower anyway? To be so high up… Natia couldn't even imagine it. Was it like peering over the ledges to look down at the lava in Orzammar? Except there, you still had solid rock under your feet. The surface had that, even. Not to mention that Marcel had said that the tower was on an island in the middle of a lake, and a lake was apparently a large bucket of water. How was that possible? A bucket of water large enough to build something people live in within it? Natai had heard that some of the nobles had these things called baths, that they filled with water to wipe the dirt off of themselves. But even those weren't large enough to build something in! How did the mages get to the tower across the water? Things sank in water, didn't they? Wait, could mages fly? Natia had only seen birds fly so far, and it never occurred to her that anything else could as well. But it made sense. How else would mages get to the tower? They could just think things, and they happened. So it stood to reason that if they just thought they could fly, they would. Simple. But wait, how did birds fly then? Were they mages?
Natia was interrupted in her thoughts by the realization that the Noble was sizing her up, and she immediately readied herself, glaring back at him and cursing herself for allowing her imagination to run rampant.
The Noble was tall for a dwarf, probably coming up to the humans' breast bones if they all stood up, with the exception of Gregor. He was big too, likely outweighing her by a large margin. His light-brown beard was started to come out of the braids it was meticulously kept in, and he wore rusted and tarnished metal armor, which was part of the reason Natia didn't take him for a noble when she had first seen him. Unlike her, his face was clear of blemishes, and his hair was pulled back into a bun on the back of his head. His green eyes were piercing at her from his side of the fire, and his expression was one of disbelief and anger. What was with him? He'd had several hours to get used to the fact that she was sodding here and, several days before that to know that yes, the Wardens had deigned to recruit her. So what was with the surprise? The anger was understandable, but she didn't give a piss what the Noble wanted. It was only when the Noble stood up that Natia realized he wasn't necessarily looking at her. It would be more accurate to say he was looking at the mace in her lap.
When the Noble launched himself at Natia, she was already rolling backwards, placing her boots on his chest and with her rotational momentum, kicking him behind her. She was surprised, however, when the Noble managed to get to his feet in the same amount of time it took Natia to regain hers. He was fast. Far faster than his size indicated. He snarled at her, teeth bared and eyes burning with such ferocity that Natia felt a slight hint of unease within her chest. He seemed almost monstrous in the firelight. The Noble charged again and Natia was wresting her daggers from her back to meet him, but by then the other Wardens had surged to their feet. Gregor tackled the Noble, wrestling him to the ground, and though the dwarf was large for his kind, he was a hill next to the giant of a man pushing him into the dirt. Duncan put a firm hand on her shoulder while Marcel grabbed her arm, clearly indicating to Natia that she was not to use the daggers in her hands.
The Noble was fighting Gregor, but it was a losing battle, and eventually he stopped struggling, lying in the dirt and looking at Natia with what seemed an almost primal bloodlust. Bohm had moved forward to help Gregor, but the man silently shook his head, and the other human stepped back.
"What is going on here?" Duncan asked, his hand resting lightly upon one of his blades. "Were my words forgotten so quickly? Your conflict is over."
"Bronto-licker tried to jump me," Natia grunted, daggers still clenched at her sides. She had been stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Look what daydreaming had almost got her. "I ain't traveling with this dung-eating lunatic!" Let him die. Let him die. The way the Noble was looking at her, she had never seen such a look before. Not even on the coldest killers in Dust Town. It was beyond rage, beyond hatred. It was… she didn't have the words for it.
"Sodding bitch… stole…" The Noble was having difficulty making himself heard from having his mouth implanted in the dirt. Gregor loosened his hold slightly, allowing the Noble to raise his head. Natia wished he hadn't. She'd rather look anywhere else than into that bestial face.
"We have all been together and within view since we convened," Duncan said, regarding the Noble with a peculiar look on his face. "Recruit Brosca couldn't have stolen anything from you."
The Noble snarled again, gesturing as well as he could with his arms pinned towards the mace that had fallen out of Natia's lap. Natia immediately snatched it up, holding it close to her.
"That mace belongs to my family," The noble hissed, his face contorting beyond what it seemed a sapient being should be capable of. "It has our crest… not for her… sodding… stole it!"
Duncan, mind boggling though it seemed, took his hand off his weapon at the Noble's words. Natia clutched the mace to her chest as she bared her own teeth back at the Noble.
"You want it Duster? Come get it! I'll be happy to take your eyes as well!" This mace was the most expensive thing she owned. It was the only thing she owned, really. That and Marcel's sodding handkerchief, the clothes on her back, and her two chipped daggers. She wasn't losing it.
"Quiet," Duncan said to her, keeping his gaze locked on the Noble. For a moment Natia was afraid he was going to make her give it up, but then he continued in a calm voice that belied his dark expression.
"That mace did indeed belong to the Aeducans," the Warden Commander said. "It came into the Order with Foral Aeducan, your ancestor. Upon his death, it has remained in our hands."
Duncan was studying the Noble intently now, as though trying to gauge something. For his part, the noble had frozen, and looked back at Duncan with something implacable in his eyes.
"I gave it to recruit Brosca upon her recruitment, before we ventured into the Deep Roads. Though you may feel it unfair, it is hers now."
The Noble turned that implacable look onto her at Duncan's words, and it took every measure of Natia's willpower not to throw her daggers towards his face.
"Wardens do not have titles or houses," Duncan said quietly, causing the Noble's gaze to veer back towards him. "We have given our former lives up. You may think your house's honor stained, but that is not your concern."
The Noble's expression flashed briefly then, as though he was looking at Duncan with the same bestial savagery he had possessed when he first dived at Natia. But then the look was gone, and Natia wondered if she had seen it there at all.
Nothing could be heard except the Noble's deep pants. Eventually, after Stone knew how long, he gave a stiff jerk of his head and Gregor clambered off him. The Noble got to his feet, and there was a palpable unease throughout the gathered Wardens as he stared at Natia. She felt her heart hammer in her chest. Was this fear? She hadn't felt it in so long? What did... she have to... be afraid of…
The Noble turned with a sharp movement and headed briskly towards the tent, ducking inside its flaps and disappearing from view. Duncan gestured to Gregor and Bohm, motioning that they should follow him. Distantly, Natia heard Marcel ask if she were alright. She didn't answer. All she could do was stare after the Noble, and hear her heart within her chest.
[Duran]
No. Not like this. Throne stolen. Name stolen. House stolen. Life stolen. And now this. The final pebble in the pile. The Ancestors were cruel.
[Daylen]
Daylen tried to ignore Jowan's heavy breathing as he studied the tome in front of him. In, out. In out. In… out. It was maddening, but not worth getting up to flick the other apprentice awake. Daylen had heard the rumors circulating, whispered among the mages in the library when and where they thought he couldn't hear. There was to be a Harrowing soon. His Harrowing. And he would be ready. It didn't matter what it was. It didn't matter what he'd face. Daylen let his palm stretch out in the semi-darkness of the apprentice dormitory, and felt the tingle in his palm. He saw the small flames spark into life between his curled fingers, bringing light to the gloom. He looked at the flames for only a moment before extinguishing them with a close of his hand, returning to the leathery pages of the tome. There would be no failure. There couldn't be. And so Daylen studied, long into the night, until outside the sheer walls of the tower the sun crept above the horizon.