The Keep: once Nate's childhood home, previously owned by the Mayor Rendon Howe, and now by Cece for the rebuilding of the Warden club after the last base in Southern Ferelden was destroyed. A stronghold built on old farmland, buildings converted to garages, metal doors opened to warehouses with high ceilings. Walls lined with steel cabinets and drawers held tools to work on the lines of bikes stored in the covered space. Makes and models of cruisers in different shapes, sizes and colors lined the warehouses; some owned by Wardens, others by residents of various parts of Amaranthine.
The club vice-president, Nate, returned to the Keep and parked his bike along with the rest of the small team. Motorcycles of other Wardens, recent recruits still early in phases of joining the club remained unused. The group turned their engines off and headed into another building. Solid brick walls, double doors opened to a common area. Framed photographs of motorcycles and notable Wardens lined the hallways on either side of the common room. A stairway led to upstairs rooms, including the president's office, bathrooms, and bedrooms for the Wardens. A separate building held more Warden quarters, though currently unoccupied in the clubs state of rebuilding.
They rested after their ride, returning late, Nate reported to Cece and she advised waiting to determine a plan until the next morning. Other obligations kept her busy: letters from Denerim, politicians and special interest groups- concerned about their stock in the Amaranthine products and purchases- asking the Wardens for assistance under-the-table.
After meeting with Cece, Nate went to his room. Simple, well-kept, a queen-sized bed and a dresser took up most of the room. The same place he slept in through his childhood, changed over time to match his interests and age. The only room with a private bathroom besides the Queen's, Nate used the standing shower before drying off and going to bed. Tired after the day's events, he found sleep quickly.
"Cece!" A voice hollered from outside, followed by a loud bang on the double doors of the main building the next morning.
The noise from downstairs woke Nathaniel. Attempts to go back to sleep failed as the noise continued. Groggy, he sat up, rising from his bed to grab a shirt from his dresser and a pair of jeans off the floor. Through his sleepy stupor, he pulled the clothes on over his lean frame, only to hear another round of beating on the door.
"Cece! I know you're there. And I know you're housing at least one unregistered mage."
Agent Carroll. Nate shook his head, grumbling as he stepped out of his room to investigate the pesky Templar. He made it a few steps down the stairs into the common room before he heard Cece harping at the agent.
"He's a Warden now," Cece snapped, matching his raised tone with her own. "That's our deal. You leave them alone once they're inducted."
"The Captain wants me to tell you that the deal only works if you keep up your end of it." Nate reached the bottom of the stairs, seeing the Queen's arms crossed as she stared at the taller Templar. His eyes kept traveling over her shoulder into the common room. "The Darkspawn problem is almost as bad as it was before and now you're assaulting civilians."
"We healed him!" Anders yelled from the upper floor without showing his face.
The political power of the Chantry entitled them to mandate mage rights within the country. Even with advancements in science, research provided unclear answers for the sources of mages' abilities- aside from some genetic component. Worse, there was no explanation for the cause of some mages' loss of control of their powers. Parliament continued to vote, even after extensive and heated debates, in favor of continuing to give the Chantry's Templar division power over the wielders of magic.
Cece chuckled internally at Anders declaration before she squinted at the Agent. Arms still crossed, she lifted her chin. The Templar shifted on his feet as the club president stared at him in intimidating silence. Voice low, steady, she spoke, "we're working on the Darkspawn problem, Carroll. Don't worry, your lyrium shipments from Orzammar will be fine." The successful eradication of the Darkspawn promoted trade, including the flow of lyrium supply, through the Northern Ferelden regions and promoted a healthy economy for the rest of the country.
"Work harder or your club's going to be shut down," he retorted, his finger pointing into the clubhouse as he spoke. "You're only permitted to gather because you seem to be the only people who can stop them. You have no power beyond that."
"I said we're working on it," Cece reminded. Her frown deepened and the grinding of her jaw made her temples twitch. "It would be a shame if someone brought up the Chantry's off-the-record involvement in the lyrium trade at the next parliament meeting. Maybe you should remind your captain."
Agent Carroll shook his head and gave a frustrated scoff, disregarding her last statement. "You don't own the roads, Cece."
Cece's head turned towards the stairway, "Nate, get me Lord Guerrin on the phone!"
The woman's bull-headedness always impressed Nate, having known her since she was a child. She was like a little sister to Nate; a stubborn, impatient, and tenacious little sister. Nate reached into his pocket to grab his cell phone to support her threat to the Templar agent. But the tension released with Cece's last statement; she won the argument.
"Fine!" Agent Carroll yelled in exasperation, arms rising in the air as he walked to his car. As he drove away, Nate, Anders, Oghren and Siggy joined Cece in the doorway.
"He's right, though," Siggy chirped, her hands on her hips. She looked up to her Warden counterparts. "We need to do more about the Darkspawn. They're getting out of hand."
The sound of a bike approaching halted their conversation. As it neared, an older gentleman emerged from an open garage. Pants stained with blotches of oil, hands dirty from working on bikes, he called to the Queen. "Who's this? I don't have any drop offs scheduled."
"I don't know, Varel," she voiced back, walking toward the space between the main clubhouse and the garage. She left the other Wardens by the main door.
The Warden clubhouse also operated as a motorcycle mechanic's shop. Varel, not a Warden himself but a native to the Keep, he directed prospects' work on bikes as part of their induction and other maintenance of the Keep.
"That bike looks familiar," Nate murmured to his clubmates, recognizing the custom gold leaves painted on the green tank from their venture on the Path the day prior.
The volatile woman from their meeting yesterday parked her bike in front of the clubhouse. The group of Wardens and the mechanic Varel studied her as she walked to Cece.
This'll be good. The amusing thought passed through Nate's mind. Cece's tolerance with people, in general, was already slim; for those who were obnoxiously aggressive, it was non-existent.
"You're the Queen?" Vel asked, walking across the parking lot toward the president of the MC.
"I am," Cece watched with a critical stare; she sensed her Wardens walking behind her. "You must be the apostate blowing up trucks on the Path."
Apostate, an old term used to describe mages free from the Chantry, now considered politically incorrect and ill-suited. Nate knew Cece's views towards mage rights were liberal, but she still used the word. Both of them born to wealthy families, outdated vernacular dulled the poshness of her accent.
"Yes," Vel answered, her nose twitched in annoyance. "I need your help."
"Well, that's an interesting turn." Anders snickered to Oghren as they walked to Cece. "She needs our help now!" His voice remained low, but the rest of the group, including Vel, heard him.
"Your right-hand said Darkspawn likely abducted my sister," Vel explained. Straining to remain calm, to keep her voice steady, she softened her expression with effort. "I want to get her back and I know you're the only ones who can help. I want to become a Warden."
Head tilted, thinking, Cece's eyes traveled from Vel to the sky. She pursed her lips, cheeks tight in a look of displeasure. "I'll need to think about it. You can apply with Gary to be a prospect in the meantime." Another native to the Keep and also not a Warden, Garavel, or Gary as most called him, was in charge of applicants to the club and managing security of the grounds.
"Please," Vel's brows lifted in a meager plea. It was apparent the woman rarely begged. "I have nothing left. I need to save her."
Cece's eyes narrowed as she scanned the mage. The other member's of the club waited quietly, breath held, curious what the Queen would rule on this new addition. We could use another mage, Nate thought to himself, hoping Cece considered this facet.
"All right." The Queen shrugged, her lips pulling to an amused frown. "You'll live here. Go back and get your things. You'll be initiated tomorrow." The elven mage nodded in reply, and Cece quickly turned on her heels to go back to her office upstairs. On her way up the stairway, she yelled, "someone find her a room!"
Anders jumped on the opportunity to show the new potential member her way to a spare room while attempting to make small talk with the mage about her use of magic.
"Bourbon. On the rocks." Nate ordered a drink from the bartender at the Crown and Lion. "No, wait. Did you get that mezcal in from Antiva?"
"Just got it in a few days ago. Special ordered for you, Nate," the bartender informed before fixing Nate's drink and passing it to him.
Though the group was new as permanent regulars of the area, they had quickly made their presence known in Amaranthine, and in this pub in particular. Nate's own return to Amaranthine occurred a few months prior. Even though he was a born local to the city, most didn't recognize him. He was grateful, considering the political corruption with which his father was associated prior this death. Rendon's death, Nate came to discover through a private informant, occurred at the hands of Cece. It's what brought him home from the Marches.
But this particular night at the Crown and Lion, the Wardens celebrated Vel's induction to the club. Having slept off the effects of the initiation ceremony from the day prior, the elven woman's mood did not improve. Bitter, reticent, Vel sat uncomfortably among her new clubmates. The Wardens, in addition to their prospects, occupied a few tables in the bar, ordering drinks all around. Cece stayed at the Keep.
Drink in hand, Nate took a step to walk to his table. But as he did, a unique patron entered the pub and neared the bar. An elven woman, taller than most. She wore tight black jeans and a loose t-shirt that said 'Fuck the Chantry.' The A was an anarchy symbol: the text just visible from under her leather jacket. Intricate details of a tattoo spread across her face. She's Dalish. But tan, dark make-up shadowed her eyes and lips, smudged from what looked like a night of festivities. A metal ring circled the tail of one eyebrow; her lower lip was pierced twice and she had a hoop through the cartilage between her nostrils. Head shaved on one side, the rest cascaded to long, dark red messy tresses. The ends were damp as if she had been sweating. She was attractive in a rough and tumble sort of way. The woman appeared to be significantly younger than him.
Few rarely guessed Nate's age correctly, always assuming him younger. His life in the Marches prevented circumstances for dating, but on the rare occasion he took a partner, she was younger.
The woman seemed oblivious to his eyes on her as she ordered her drink and sat down at a booth. A few other patrons of a similar age and bearing entered after her. Some sat with her and others ordered more drinks at the bar.
"Nate!" A familiar voice called from his table, followed by the sound of snapping fingers. Anders waved his arms to Nate who stood just a step away from the bar. "Hello! Did you hear me?"
"What?" Nate asked, shaking his head as he resumed his short walk to the Warden's table and sat down. "Say that again."
"When will we start looking for Vel's sister?" Anders restated his question. The new recruit sat to Anders' right. "The lady need to know since that is why she joined and all." Vel rolled her eyes, annoyed by Anders effort at chivalry.
"I," Nate's gaze wandered back to the young woman a few times before he focused on replying to Anders. She smiled to her friends. "I don't know. Tomorrow, I'd imagine, now that Vel is one of us. Milady." He gave a courteous nod to Vel with his last statement.
"Would you both knock it off with this gentlemanly crap?" Vel barked at the two of them. She took a large gulp from a glass of red wine, then started a labored conversation with Siggy about the differences of their races' cultures.
Anders shook his head, then shrugged at Nate, confused and uninterested in seeking clarification with Vel about the intent of his politeness. He found a conversation with Oghren about their drinks. All engaged in dialogue with one another, including the prospects who were invited to join, Nate's attention wandered back to the elven woman across the bar.
She had a helmet resting beside her seat in the booth. Three-fourths and a bubble visor. She rides a cafe racer, no doubt. Her leather jacket was taken off; the ends of tattoos on her arms and neck crept out from under the fabric.
"Nate!" The rough sound of Oghren's voice called the vice-president from his intrigue with the unnamed woman. The dwarf sat to his right and patted Nate hard on the back. "Drink your damn drink or sod off! We're celebrating."
With an annoyed inhale, Nate's attention came to the table again. He took a generous sip of mezcal and quipped, "since when do you need the excuse of celebrating to drink, Oghren?"
Oghren's eyes narrowed at Nate as if momentarily offended until he chuckled. "I don't! But celebrating gives me an excuse to drink more." Nate rolled his eyes and snorted before taking another drink. "The whole quiet and stoic thing must get you a lot of action, huh?" The dwarf's question resonated genuine curiosity.
Nate's eyes glanced to the red-haired elven woman. She was laughing with her comrades, hand gestures indicated they were retelling stories likely from the event from which they came. "It might. Are you an admirer, Oghren?"
Mid-drink, the dwarf choked on his beer and coughed. "What? No!" With an uncomfortable laugh, he wiped droplets of ale from his beard. "I like you, Nate. But not like that."
"Good," Nate snickered. "I don't have to worry about drinking too much tonight."
Again his gaze moved to the woman, but now she was looking back. An intense stare, focused, sharp, and provoking. Tanned skin and high cheekbones, her pointed ears complimented her angled features. Nate's brows wrinkled, furrowing for a moment as he made eye contact with her. His confused fascination had but a moment to linger. She called a server to her table; as she spoke, she pointed toward Nate and paid cash.
Instigated by the mild buzz from his now finished drink, Nate's heartbeat quickened as he watched the server walk to the bar and put in the order. The bartender handed back a bottled drink which the server brought near Nate's table. To Damia: a Warden prospect at the end of Nate's table. The recipient of the drink followed the server's finger pointing to the tattooed woman across the bar. She winked in reply.
Nate snorted, entertained with his misguided eagerness. Defeated, he rose and returned to the bar top to get another drink, unwilling to wait for the server helping the Wardens to reach him. He squeezed between other patrons, the pub now filled with customers awaiting drinks, Nate stood in the noisy space for the bartender. Minutes dragged. The crowded area active, the bartender busy with large drink orders. Others pushed to the bar top next to him, joining the chaos to wait for their drinks. Servers were busy with attending to tables, the Wardens table requiring much of their time.
Then Nate realized the tattooed woman must have gotten up, now she stood by the Warden table, talking to the Warden prospect, Damia. Laughing, smiling, the mysterious woman was charismatic. She tucked Damia's hair behind her ear and whispered something before walking to the bar top. Nate shifted on his feet in discomfort and refocused his gaze to the wall of drinks on the other side of the counter. The elven woman stood next to him, joining in the wait for her turn.
Perhaps it was confidence provided by the strong alcohol, Nate found himself compelled to initiate conversation. "Hello." He turned his head to greet her. The young woman ignored him, frowning, her eyes locked straight ahead. "It looks like you ride," he made another attempt at a greeting.
"Yep," she gave a short response with no explanation, glancing to Nate at her side. Her eyes held on his sleeve of ink before she returned her gaze forward.
Her lingering stare motivated him. "Me too," he smiled, stepping in and reaching an arm through the people to stake a spot at the bar. She moved a step closer to the counter next to him. Even though the young woman had to have been around a decade younger than him, Nate's intrigue was heightened by her aloofness. Unclear of his intent, only knowing his curiosity was piqued by the peculiar elf, he asked another question. "Can I buy you a drink?"
"Nope," she responded without looking at him and showed two fingers to the bartender through the patrons sitting at the bar top.
She took my turn. Nate realized she used his courtesy to get her drinks faster. He huffed in amused annoyance.
The bartender saw her and nodded. While she waited, she turned to Nate. "'Specially not if it means you'll keep cock blocking me. Don't need a fucking donation from someone like you." Her drinks delivered, she took one in each hand and stepped toward Damia.
Charming. He laughed lightly at her admonishment, attracted to her brashness. A city accent. Her dialect suggested she didn't live on a reservation like most Dalish. She took a step away from him and he called out, "you don't know anything about me." The announcement intended to help him save face and rectify any suggestions of inappropriate motives.
One drink in each hand, she turned around and closed the space between them. The noise of the bar drowned out their small tiff. Her intense stare returned, serious, and now angry. She replied in a low growl. "Know you're the son of the criminal mother fucker, Rendon Howe."
Nate's hand lifted, urging her to lower her voice even more. He made a shushing sound, but she kept going. "You served in the military in the Marches for the last eight years, just got back, yeah?" Nate's eyes widened, startled by the information about himself she had procured. "I know the Wardens keep having problems getting rid of Darkspawn." She paused to breathe, her tangent stalling as she glared. "Someone else's got their eyes on your MC, old man. So you and your guys should probly figure that out 'stead of getting shite faced at the Crown and Lion."
She swiveled on her feet and stormed off, grabbing Damia from the Warden table and pulling her to the booth with her other friends. Dumbstruck, Nate looked around to confirm no one overheard the young woman's declarations.