The aravel, drawn by the halla, wound through the forest in a long line. Several hunters led the way, guiding the halla towards even ground as well as making sure they did not run into wild animals or bandits. Both of which were likely options, as they had moved closer to the village of Stonewar, headed in the opposite direction of Ironbrook. With twelve of their most experienced hunters out following the Templars, their defenses were lessened a bit. There were still about fifty archers spread out along the line of seventy aravel, but any attacks would have to be finished quickly to avoid endangering the elders or children. Some pulled double duty from atop the aravel, shifting their aim from side to side to search for opponents.
Three times, the forward scouts called for a halt, sending a pair of them further down their chosen path to scope out the situation. Luckily, the encounters were nothing more than few herds of wild halla and deer. The sentries posted on top of the aravel relaxed slightly and lowered their bows as the scouts returned with no difficulties. As soon as they took their positions again, the caravan of Elvhen carried on through the forest.
Hours later, they stopped for the night, lighting several fires to cook meals within meters of the aravel. After the excitement of earlier in the day, they were in no mood to set up camp till they were at least a few days of travel away.
Cίrdan, Ilen and Paivel stood at the rearmost aravel, facing away from the fires' light, watching the darkness beyond the pool of illumination. Once the mages have been rescued, the hunters would approach from the east, and the two elders would be the first to greet them.
Paivel went through his healing pouch for the fifth time since reaching their post, making sure that he had bandages, herbs, poultices and potions, and everything else he could think of. He and Ilen both feared for the state of the mages, as the humans dislike of magic was a well-known fact. Many a tale of a mage being mutilated was shared at the Arlathvhen, by all the clans. They've all known the taste of a Templar's blade against their clan at one time or another.
Cίrdan, while knowing all the stories, did not feel the same. He'd trained Ronin, Tamlen, Theron and many of the other hunters who accompanied them. He was confident in their ability to retrieve their captured brethren. He simply waited with his cane in one hand and his bonding gift in the other.
They all looked up at the shrill whistle the hunters used as an 'all clear' signal and focused on the direction it had come from. Ilen replied with his own call, drawing it out so that the rest of the caravan could hear and not mistake it for a different signal.
From the dark shadows beneath the mighty trees of the Brecilian Forest, black shapes became hunters and mages, all but one walking under their own power with very few of them sporting bandages. At most, Paivel could change the bandages after they had time to rest.
Ilen and Paivel sighed as they walked to meet them, shaking hands and exchanging greetings with the warriors before they passed the last aravel to rejoin their families. Many hugged their bondmates and whispered placating words in their ears as they noticed bandages or scooped their children off the ground to set them on a hip, already sharing their embellished tales of bravery to entertain them.
Others walked off to their own aravel, ready for a night's rest to recover. They had run quite a way to catch up to the Templars, not to mention fighting them and returning before the night had ended. Some were just putting on a show, walking as if they could do the run over again when, in reality, they were about five minutes from collapsing.
After greeting all ten of the other hunters, Ilen, Paivel and Cίrdan finally got to the three mages, the warrior and the Warden.
Merrill had one arm looped around Tamlen's waist, the other clutching to the spaulder of his armor to keep her up. Tamlen had his own arm around her waist as well, and seemed to be holding most of her weight. A quick look over from both Paivel and Ilen showed that she had no major or minor injuries, so they were ushered into their own aravel – one of the many gifts from others in the clan – quickly followed by Cίrdan. Ilen grinned as he already heard the aged Elvhen fussing over his new daughter, making sure she was totally healed and comfortable, despite the protests from Tamlen that he was very capable of taking care of his bondmate himself.
Marethari walked to her own aravel under her own power, exchanging greetings in the form of kind words, hugs, and gentle touches as she returned to her dwelling. She smiled at the two elders who had waited for her, receiving their grins in return. With a quick whispered exchange, she told them she needed some rest before explaining everything to them. As soon as dawn arrived, they could ask as many questions as they wanted.
Finally, the hahren turned to the final pair to enter the firelight.
Altáriël was fast asleep, held in the arms of Ronin with her head resting on his shoulder. She snored lightly, making the pair of elders laugh, though they quickly muffled their chuckles as Ronin shot them a glare. In hushed tones, he told them that she had nearly collapsed after spending a quarter of the journey trailing behind all of the other hunters. When she tripped over a tree root, Ronin had scooped her up before she could come close to hitting the ground. She had fallen asleep about two hours ago and had been carried the rest of the way home.
Altáriël's parents quickly came up and relieved Ronin of her, thanking him profusely in quiet tones as not to disturb her. As soon as her weight left his arms, the new Warden flexed his extremely strained muscles. Carrying anything, even a sixteen year old elf, for two hours was exhausting work. He nodded to his teachers before climbing into the aravel he and Ashalle shared, seeking his bed for slumber before he dropped to the wood floor beneath his feet. He stopped a moment to hug his adoptive mother, showing her that he was completely unharmed and assuring her that all the mages were home, safe and sound.
He then went for the cot in the corner, ready to drop at any second, unbuckling armor and weapons as he went. After running down Templars, taking them down, rescuing his clan, and carrying one of them back, he couldn't care where the weapons fell. He'd clean up in the morning, before he left.
Finally, he dropped into bed and fell asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow.
Ronin awoke an hour after dawn, tumbling out of bed in a heap as he tried to navigate the aravel without opening his eyes. He could see the light behind his closed eyelids and knew it would be very painful to open them, so he pushed himself to his hands and knees and started blindly searching for his clothes and armor.
It was in this position that he heard the chuckles of both Tamlen and Merrill, watching him stumble around and bump his head off tables and the cot frame. Blearily, he saw them sitting on Ashalle's cot, hand in hand, and he growled as he squeezed his eyes shut again to the sound of their laughter.
Deciding to just get it all over with, he sighed, opened his eyes and swore several times as he managed to open his eyes directly in a beam of sunlight. Ronin jerked back, to increased laughter, and managed to snag his hooded long coat with his left hand. He slipped into it and pulled the hood over his eyes, finally sighing as the light shining in his eyes was muted, albeit slightly.
"Welcome back to the realm of the living, Ronin, my friend," said Tamlen, his fist trying to muffle his mirth. "We thought you'd sleep even longer."
"Stop bothering him, my love," said Merrill, elbowing her husband in the ribs, eliciting a small 'oof' from the warrior. "We wanted to see you off, as well as Ashalle, Marethari, Paivel, Ilen, Cίrdan, Theron and all the rest of the clan."
Shocked, Ronin stood up straight and looked out the doorway, trying to see if there was a crowd outside his door. He spotted a few faces turned in his direction, immediately ducked his way back to the cot, and scrambled around to pull the scattered pieces of his armor into arm's reach.
The newly bonded pair laughed again as the famed hunter and week old Warden struggled to get his weapon harness strapped to his back, his arrows back in their quiver, his fighting knives to their sheathes, and the throwing knives to his belt, shoulder spaulder, and boots. His mother's chest was quickly rigged into a suitcase with a small length of halla mane rope for ease of travel. A bag of first aid supplies – poultices, potions – herbs, bandages and the necessary tools to grind and mix all the ingredients needed for more sat at his feet. A second, smaller bag held enough trail rations to last for three days or so. Both bags were tossed into a rucksack, along with all the clothes Ronin owned besides the ones he currently wore and the bundle of arrows he had yet to put in his quiver.
With all that packed away and swung onto his back, his mother's slim trunk held in one hand, Ronin paused for a moment. He'd lived here so long, spent days inside during the rain or when the clan moved around, slept here in here with Ashalle within arm's reach should he ever have a nightmare or think something was out there in the dark.
This aravel was his home, this clan was his home, and this way of life was his home.
At the same time, it wasn't. He'd lived two childhoods, lived with parents and an adopted mother. Ate processed foods and hunted for his meals. Shot a bow at targets and animals and humans. Fought for points and time limits and to kill his opponents and preserve himself and his people. Got scars and broken bones from cars and shields and blades and computer desks.
Amazing how a week and a half could change a guy, he thought as he pulled the straps tighter against his frame. Time to be a Grey Warden
The crowd of every Elvhen in the clan – minus the one or two sentries atop several aravel – stood outside the dwelling of the newest Grey Warden. The first Warden from the Elvhen clans in over four Ages. Four hundred years since the time of Garahel and the Archdemon Andoral…
He would be missed, as all elves that leave the clans are. It was disheartening to lose one of their own, but they recognized the reason why he must leave. He had been sick and, in exchange for his healing, he would join the Order who protected all Elvhen in Thedas, along with the shemlen and durgen'len.
That was a reason worth leaving the clan for.
He emerged from the aravel, a rucksack hanging from his shoulder over the quiver and fighting knife sheathes harness, the hood of his long coat hanging from the back of his neck, and the long black case in his left hand. His face was grim under the black vallaslin covering his face, his eyes sad and afraid.
He met his mother at the foot of the short set of stairs, wrapping his arms around her as she did the same. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, hiding his suddenly wet eyes from the rest of the clan. Others smiled sadly at this attempt to keep from embarrassment, knowing exactly what he was doing but playing along. They all turned to their neighbors and spoke of simple things to cover the words being whispered between mother and son, letting them exchange private goodbyes despite being in the middle of a crowd.
Paivel, Ilen and Cίrdan moved up behind him, two of them placing one hand on his shoulders and the last placing his hand on the back of the hunter's neck. Others came up behind them and did the same to Ashalle and others, not touching Ronin themselves, but showing their support of him all the same.
Ronin raised his head, brushing away the few tears that had escaped and noted the entire clan standing around him, each holding onto one another in a giant web that centered on him. He smiled, taking in all the connections from the young children to the oldest hahren. They all support me, even though I'm leaving them…
With a final tight hug from Ashalle and several handshakes from most of the hunters and elders, a path opened up for the Grey Warden. As he stepped closer and closer to the edge of camp, many of the clan added items to his nearly half filled rucksack. Several hunters added trail rations, spare bow strings, ironbark throwing knives, fishing line and hooks. Others added a few extra tunics and breeches, sewing supplies, flasks of the alchemical mixtures used in ironbark crafting, and extra sheets of leather and oil for the care of his armor.
By the time he reached the outer circle of the aravel, his rucksack was almost full. He shifted the strap across his shoulder as to better manage the weight and to make sure the quick release knot was within easy reach. Should he walk into a possible combat situation, he would need to move quickly and the rucksack would only hamper his ability to defend himself. All the bottles and flasks in the bag were wrapped in cloth and kept near the center, so unless it was totally crushed, they would remain in one piece.
He was so engrossed with his last minute check of his equipment that he jumped three feet in the air when startled by a small hand grabbing his sleeve. Despite the instinctual impulse to throw a knife and ask questions later, Ronin turned to find a bundle of cloth shoved into his face.
Gathering the material under one arm, he managed to see Altáriël smiling, albeit sadly, a few feet away.
"You almost forgot your new cloak," she said, eyes simultaneously showing suppressed laughter and sorrow.
With a raised brow, Ronin shook out the bundle and was surprised to find a heavy cloak in his hands, lined with wolf fur. The same wolf he had tanned with Altáriël more than a week ago, back in simpler times…
"Winter is coming," Altáriël muttered, looking out into the forest. The leaves had yet to change fully from green to brown, red, and yellow, but all the Elvhen could sense the shifting that would soon send cold air to their forest. "I figured you might need something warm in the days to come."
Ronin smiled, swinging the cloak about his shoulders to judge the fit. He immediately felt much warmer as he pulled it tight around him, noting that it was meant to be a replacement for the lighter coat he wore currently. A slight thrum through his right arm hinted to enchantments upon it, so he took it off and noted the runes stitched into the thick cloth with luminescent, lyrium soaked threads, just under the fur lining of the collar.
"Keeper Marethari helped me with the enchanting," Altáriël supplied at his questioning look. "Regular cloth only gets you so far."
He smiled at that, making the young Elvhen mage with a crush blush heavily. Before she could duck away to hide her embarrassment, he caught her in a bear hug, lifting her off her feet and swinging her around in a quick spin.
"Thank you, lethallan. I will treasure it," Ronin said, talking in low tones into her ear. He set her down, but didn't let go. She hadn't let go either. "I'll be back before you know it. I promise."
She smiled at that and loosened her grasp, letting him step away to stow his new cloak in his ruck. Altáriël stepped back, joining the crowd who still stood behind their departing hunter.
With a final look back at all the faces he'd lived with for the past nineteen years and a drawn out sigh, Ronin faced northwards to the forest, pulled the hood of his coat over his head and headed out into the trees.
Behind him, he could hear the clan singing, their voices low and quiet, barely heard over the ambient sounds of the forest. It was a song of remembrance and sorrow and it pulled at his heartstrings. Suledin, a song of endurance and emerging from sorrow…it brought tears to his eyes all over again.
I wish I could stay, but if someone has the ability to change the world for the better, he has a moral obligation to do so. Or, he thought as he crested the first hill away from his clan, perhaps Uncle Ben said it best…with great power comes great responsibility. Though I do prefer the National Treasure version…how did it go? Whatever…I remember the gist: If there's something wrong, those who have the ability to take action have the responsibility to take action.
It was after three days of travel that Ronin found another soul wandering the Brecilian Forest.
He had enough dried rations to make it to Denerim and back without bothering to hunt and kill for his meals, but he preferred to keep those in reserve. Just in case he was injured by some freak accident and needed to hole up for a week…and he wanted to keep his skills sharp. Hunting and foraging were in his blood.
He'd stopped for an hour long break at midday, enough time to rest and finish the last of the rabbit he'd shot the day before. A little boiled water, some herbs, plus the rabbit made for a lovely stew. Half he had sliced thinly and dried over the fire while the rest was added to the stew.
It was then he could hear the bushes crashing and shaking. From his position atop a ten foot cliff, his feet dangling off the edge as he snacked on rabbit jerky strips, he could easily see a deer – a four point buck – running through the trees…as fast as it could with two arrows in its rear haunch.
A quick look from the way it had come showed a pair of bow wielding hunters chasing after it. One of them leapt over a fallen tree, arrow drawn in midair, and let loose in a third attempt to stop the animal. He landed heavily and rolls to avoid hurting himself, missing the arrow's flight which passed on the deer's left and landed with a thud into the tree it had just deked around.
Rolling his eyes, Ronin jumped to his feet and readied his own bow. Ironbark creaked almost imperceptibly as he led the target, his broadhead unwavering, ready to bite into the deer's flesh and end its suffering. He waited till it leapt into the air, the white tailed deer trying to clear a fallen log as the Elvhen hunter released his missile.
Both of the human hunters were shocked to see the black shaft sprout from the side of the deer, punching deep into its body an inch behind its foreleg and six inches above the bottom of its chest. It immediately dropped to the ground, ploughing through the dirt to come to a rest after its legs cut out beneath it.
"What in the Maker's Name?" asked one, easing the tension from his bow with an incredulous look on his face. He'd never seen a black shafted arrow suddenly appear in a deer he'd been trying to kill for the last ten minutes. "Where did that come from?"
His fellow hunter looked up at a flicker of movement atop the small rock face that they had driven the deer towards. He nearly panicked at the sight of a man wearing earthen toned clothing and armor, a dark blue bow in hand and a quiver of arrows across his back. The wind gently blew at the tails of his long coat, making them flap slightly in the westerly breeze as the hunter atop the cliff replaced his second arrow.
"Um…Richard?" asked the second, pointing up the cliff, his other hand keeping the arrow on his bow.
Richard followed the pointing hand, immediately drawing his arrow back as he took in the hooded figure on the precipice.
The hood swivels slowly to them from where it was aimed in the direction of the deer. The sun was directly overhead and the trees diffused most of the light, so they could barely make out the man's chin, let alone his eyes or other features.
"Who goes there?" challenged Richard, his bow still trained. "James, help me out here."
James immediately drew his own arrow back, worried now. The man was either Chasind, which meant there is probably more than one around and very dangerous; or one of the Dalish Elves, whose dislike of humans was a well-known tale, along with their preternatural quickness and skills at combat. Either way, the possibility of them surviving was decreasing.
Much to their surprise, the man simply stepped off the cliff, plummeting down the rock face for a second or so before crouching at the base. He raised his hands after stowing the bow across his back, looping it over the quiver, and strode forward slowly.
"Andaran atish'an, shemlen," he said, keeping his hands up with fingers spread. Richard and James realized he was an elf, slightly shorter then themselves…this fact made them remain uneasy, despite the knife ear's empty palms. Tales of Elvhen speed could be exaggerated, or possibly even be true. He might be fast enough to draw a weapon and dispatch them both…
"Ah, abelas…" the elf trailed off. "…Forgive me. I have not used the Common Tongue in many days now."
"Why'd you kill our deer?" asked Richard, arrow still tight on the string but no longer aimed at the elf's heart.
The covered head tilted, a flash of a smile appearing. "With two arrows in its hindquarters, the animal would have been in some pain. I was merely putting it out of its misery."
At their surprised exchange of glances, he spoke again, his voice halting and stumbling slightly over words as if they were unfamiliar to his tongue. "I mean you no harm. I'll not steal your kill. If you wish, I will merely retrieve my arrow and be off."
"Since you helped us bring it down, you should take a little more than just your arrow," replied James, removing the tension from his bowstring and replacing the arrow in his quiver. He waved a hand at Richard, who shot him an almost panicked look, but lowered his bow all the same.
"Richard, go get the horses, if you please," he said smoothly to his fellow hunter. Richard nodded once and kept a wary eye on the elf as he started walking back the way he came. He then said to the elf, "It's the least we can offer."
The elf tilted his head to one side, his mouth quirked as if in puzzlement. "You are not hostile to the Elvhen?"
James laughed as he strode forward and stretched out a hand, which the elf nearly missed in surprise. He shook the hunter's hand firmly, not trying to crush the proffered hand but merely squeezing tightly. "I hold no ill will to any of the Elvhen. I'm on good terms with one, actually."
James drew a leather necklace from beneath his tunic and hung it just in front of his eyes. It was a small Sword of Mercy, carved from ironbark. "I am James Fletcher. I saved an elf from one of your clans when he would have died from a bear attack during one of his solo hunting trips. He was an apprentice to the Craftmaster and made this as a little keepsake. When I left him with his clan, he thanked me and he gave me this. Told me to show it to any elf who might be hostile against me."
Ronin peered closely at the pendant in wonder. Not many would carve a human's religious icon out of a crafting material unique to the Elvhen. He didn't recognize the artist's marks on the back, but he did recognize the clan marking, an outline of a diving raptor. The mark of the Halcyon clan, who roamed through the Korcari Wilds when not in Southern Orlais. Mostly, they only stayed in the southern parts of the Brecilian Forest, so the Sabrae only met them a few times over the years between the Arlathvhen.
"I am Ronin Mahariel, of the Sabrae clan, newly appointed Grey Warden," he said, pushing back his hood to look James in the eye. "It is an honor, James Fletcher."
The man smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. "Come on, then. This deer isn't going to skin itself."
A few hours later, evening had fallen upon the forest and a warm campfire sat flickering a few feet from the cliff face. A rack kept the deer hide stretched tight next to a line strung between two trees with hanging strips of meat. Whatever meat that hadn't been tucked into barrels of salt or hung up to be dried over the fire sat in a pot above the flames, cooking merrily as James tended to it.
"Why do you trust that the elf won't attack us in our sleep or something, James?" Richard asked in a whisper, glancing around at the huge trees surrounding them, as if the elf would appear at any second. "He could be doing anything out there, not collecting herbs like he said…"
"I respect him and showed him as much. If I had shot at him or insulted him – hand me those wild potatoes – he'd have responded in kind," said James, idly tasting the stew. He shrugged and added a pinch of salt and the chopped wild vegetables Ronin had found earlier.
"I still don't trust him," growled Richard, chopping another potato with excessive force.
A sudden growl from the darkness behind him made him freeze in mid slice, the knife an inch from the tubers. He swiveled slowly, not breathing, to find a pair of yellow eyes looking at him from the gloom. Suddenly the nervous whinnies from the horses were clearly heard. James hefted his own knife at the sight and slowly rose from his cross legged position on the forest floor.
"Don't move," whispered Ronin, appearing from the blackness to his right, his cloak making him blend in with the mixing shadows and foliage. His entrance nearly had Richard jumping away in shock if not for the firm grasp the elf had on his arm. "It's only a wolf."
"Only a wolf?" Richard hissed back, his eyes wide and voice pitched an octave higher, making it slightly squeaky. "Shoot it!"
"He's just hungry, just being curious," Ronin replied as he slowly let the hunter go and stepped closer to the wolf. "James, toss me a couple of strips."
"Maker's breath, you'd better be right," said James in answer, watching the predator with frightened eyes, and threw the meat to Ronin.
With a quick motion that he made look graceful, Ronin caught the meat and held it out to the wolf, meeting its yellowed eyed stare with his own. It approached him slowly, as wary of the elf as he was of it.
When it stepped into the light, Ronin nearly choked while James and Richard nearly scrambled in their haste to put their backs against the stone cliff at the sight. Ronin had made a small error. It wasn't just a wolf…
It was a dire wolf.
Its fur was dark, a deep dark grey that went to pure black at its gigantic paws and the tips of its ears. Its eyes were a deep rich gold, looking very intelligent, almost human, despite being in an animal. Shiny white teeth that looked sharp as razors were bared beneath slightly raised hackles, but not outright shown as if in an aggressive stance.
As compared to a regular grey wolf, the largest of grey wolves would be the average dire wolf. This wolf was much larger. At the shoulder, it looked to be at least three and a half feet tall and about six feet long. It was built much heavier and wider than the wolves Ronin had seen as a human and, if he remembered correctly, probably weighed at least a quarter more than any of modern day wolves.
Suddenly, half-standing, half-crouching in front of Earth's largest wolf and one of Thedas' more dangerous predators was not such a good idea…
Oh, this is bad, thought Ronin, very, very aware of the larger than life wolf in front of him. The fact that a dire wolf had a much stronger bite than its more modern cousin kept flitting across his mind and it was playing havoc with his adrenal glands, his fight-or-flight reflex in full swing. Oh, bad, bad, bad.
Seeing a wolf up close and through a pair of binoculars were very different things, particularly when the former situation meant that said predator could easily eat him…
Ronin could hear the rattle of arrows against bows behind him and hoped that, if the beast leapt at him, Richard and James could kill it before it killed him...or savage him too badly. All the injury poultices in the world wouldn't help him if that wolf got a hold of him.
Forcing himself to breathe, he laid the meat on the ground and slowly backed away, keeping his eyes locked on the wolf's. Once he bumped his back against the stone, he pulled one of his fighting knives from its sheathe and hoped he wouldn't need to use it.
The hahren had described a pack of dire wolves hunting a herd of wild halla when he was a child and the dreams he had that night had been horrific. It was all coming back to him now and it scared the hell out of him.
The wolf sniffed the meat, not once looking away from Ronin and the hunters, before scooping it up in its massive jaws. It let out a small huff and turned away, as if laughing at the human's and elf's reaction to its presence.
It was half an hour later before they could step away from the wall and try to eat the unburned bits of stew.
None of them turned their backs on the forest that night.
That morning, Ronin helped James and Richard load their meat laden barrels onto the horses and left with all haste, eager to leave the forest as quickly as possible. Meeting one of the biggest predators of the forest was enough for the rest of their lives. They left on a western path, heading for Ironbrook, while Ronin followed the river north, heading to Dragon's Peak, which could be glimpsed now and again in the gaps between the trees.
Every now and then, he felt the fine hairs on the back of his neck rise. He'd always look over his shoulder, check every shadow, every bush and fallen log that could hide anyone or anything, but he'd not found a single thing for the entire day.
It was late in the evening on the sixth day when Ronin crested the last hill between him and the capital city of Ferelden. The city stretched high above the horizon, being built at the base of Dragon's Peak and extending up it along its slope, and the castle sat even higher. Several smokestacks belch black fumes into the air, most likely cookhouses, bakeries or blacksmiths. He could smell the smoke from here, tinged with the scent of bread, meat and metal.
The West and North roads, which joined together maybe half a kilometer from the gates, were crowded despite the late hours of the day. By scent alone, Ronin guessed they were farmers, judging by the smell of wheat and corn. Winter is coming in a month or two…they must be selling their surplus from harvest to buy other supplies before the snow hits.
If he was back with his clan, he'd have been making runs to the closest town for the foodstuffs and supplies they couldn't produce on their own. Metals and spices were the usual purchases/trades, since the Elvhen did not mine or cultivate plants…very often, anyways…
He decided to keep his ears covered and his tongue Common. Most humans didn't respond well to Elvhen bearing weapons. Made them nervous…mostly for good reason. With the Dalish hatred for driving them from their lands still going strong and those of the Alienage resenting their position as second class citizens, an armed elf would make quite a few humans very nervous should they get within range.
He merely fell into step beside a wagon full of grain, immediately blending in with the farmers and hunters eager to get into the city before night fell, despite the vallaslin on his face uncovered by his spelled hood. He made sure that all the dragonbone weapons of his father's, his mother's bow and the journals they had both kept were tucked out of sight, since they were more than likely worth the entire wagon's weight in gold. He kept his other weapons on display, since he'd been forced to scare off several small groups of bandits through force of arms, especially after his encounter with the two deer hunters.
The bandits hadn't responded well to several arrows in their arms and legs…non-lethal wounds, of course, but damaging to both morale and mobility as several of them acquired wounds in as many seconds. They stopped following when the arrows began to whittle away at their ranks. He'd moved up to lethal attacks when they just kept throwing men at him.
The guards didn't look twice at him as he walked through the gates, thinking he was just added security for the farmers. Bandits need food and other supplies as well, so a guard or two with a wagon was not uncommon. More often than not, a hunter and a farmer would make a deal for mutual security.
The streets of Denerim were very different than he remembered from his gaming days, as he actually had to walk through the streets to the market square, as compared to just fast traveling to it. He'd seen the map of the city enough times to know where some of the main places were, such as the docks, the Pearl, the general area of the markets, and where Fort Drakon should be. How to get there is another matter.
Due to the late hour, he'd probably be refused entry to the Royal Palace, or even the wealthier sections of Denerim around it, especially if he had to remove his hood and reveal himself to be an elf. Instead of trying to find the castle, Ronin decided to find an inn, particularly the Gnawed Noble Tavern. If memory served correctly, the tavern was in the Market District, unfortunately in the opposite direction of where he wanted to go. On the other hand, he needed to stop by the Chantry to deliver the Templar talismans and impart the Dalish's warning.
He would've tried for the Pearl or the Alienage, but he only had so long before night fell – an hour or so at most, judging by the sun – and the cutthroats came out to play. He was sure he could take on a few, but they had the home turf advantage. They knew the best places to set ambushes and the best ways to escape if they bit off more than they could chew.
Meeting someone like that was not on his list of things to do tonight.
Taking a chance, Ronin followed the only cobbled road through the city from the gates, which led to the Market District, luckily enough. The streets were mostly empty, probably since most farmers would rather bed down with their harvest than leave it out where thieves had ready access to it.
All the stalls were almost as he remembered them from in-game, with only a few differences here and there. The stalls were all closed for the night, each with a guard posted right next to the large locked crates that held the stall's goods. If memory served, an herbalist, a jeweler, an imported goods dealer and a Tevinter Antiques dealer sold their wares in the four main stalls, but that was in the game, ten years from now.
He wasn't sure what was in the chests now, but he didn't want to try and find out, only to worry the four armed guards, whose hands didn't seem to drift far from the hilts of their swords. A hooded, heavily armed figure walking through the market in the evening was something a bit odd and worthy of notice. One such man showing a clear interest in the crates would be especially noticeable.
Ronin walked past the Chantry, nodding at the pair of Templars standing on guard at the doors across the small courtyard, and made his way to the tavern on the far side of the square. The door swung open easily, letting out an array of lights smells, and sounds: the flickering of candles and lanterns spaced about the room; the shadows thrown against the walls as people walked between the lights and the walls; the scent of roasted meat and fresh bread, along with the heady smell of ale and mead; the gentle murmur of conversations that rose and fell along with the shouts let out by the guests already too far into their cups and the clink of bottles as they were set down on the tables and tapped against each other.
It was different than he remembered. The bar along the back and the corridor to the several rooms off to the right were the same as the game, as well as the booths than ran along the walls, but there were several more tables between the door and the counter than he remembered. The door to the left, where the mercenaries and the Blackstone Irregulars representative would be, led to a room that was more square to the rest of the building than it was in game, rather than almost separate from the building and only connected by the doorway. He'd have to check how many rooms were down the corridor, but if there were more than two, he'd have to add that to his list of differences.
Behind the bar was a door to the storeroom, several barrels within sight through the open door to the right of a medium sized cooking fire in a brick fireplace with a few chickens and other small animals roasting on a pair of spits. To the left of the cooking fire was a rack over a second fire, on which several pans containing loaves of bread sat cooking. The bartender split his attention between the cooking food and the demand for drinks on the other side of his countertop.
He was a tall man, probably between six and a half feet and six foot ten, much taller than Ronin. His was thin and lean, his forearms heavily muscled under the rolled up sleeves of a grey shirt. He wore a pristine white apron over it, spotless despite the number of intoxicated patrons he was serving, who had managed to spill several times across his bar, and the number of plates he was constantly receiving and handing out. He nodded and shook his head several times, not speaking at all. He didn't smile or frown, merely raising an eyebrow every now and again.
His eyes did widen slightly as the hooded form of Ronin appeared in his door, though he merely nodded in greeting. With a quick look over him, the bartender reached down and pulled a bottle from one of the shelves Ronin assumed were underneath the bar. A wooden plate was set down beside it, quickly filled with cuts of meat freshly carved from the roasting spits in the back and a few slices of fresh bread.
He shoved both food and drink at the elf, waving away the silver Ronin had drawn from his belt to pay for the food, grunting "First time" by way of explanation. He then pointed to a table near the corner, nestled against the small L-shaped wall that stood by the corridor in the back. It was one of the more private corners, as the closest table was two or three meters away and anyone sitting in a booth would not be able to see whoever was sitting there at all.
Ronin carried his plate to the corner, balancing the bottle on the edge of the plate with a steady hand, only having to dodge once around a man in customized black and red armor, who shoved himself away from his table of laughing fellows to go fetch a refill for his own beer. Morons.
Once Ronin was in the corner and had placed his food on the table, he sat down on the surprisingly comfortable wooden chair, after dropping his bag, quiver/fighting knife harness, and case behind his chair, and propped his feet up on the second chair. The food looked delicious and he decided to try a tentative bite. This is delicious, he exclaimed mentally, eagerly digging into the food. I thought I was good with trail rations…this is amazing!
The bottle had a cork in the top and Ronin had a smile on his lips at the sight. He picked it up, bit down on the cork and yanked it from the bottle with a twist of his neck. Ever since Assassin's Creed IV, I've wanted to try that, he thought happily as he spat the cork onto the table, slapping his free hand down on the stopper before it flew off into the crowd. A quick sniff at the lip of the bottle filled his nose with the sweet smell of honey, along with several other herbs. He could pick out some mint and thyme in the mix, along with the heavy, almost musty smell of fermentation. He'd drunk mead in inns before, both as his human self and the Elvhen, but nothing had smelled like this…
Meh. When in Ferelden…he decided, and took a swig.
It took him several minutes to eat the chicken and bread, savoring each bite and washing it all down with the rather fantastic tasting mead. It was nowhere near the strength of Elvhen spirits, but that was to be expected, as humans had much smaller tolerance levels. He still had half the bottle left when he finished his plate, so he shoved the wooden dish to the edge of the table and leaned back on the chair, relaxing after the six day journey.
He looked up from his bottle when a young Elvhen girl came up to his table, collected his plate and stacked it with its fellows amidst empty bottles upon her tray. She barely paused for an instant longer than necessary to flash him a smile before she took off towards the bar. He watched her go, before noting other waitresses.
Several Elvhen women, young and old, scurried from table to table, collecting empty bottles and mugs and bringing out new, full ones, occasionally bringing food out to hungry patrons. They shared smiles with patrons, occasionally sharing short conversations with friendly patrons. They moved with quiet haste and sure step, deftly avoiding any drunken patrons' wandering hands…all, except for one.
The smallest elf server let out a small cry as one of the men, dressed in red and black leather armor with a white tabard overtop, caught her about the waist and pulled her into his lap, drunkenly pawing at her through the simple dress. She dropped her tray, spilling several drinks as she struggled to get back to her feet.
"Come on, Nessa," slurred the man. Ronin assumed he was a mercenary or a nobleman's guard, identified as such by the four others wearing the same garb at the same table. He couldn't identify the crest on their chest armor, a black dragon twisting in a red field, from either experiences as Dalish or human. The one accosting the waitress, Ronin recognized, was the same one who had nearly knocked the elf's food the floor. "You know you want to join us…"
Ronin sighed as he looked down to his mead, amber in the torchlight beneath clear glass. And here I was, enjoying myself, he mused, lifting the bottle to his lips. With several swallows, he drained the bottle, stood, and walked over to the table of red and black clad men. I really hope they're quite inebriated…otherwise, this might get dangerous…
"Let me go!" cried Nessa, fighting against the arm wrapped around her waist and trying to damage the man with her elbows and heels. It wasn't working, as his armor was rather thick leather and he was too sloshed to feel any of the blows.
"Come on, Athras!" called one of the men from across the table, shuffling a deck of cards. "Show that knife ear who's boss!"
He and his mates laughed, catcalling and whistling at Nessa's distress. They continued for a few seconds, until the card shuffler noticed the duster wearing form of Ronin, looming over Arthas and Nessa. All he could manage was a "Huh?" and pointed a finger.
Arthas looked over his shoulder, looking directly at Ronin's chest. His eyes flicked upwards to the Elvhen hunter's hooded face, spelled shadows obscuring his features. He scowled, angry at his fun being interrupted, and snarled, "Who the fuck are you?"
Ronin pitched his voice low and spoke quietly. He'd have no trouble being heard, since the bar went quiet at Arthas' loud challenge. He looked left and right without moving his head, noting that the surrounding tables were paying close attention. "The lady doesn't want to sit with you."
Arthas and the others threw their heads back and laughed, not believing this one man would stand up against five for an elf.
Nessa took this moment of distraction to throw an elbow, the point neatly thudding into Arthas' solar plexus, making him wheeze and double over despite the armor he wore. She leapt of his lap and scurried around Ronin, heading for the safety behind the bar. Ronin watched her go and saw that the barkeep kept one hand below the bar as she came to stand behind his shoulder. Probably has some weapon there.
Arthas recovered quickly, taking a few seconds to get his breathing under control before charging up from his seat. He made to follow the young elf, but his path was blocked by Ronin. Scowling again in pain and anger, he looked down at the obstacle in his path. He pushed forward, trying to move the smaller elf by force, and was surprised to be held at a standstill by the smaller man's outstretched hand.
"Get out of my way, whelp, before I run you through," he growled, hand sitting on the pommel of his sword. He stood half a foot taller than his hooded opponent and he could almost taste the quick victory. "Now."
"Go back to your drinks," Ronin said back in a low tone, looking up at the human. Arthas was a large bear of a man, wider than Ronin by quite a bit and looked to outweigh him by forty to eighty pounds. His nose had been broken and badly set, leaving his nose crooked. His eyes were dark and shifty, with a faint scar on his right cheek that was intermittently covered by chin length, brown hair. This should be fun…
"Do you know who I am?" growled Arthas, bending down low to put his eyes level with where he assumed Ronin's were. Ronin wrinkled his nose. The man had worse breath than the genlocks he'd faced in the Forest.
"No," replied Ronin, smiling the whole time, knowing that the grin would only provoke the man further. Sure, I'm egging him on whilst not looking for a fight, but if he does want a fight, he'll be less dangerous when he's mad, he thought, hoping Arthas would realize he's too drunk for a fight. "Do you know who I am?"
"No," the human replied, an almost puzzled look to his face.
"Good!" exclaimed Ronin, as he clapped the man on his shoulder and turned away, all the while thinking 'Don't do it, don't do it.' "Have fun."
The elf sighed as the human grabbed a hold of the lapel of his coat and pulled him back, rearing back his other hand to launch a punch. Time to go to work…he thought idly, sighing as he rolled his eyes.
In his right hand, he spun the empty mead bottle and grasped it by the neck. Bottles used as weapons in real life fights didn't break as they did in movies, and the glass of this bottle was twice the thickness than the machined bottles of the modern day.
Before Arthas could throw the first punch, Ronin slammed the base of the bottle into his forehead, the edge catching him right between the eyebrows. With his left hand, he slapped the base of the human's neck hard, timing it close enough to land as the bottle did.
Not expecting the blow, Arthas started to sway dizzily as the pair of strikes messed with his motor skills, mainly by targeting the cerebellum beneath the base of his skull with the palm strike. Ronin followed the compression strike with a downward slash of the bottle, breaking the human's nose with a nasty sounding crack. Blood immediately spilled out his nose and stained the tabard in a few little streams.
Ronin dropped the bottle and spun Arthas around, letting him sway for a second before kicking the back of one knee. Arthas immediately dropped to his other knee, only stopped from falling completely to the floor by the firm hand grasping him by the hair on the top of his head.
The other four stopped in the process of simultaneously drawing their swords and rising from their table as Ronin drew one of his fighting knives he'd tucked into his belt before he came over. He kept it away from Arthas, just in case he moved in some way that could end with him being stabbed in the neck due to his discombobulation.
"Put them away, boys," said Ronin, flicking a couple of fingers of his weapon hand at them dismissively. "I don't want to hurt you any more than I wanted to hurt your friend here."
One by one, they all drew their swords, each blade rasping against the steel rim of their scabbards. Ronin sighed and looked over the four new competitors. Two carried longswords, shields forgotten at their feet, while the third carried a bastard sword, well-worn and dangerous looking, while the last wielded a greatsword with the precision of someone who knew how to use one.
The elf shook his head and pushed Arthas away from him, letting him hit the ground with a fresh howl of pain from landing face first on a broken nose. He took a step back and drew a knife from his boot, a seax he kept there for the sole purpose of replacing one of his fighting knives should he lose hold of it.
The humans began to close in on him, spreading out to encircle him on all sides. Not as drunk as I hoped, he thought, stepping back around a table to keep two of his opponents at a distance.
Great…just great…