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Much love to the darling Hermia for letting me bounce ideas off her and keeping my spirits up!
The Korcari Wilds were cold. Not just in temperature, either; the essence of the swampy land seemed to chill right down to your soul. Branches and brambles clawed at her, clinging and dragging her down to the soggy ground in an attempt to claim another victim. A haze seemed to float eerily around the entire marsh; whirling wispy clouds hugged the various Tevinter ruins like a desperate lover. Worst of all, there was no noise.
During her travel to Ostagar, she reveled in the sounds of nature: the calls of birds, the rustling of wind through leaves, even the sound of farmer's sowing the land. The Wilds were disturbingly quiet – even her breathing and footsteps seemed to be muted it this thrice-damned, Maker forsaken forest.
Catherine hated it. It was terrifying and freezing and dirty – so blasted dirty - and the company she had was not helping matters in the slightest.
She would never admit it, of course, but she had been extremely apprehensive about meeting her new 'brother'. It wasn't just that she was interested in pursuing blood magic – that was a good portion of it, though; it was the fact he was a Grey Warden on top of being a templar. Duncan had told her that Wardens only recruit the best; Catherine wasn't afraid of any run-of-the-mill mage hunter, but this man could prove beyond her and she didn't like that one bit.
Honestly, she could have bopped Duncan upside the head with her staff for making her worry so. Alistair, the almost-but-not-quite templar, was nothing to be afraid of. All she needed to 'adapt' to was the man's constant smiling and off-key whistling; by the Maker she had never been so tempted to shock someone in her entire life.
That being said, the man did have a sense of humor, which was more than she could say of any templar she had met before – even if it fell flat more times than not. On top of that, he was a fine male specimen. Very fine.
The other two gentlemen along for their lovely excursion out into the Wilds weren't as good-looking; Daveth, at least, was attractive and - more importantly – he was willing to flirt with her. He was all lithe muscle and obvious leering and Catherine adored finally finding someone who wasn't immune to her talents(Duncan), off-limits (Cailan), or so sodding ugly she couldn't find the willpower to look at him for more than a few moments (Ser Jory).
Ser Jory was a coward, and a hideous one at that. She could forgive the coward part; truth be told, she was terrified herself, but still at least she had to the good graces to put on a front – and look ravishing while doing so.
On top of the spooky forest, the odd company, and the ever-rising desire to smack Alistair, Catherine had killed for the first time.
Wolves, at least, she was able to handle relatively well; as a mage she was able to stand back from the fighting and thus was not covered in blood and fur and entrails which made her very happy to say the least. It was easy to rationalize: wolves were just animals, after all.
When they finally encountered darkspawn, she lost her lunch. Or, she would have, if she had anything in her stomach. They were... disgusting. More than that; Catherine could feel the wrongness emanating from their gray flesh; the feeling made her entire body almost shut down with the compulsion to heave. She had been practically useless during the first encounter and the weakness seemed to writhe through her body; demanding that she shiver cower like some frightened child.
It took her several minutes to collect herself – though she was happy to see that Jory and Daveth didn't seem to fair any better, even Alistair seemed rattled – and eventually the mage had decided to really look at the corpses, if only to attempt to prepare herself for further battles.
The eyes were... horrifying. Pools of ivory; so milky and smooth they seemed to beg you to be lost in their dead depths. Lips were non-existent, leaving a constant, cruel mockery of a smile; their teeth were near-obsidian in color, sharp and serrated. Worst of all was, despite all the monstrous changes, they looked human, or humanoid in the case of Genlocks.
Catherine could see what the darkspawn once were and it was a blood-curdling realization.
As they continued their trek, she adapted; Alistair always ran in first, with Jory in tow, while Daveth and she stuck to the shadows; him with his bow, she with her spells. They weren't perfect, of course; Catherine had singed them all on multiple occasions, Jory often left himself open for attack when he swung left, and Daveth had the tendency to be a little wild with his shots, but they were improving.
"We'll stop here for a moment; I don't sense any darkspawn nearby." Alistair said as they came across what looked to be an abandoned campsite.
The templar fished about in his pack, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth, until he managed to catch a slab of cheese and a large hunk of undoubtedly stale bread, muttering something about "food of Kings."
He cut a piece of both foods and passed it out mechanically as everyone took their seats on some conveniently placed logs. Daveth, of course, took the opportunity to sit by her; too close to be considered 'just friendly' and too far to be truly offensive – he was good.
"So, sweetling," the rogue said through large bites of his dinner, "how'd a pretty girl like you wind up stuck with the Wardens?" Daveth swallowed and gave her a toothy grin. "Though I'd guess it's far better for you to be out where lucky men such as myself can have a good looksy."
"Daveth! Don't be so rude." Jory interjected. Catherine stifled a sigh.
"I ain't bein' rude, ser knight; a woman likes to know she's good-lookin'!" Daveth locked eyes with her and gave her a nudge. "Ain't that right?"
Catherine's lips curved into a playful half-smile. "Oh, quite right, indeed." she answered, nudging him back. "After all, I've been locked away my entire life; you don't get too many compliments when courting consists of tapping someone on the shoulder and whispering a room number."
Alistair coughed and pounded his chest in an attempt to not choke on the final bits of his poor excuse for dinner and Jory looked positively scandalized.
Her partner in crime, however, just grinned as he finished his meal. "Huh. No rooms 'round here." he commented, eyes never leaving her own. "So would a shoulder tap do or have you got new rules now, pretty lady?" He waggled his eyebrows and there was continued sputtering from over where the prudes sat.
"Hmm" Catherine licked her lips to clear off the remnants of food. "I don't know. It's so different out here. People are so..." She made a vague hand gesture towards the knight and the templar, before arching a wry brow towards Daveth. "What do you think I should...do?"
The heated way she uttered that last word was not lost on the cut purse and Catherine could barely contain the whoop pleading with her throat to be released when he let his gaze wander up and down her body.
"Oh-ho!" he cheered. "Yer a saucy one, ain't ya, sweetheart?" Daveth's tongue darted out. "Oh, yeah. I can think of a few things. Maybe we could--"
"Okay! That's quite enough, thank you!" Alistair interrupted, seemingly unaware of the daggers being glared at him. "What you're doing is liable to scare off the Archdemon, and just imagine how boring things would be!"
He gestured toward a large ruin off in the distance. "Let's get a move on, shall we?"
Alistair and Jory marched off, sticks firmly planted up their behinds, as she and Daveth brought up the rear.
"Maker, they just can't take a sodding joke, can they?" Catherine asked, more to herself than anything else.
The rogue by her side snorted. "Them? C'mon, sweetling, you gotta know the type." He shook his head. "All morals and religion and actin' like their shit don't stink. Like to pretend they don't think what us normal folk say."
The mage let out a heavy sigh. "I suppose. It's a shame, really." Her mouth twitched. "Although I think it'll provide entertainment, if nothing else."
Daveth bumped his shoulder into hers and pouted. "Aw, you just wanted to get them two hot and bothered?" he asked, voice pitched higher like a disappointed child.
She rocked back against him and let out a husky chuckle, picking up speed to get a bit ahead of him. "You'll have to think of something for me to do and find out, won'tcha, Daveth." Catherine purred, sauntering up closer to the front of their pack.
A loud whistle of appreciation and admiration echoed through the misty air; her hips rolled just a bit more in response.
As the odd band of Wardens approached the vine-covered, dilapidated tower, Catherine couldn't help but smile. Being a Warden didn't seem so bad; she had at least one person she could happily goof off with, and Duncan's had a penchant for putting her in her place – not something she usually liked, but she could never find a way to argue with the impossible man.
She could do this; be a Warden; a killer; a protector. She could be like Duncan; pragmatic and cool but not cruel, not malicious.
Catherine felt, for the first time, she was a Grey Warden. Not just a recruit; not just some lucky mage who managed to get the right person's attention.
She had been a Grey Warden from the start, and it was damn time the title finally caught up with her.