"Who are you? What is your name?
You wish to leave; yet you'll remain
This night we play a most dangerous game
There is both rhyme and reason
And passion in my crimes"
-The Magician, Jex Thoth
Upon locating her tent, she lifted the flap and dropped her dress and sword on the bedroll that had been spread out for her, her eyes almost immediately drifting to the burlap bundle that sat on the chest she had taken the towel from earlier.
She let the towel fall to the ground and where it gathered around her ankles, and she crouched naked in front of the bundle, lifting the sewing pin that held a scrap of parchment to it.
Lady Elissa, you will soon abandon your title in order to pursue your fellowship with the grey wardens of Ferelden. Befitting a lady of your current status, let this be a token of my sympathy, my affection and my everlasting gratitude that it might serve to lift your spirits and protect you well in the days and years to come. I will send someone along shortly to fit you. Your faithful servant, Cailan R.
Her cheeks reddened in the privacy of her tent at the blatant meaning that bled through the inked words of Cailan's message. It was not an arguable fact that Kings were enitled to behave how they pleased and the intent of this message was clearly not meant to be missed by Elissa and she wondered; were things really going so poorly with Anora?
She cleared her throat and let the parchment flutter to the ground beside her and she unwound the bundled gift to find herself staring at a fine suit of light armour made of some of the richest leather she had ever laid eyes on; it was dark and supple, stained a rich chestnut brown.
She unfolded each article and examined it, taking into consideration the painstaking effort and amount of detail that went into each buckle and seam. This armour was built for practicality and speed and was likely of the design Cailan used for his lesser-known foot soldiers that saw little action on the field and more in the shadows, the ones who could be found working the tips of their daggers into jars of poison and fixing their arrowheads to their shafts with wax so that they might snap off in a targets body and kill him faster.
She tested the leather of one of the gloves provided; it was sturdy and tough, but still remained flexible due to the leather being fixed together to take into account the pivotal and intricate potential of fingers and wrists.
She shook her head and stood, her woo fading quickly at the realization that no gift like this came without expectation. Entirely befuddled, she pushed aside the rest of the armour and donned the fresh small clothes along with the breeches and tunic that were included. Truthfully, she preferred skirts to breeches, opting to ride side-saddle when her brother and she went riding, only donning pants of any sort the rare occasions she did fence in the yard or practice archery. She glanced in passing at the armour again when a glint of silver caught her periphery. Upon further inspection, set on the chest, no bigger than a sovereign was her family's sigil: A wreath of laurel crossed in the shape of uplifted wings.
Life is short, glory eternal...
The symbol of her house represented many things: While some houses bore fantastic and impressive heraldry, such as lions and falcons and stags, the Cousland's crest was unassuming to the eye and easily overlooked at first. Elissa learned from her youngest days however, precisely how intentional the meaning of those leaves were; laurel was a symbol of peace and protection, first and foremost. It was said to ward against evil spirits and demons. It was also said to be rich in magical properties (she normally neglected telling anyone that she knew this much,) but laurel was a cleansing plant that was said to increase ones awareness, both in this realm and the Fade. As a young girl, she found a chapter in a tome in the study telling of laurel placed under an individual's pillow at night granting them dreams and inspiration, poetry and a deeper connection to the world of the Fade itself. She always wondered if it could, but had never dared to find out...
In short, laurel was a powerful symbol. It did not boast the fierce claws and mane of a lion, nor the sharp teeth and raw strength of a bear, but it was a symbol of victory and connection.
"Lady Cousland?" A voice issued through the tanned leather of the tent and Elissa stood up, lacing her breeches hurriedly before pulling aside the flap.
The seamstress wasted no time stepping into the tent and pulling out a measure. She looked up at Elissa and with slight exasperation, sighed, "You mean you haven't put it on yet?" She asked rhetorically, her thin arms falling to her sides. "His Majesty told me to drop everything I was doing and hurry right on over here to get you fit up properly. Maker save me - you know I got at least a dozen men out there needing their breeches mended or their socks in need of stitchin' up?"
Flushing with shock at the way the seamstress spoke to her, Elissa opened and closed her mouth a few times before finding words. "I was bathing in the river... I only just got back." She straightened as tall as the tent would allow. "I may not be a Lady for much longer, but your tone is not appreciated, miss."
"Right." The seamstress said, tucking a shock of greying hair behind her ear and tossing the bodice of the armour at Elissa. "Like you said, you ain't gonna be a fancy Lady for much longer, so we might as well get this over with then, eh? I got work to do."
Elissa sighed and began fitting the pieces that compromised the splendid armour onto her body, reaching awkwardly around to tighten the buckles at the side, and fumbling as she tried to jam her linen wrapped knuckles into the gloves.
"Just leave those." The seamstress groaned.
So on went the cured leather breeches, and then went on the bracers, and then went the shin guards and so on until Elissa was fully covered by the elegant, fresh smelling leather, and she was pleased to find that for the most part it fit quite well; it was slightly loose at the shoulders and a little bit tight at the hip, but apart from that it felt surprisingly comfortable. Even the boots fit well.
The seamstress rushed and hmmm'ed and pressed her measure to Elissa's inseam, and wrapped it around her bust, and finally rocked back on her ankles, wiping away another strand of hair before delivering her verdict.
"It fits pretty right. Won't need much taking in. You're certainly tall enough to fit it, but you ain't got the muscle to fill it out." She laughed rather cruelly, "Don't know why King Cailan is sendin' you off to battle in this. You ever swung a sword in your life, my lady? Waste of good leather if you ask me." She stood and looked at Elissa expectantly and when the Lady of Highever just stared at her cluelessly she waved her hand at her, "Well take it off then! The Blight ain't gonna wait for a sodding piece of armor to be stitched!"
Relieved when the flustered seamstress left, Elissa bound her miserable hair with a leather thong and buckled her sword around her hip, leaving the tent to attack the next on her list of items to see through; the recruits apart from her. She knew herself well enough to know that the longer she sat in the tent alone, the more disengaged she would become, particularly after the seamstress's incredibly demoralizing speech.
She squinted into the low afternoon sun, and took her first few steps into the camp feeling like an actual fixture of it rather than a lost spirit caught in the throng of people. She passed stalls where good luck pendants and charms were sold, and she edged around stern looking Templars, all alike in their opulent armour, she nearly stopped at the blacksmith to see ask about his wares; she was not suited to a longsword and she wished to look at what other options she had, but with sadness she realized her entire fortune was left behind when she fled and had likely been looted and distributed amongst Howe's men; she hadn't a copper to her name for the first time in her life. All she had was her name, and in hours, that would be taken from her too. Selling the sword crossed her mind briefly, and she actually stood in place for a time, her hand wrapped around the hilt, withdrawing the weapon to half-length, considering the outcomes of the transaction.
"Fancy blade, that."
She looked up at the remark. A dogged looking man leaned against a heap of rubble. He had a mug of ale in one hand and a pipe in the other.
The sword slid back into its sheath with a clear ringing and Elissa surveyed the man.
"Well met," She said after a moment. "Grey Warden recruit."
"That easy to tell is it?" The man snorted, taking a long pull of the ale before reefing hard on the pipe. He coughed and a good deal of smoke billowed into Elissa's face; the foul odour caused her nose to itch. "Daveth, they call me. What name might match the face of the clever shrew interrogating me?"
"Elissa." She replied, wrapping her fingers around the hilt of her sword, if only for something to do with them. "Cousland. Though I am told that matters little anymore, for as Grey Wardens we are all to be equal."
Incredulity lit the narrow face of Daveth as he puffed on the pipe again and took another generous swig of ale. "A woman then? In the Grey Wardens? Didn't know they took women..." He swayed rather drunkenly.
Elissa smiled kindly, "I didn't know they took drunks."
"Nah." Daveth waved away the idea. "You got the wrong idea about me, pigeon. I'm a blighted cutpurse, not a drunk. It's just... seeing as I - we're to become Grey Wardens... may's'well take the time to celebrate my final hours of freedom in the best way possible: Drunk, 'n full of tobacco. I'm lucky for that, you know? I wouldn't be here drinking this watered down piss if it weren't for Duncan." He pointed slyly at Elissa, "You. What did you do to get conscripted?"
She laughed lightly, highly, cheerily. "Why, good Ser, I am only The Mad Cousland." She answered innocently before stalking away.
Only a man with nothing to lose would be drinking away his last night of freedom.
Daveth had made himself easy to pick out, and he had given away too much due to his lack of inhibition, but despite her efforts, she could not find the other recruit. No amount of asking pointedly, no observance of peculiar behaviour seemed to stand out; a potential recruit would be like Daveth, piss drunk, detached and fidgety like herself, or pacing and nervous like almost everyone else in the camp who didn't fall into the other two categories. In a place like this, with a battle of such magnitude hanging so close, it was nearly to impossible to judge based on intuition alone and it soon became clear to her that this other fellow didn't want to be found, so she wandered vaguely in the direction Duncan had indicated earlier, feeling just as lost as she looked.
Carried voices came from the top of the ruined stairs around the corner and she had been about to ascent them when something caught her eye in the wild growth jutting out between the cracked stones at the edge of the ruin's foundation; laurel leaves, small, fragile and new. She diverted her course without a thought and stooped over the young growths, transfixed by their survival in such a torn place. In the back of her mind she acknowledged that one of the two voices at the top of the stairs was being subjected to a most cruel jape; a most sarcastic sassing indeed. A mage from what she could hear, for she overheard the words "Chantry" and "Templar"...
She plucked a small twig of laurel leaves and tucked it behind her ear, advancing up the stairs in time for an incredibly flustered mage to crash into her shoulder with his own. No apology was offered and he only cast a foul look at her before disappearing into the camp.
Elissa frowned and massaged her already bruised shoulder. Were she at home in Highever, she would have felt entirely comfortable chiding the mage for his lack of attentiveness, but here in the wild, she was starting to realize that the world, with its drunks and young laurel bushes, was no longer at her mercy.
She lifted her hand off from her shoulder, noting that the linens around her hands were in need of changing; pale yellowish stains were spreading across her knuckles as her body worked to heal itself.
"Good day, Ser." She said when she finally crested the broken steps. She rested one wrecked hand on the pommel of her sword and curtsied despite herself, stopping halfway through the motion when she realized this and ending up doing more of an awkward looking squat instead.
The grey warden blinked. "Do you have a bramble caught in your breeches? Happens to me all the time."
Elissa felt her face tint in a most feminine way. "No, Ser. I do not have brambles in my breeches. I only forgot that I need no longer curtsy at every person who crosses my path." She laughed clearly, making light of her own foolishness and closing the distance between herself and the warden. "Lady Elissa Cousland." She presented herself, fully titled, proud, and unafraid; she shared common ground with the other recruits, but this man fell under the same category as Duncan: He was someone she would have to get a feel for and learn from, just like she had learned much in her deliberately stony days of silence with Duncan that had told her much about him.
"The third of Duncan's recruits." The warden observed, crossing his arms conversationally. "The one that seems to have set half the camp in an uproar over a suit of armour." There was a haughtiness in his blue eyes that was not malicious, but rather teasing. "And here I was wondering why King Cailan would be spending so much time lavishing attention and gifts on a hairy, ugly, Grey Warden recruit: Duncan didn't tell me you're a woman… or a Cousland at that."
"That is the second time today my sex has been called to question, but only the first time for my name." She lifted an eyebrow. "Most shuffle away quietly, or kiss my hand, or ask what I would prefer for dinner."
"I could do all of those things." He admitted readily, "But I wouldn't dream of imposing on a King who has his eye set on a woman already, and I hear that kissing can be habit forming."
She tapped her fingers against the hilt of her sword. "For all of this clever conversation we share, I still find myself a stranger to your name, Ser." She said pleasantly enough, but with an edge of expectation. "Unless we shall know each other only by 'Grey Warden' or 'You' or 'Begging your pardon ser, please can you help me sharpen my sword?'" She dispensed another cunning smile.
"Duncan always picks the witty ones. Has that sense of humour gotten you far in life?"
Her smile did not fade, though behind it, not very deep inside of her, something that might have had fangs grinned as well. "You've only caught me on a good day." She jested, though there was a seed of truth planted in her words. "All humour aside, I already know who you are: Alistair, you are called, and Duncan told me I might find you here. Indeed I have been armoured by His Majesty, bathed in an ice cold river, and met Daveth, my fellow recruit, who, may I add, is very well into his cups despite the sun still being rather high in the sky. Yet I have been unable to find my second counterpart… the third recruit." She wriggled her toes in her new leather boots, stretching the stiff material in an effort to break it in.
"It doesn't matter. We'll find him on our way to Duncan; the sun is setting and it's time to meet."