Alistair
"Warden?" The enquiry elicited a muffled groan as Alistair flung an arm over his face, which the messenger took for a dismissal. "My apologies, but Sir Duncan requires your presence." He said before leaving. Alistair sat up, his hair fluffed in comical disarray; his head throbbed from free avail of the brew flowing about the tents, and his leg ached severely. He rolled his pants up to his knee and buried his face in his palm. Of course, amid his semi-drunken stupor and his ponderings of the enigmatic Ceostre, he would forget to treat his leg. What a laugh she would have when she realized the depths of his idiocy—that was, if such a sinister figure was capable of the humanity in laughter.
He rummaged in his pack for his neat roll of linen. Unwinding a suitable length, he severed the ribbon from its origins and wrapped it about his calf. There, he thought proudly, running a hand through his hair. He looked sadly at it in his reflection from the shine of his blade and sheathed it, donning a light set of armor and girding his sword belt. He surveyed the insides of his tent from his crouched position (the lack of sufficient height made it impossible to stand), and his eye caught the thin, puny, decrepit book in its lonely corner. Sighing, he picked it up and was at a loss. After a moment, he tucked it into his belt and resolved to return it to its owner as was right and just. His decision to avoid telling her he had oh-so-innocently peeked through it was another matter entirely, and he sauntered from his tent with his conscience burdened.
"Alistair," Duncan nodded in greeting as he drew near. Jory and Daveth stood by his side looking rather bored, and Alistair wondered how long they had been standing there. He shifted his weight to his right foot and stood there, waiting for Duncan to instigate conversation. When it became apparent that no statement was coming forthwith, he took the initiative.
"Are we waiting on someone?" he questioned. Duncan affirmed his suspicions.
"Yes. The new recruit has yet to make an appearance." His eyebrows shot up. Not only did she get to bring along a journal and who knows what else, she got to sleep in? That was hardly fair, and he grumbled under his breath. Women—and especially that of the nobility—always got it easy. Despite her fine weaponry and scary-sinister look, he doubted she would be much help in a real battle with darkspawn attempting to rip off her face, and gleefully imagined her fending them off with flowers and shouts of "Peace!"
"Perhaps another messenger should be sent?" suggested Daveth. Duncan appeared hesitant.
"I will go," Alistair offered. He wondered for a moment why his tongue cursed him thus, and concluded that he did it for Duncan.
"Very well. Make haste, Alistair; you know as well as I that the preparations for the Joining will take most of the day. Return to me once you have found her." Grinning at the other recruits' discomfort at the apparent gender of their new companion, he bowed slightly before making his way back to the general area where the Wardens slept.
After much arduous search, he determined that she was no longer there, and his heart sank at the possibility of going through all of the massive army just to find one increasingly, maddeningly, exasperatingly bothersome recruit. He instead decided to return to Duncan empty-handed (lest he waste the scarce time they had for the Joining), and his regard for the enigmatic Ceostre lessened as he mused over the depth of her betrayal to Ferelden by spurning the honor of becoming accepted within the ranks of the Grey Wardens. His furrowed brows broodingly low and his lips thinned in disapproval, his divine displeasure became distracted by a commotion at the mabari pound. He drifted over to the side of a very annoyed-looking hound keeper, and queried about the disorder.
"We've got an ill-disciplined mabari that showed up in the middle of the night, of all things. Took four servants, three of whom were elves, to calm him, and even then he wouldn't accept any food." The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as the keeper led him to a secluded corner and gestured at a feral-looking war dog. "If you ask me, he's aching for his owner. Awful people like that who abandon their dogs shouldn't have any. Funny thing is, though, he's got this bag and a couple of pointy blades with him…"
Alistair barely listened as the mabari fixed his fearsome gaze on him. The hound growled menacingly as he got too close, and the keeper grabbed his arm.
"You can't go in there! He'll kill you!" Alistair ignored him and shook his grip from his arm. He stopped at a reasonable distance and crouched, keeping his gaze locked with the mabari. Slowly, he pulled the book from his belt and showed it to the hound before tossing it to him. A startled look gleamed in his eyes before the dog leapt and caught the book with his teeth. Alistair winced at the amount of slobber on it, but noticed that the mabari kept his fangs about the book with precision and care. His suspicions were contented as a happy purring noise emitted from the hound; this the mabari he had seen follow Ceostre.
The only thing he didn't understand was why she would leave him behind. Surely if she planned to abandon the front and desert she would have taken him? An apprehensive look crossed his face as he considered the possibilities that could harm a noble woman in the midst of an army, and he motioned for the dog to follow. He jerked up rapidly and started to run from the kennel, but a whine from the hound stopped him.
Alistair looked back and saw that the mabari was holding his paw out. There was a satchel tied about his foot, and he quickly undid the knot. The mabari nosed his hand, and he opened the bag so that the hound could drop the book inside. After a moment, he tied the pack to his belt. When he looked up, the mabari had acquired a sword, hilt locked securely in his jaws. He let out a sigh and took that as well, depositing it in a sheath on his back before he reported the worrisome situation to Duncan.
As he sprinted away, the hound at his heels, the dog-keeper stared at them for quite awhile. Some time later, he shook his head and waved a hand in dismissal.
Alistair's breathing was ever so slightly laden with exertion by the time he reached Duncan, whose eyebrows rose hopefully.
"I see you have returned with a mabari." There was no hint of disappointment, humor, or sign of irritation, but merely expectancy. Alistair appreciated it, and nodded.
"It's hers," he said. "I believe that she wouldn't have parted with him so long willingly, and that she may be threatened." Duncan rubbed his chin in contemplation, and motioned for Jory and Daveth to give them some room to speak privately.
"I will beseech King Cailan to seek answers from his generals." Alistair opened his mouth in protest, but Duncan stopped him sternly. "Unfortunately, there is not much more I can do. Besides," His eyes softened, "I have the utmost faith in the Wardens' abilities in combat. Why else do you think I would have brought Ceostre if not for her," he paused, eyes twinkling, "finesse in battle? She will take care of herself." Appropriately chastised, Alistair bowed his head and colored, wondering if his thoughts were so apparent.
"However, it is to my deepest disappointment that unless she chooses to miraculously return her induction into the Grey Wardens will be delayed."
"Wait. 'Chooses'?" Alistair said, wondering at the phrasing. Duncan paused.
"She didn't want to be here. Only the fact that she was forced to choose between dying valiantly with her people or watch her life burn and survive at her parents'—and the Right of Conscription's—behest has made her come this far." Duncan shrugged while Alistair gaped at him. "She may have even had some ulterior motive as to why she came here. It is a story she may or may not choose to share, just as she may choose whether to come back or forge her own path."
"But—that is against… I mean, there is a reason it's called the Right of Conscription."
"Yes. I suspected she would try to outwit the law. No matter; if she does not return, she will be hunted as a deserter." His jaw dropped yet lower, and the mabari barked fiercely.
"As I was saying, if I am indisposed at the time, the Grey Wardens must do anything and everything to perform the Joining on her. She will be invaluable to our assets." Alistair frowned. Duncan beckoned Jory and Daveth over while he struggled to keep pace with him. Indisposed?
"Today you will be heading into the Kocari Wilds. Three vials of darkspawn blood are required for the Joining." Jory and Daveth glanced at each other nervously. "There are also scrolls—treaties of assistance promised to aid the Grey Wardens, left behind in the ruins of a tower once inhabited by our order. I suspect it may be a good idea to once again have these in our possession." He dismissed them with a formal bow and a Yes, Jory (who apparently had a healthy fascination with puppies), you may take the dog with you.
Alistair led them from the encampment in a daze as he chewed over his odd morning. Ever since the Cousland had shown up, his life had been nothing but trouble. He closed his eyes and focused on breathing for a while before he prepared to hack away at Andraste-knows-what the forest would throw at them.
After being drenched in wolf, darkspawn, and ogre blood, Alistair leaned wearily on his blade and took the opportunity to wipe the sweat out of his eyes. He attempted to clean the gore off his gloves before pulling out his map. Duncan had marked the location on it, and they were getting close. He rolled it up and put it away, waving the recruits forward, when an odd sound reached his ears. He frowned; it almost sounded like hooves… Surely no rider would gallop recklessly through this part of the Wilds, where the occasional root hidden by fetid waters would snap a fetlock and bogs would suck in even the most skilled and calm horse?
They came into view; too far away to make out particular features, but he could see the horse was lathered and tiring rapidly. Upon its heels came a horde of darkspawn, and it did not take much to figure that the horse was gone any moment now and they would be eaten alive.
"Oh shit." Daveth said, effectively voicing everyone's thoughts. Without further ado, Alistair picked up his sword and darted forward. The horse failed and crumpled to the ground, and the riders—he could see that there were two now—were flung off. One lay unmoving on the ground; the other sprang up a moment before the darkspawn overwhelmed them. He made himself run faster, forcing his fatigued muscles to move, and his feet barely touched the ground as he hurtled towards them. With a sinking feeling, he knew he was going to be too late; regardless, he smashed into the crowd shield first, his sword and rage close behind.
With each horror felled, the darkspawn increase thrice-fold, and soon he was in danger of being engulfed in the never ending tide. He knew naught of the state his companions were in; his mind became blank save for the repetition of the combat forms drilled into his head. Block, lunge, stab. Twist, dodge, bash. Parry, kick, disarm. Kill.
"Alistair!" A feminine voice—something that had no place in this world of battle—shouted. "Give me a weapon!" Who..? Somewhere in the fray a frenzied barking ensued, and he had a feeling that he knew very well who the voice belonged to. It distracted him, and a darkspawn blade slipped under his guard, taking him in his gut. A breathless, wordless cry of pain passed his lips as he fell, stunned. Let nothing, not even pain, divert your attention in the field of mêlée, the ghost of Duncan reprimanded as his eyes closed. He struggled to stand, struggled to keep on fighting, but the tearing of his flesh as the hurlock above him sank its sword a teensy bit deeper kept him entranced by the agony. It was all he could do to keep it from leaning its full weight into the blade, and he clenched his teeth in exertion.
The tip of a boot too large for her slammed into the hurlock's jaw, knocking it flat on its back. He locked gazes for a moment with her infuriated eyes before Ceostre dodged the flailing darkspawn's sword and crushed its throat with her foot.
"Get up or give me your sword!" She shouted, fending off the darkspawn with her sheer self. She fought with a style he had never seen before; twirling and twisting, she became an instrument of pure killing as she leaped about. She served as a massive distraction, but few of her blows were accurately fatal given the armor of her terrifying opponents. Still, no blade or mace was able to touch her, and many came stumbling away with a hand to the throat or blood seeping from their bare heads.
He stared at her, fascinated, and she let out a stream of curses before flipping over to him. She loomed over him for a moment, the sun gleaming a chestnut tint—or was that blood?—in her mahogany hair. Her livid eyes set above a smattering of freckles dappling white skin were of an arresting, electric blue, a hue found only in the heart of a flame searing through crystal, and he was unable to assist her, trapped in the intense gaze as he was. She wrenched the sword from his frozen hand and then she was truly death incarnate.
Alistair understood what Duncan had meant when he applied the word finesse to her. He silently took her out of the "Cookies, Cheeses, Frilly Lady Flowers" section of his brain and put her in the "Swooping, Dangerous People—That—Might—Turn—Me—Into—A—Frog" section. Scarce a minute passed before all the darkspawn were dead, and he carefully propped himself on an elbow. Ceostre dropped his blood-coated sword and ran past him. He reached for it, clutching his stomach, when she appeared before him again.
"Give me a health poultice." she demanded, her voice soft yet unyielding. He stared at her for a few moments, and she gestured impatiently. He cleared his throat and reached for the pack attached to his belt, and pulled one out. She snatched it from her hand and stalked away, and with her mabari ran after her joyously. He pulled another one out and took a few sips, wincing as the warm slime went down. The wound at his midsection knitted cleanly, and he exhaled relieved, corking the potion and eyeing Jory as he pawed at Daveth's fallen form.
"Fergus? Come, Love." Ceostre murmured behind him. As he made to stand, he froze for a moment. Fergus… the name from the journal? He moved to Daveth's side as he convulsed, keeping an eye on her as he inspected the wound. Already the edges of the gash were blackening, and he sighed. It was the taint.
He heard footsteps and turned his head slightly. Ceostre, despite her long limbs and awkwardly tall stature, was a scrap of a woman under the arm of Fergus, who leaned heavily on her and her faithful mabari for support. If not for the blood, unshaven state, and the weariness under his eyes, he was a perfect replica of the pictures he had seen in her journal. Having seen her ferocity in combat, he was suddenly glad he had slipped it back in her pack. He only hoped that her mabari didn't tip her off.
"His injury," Ceostre addressed him. "It will not heal?" Alistair shook his head.
"It's the darkspawn taint," he explained. "They coat their weapons in their blood before battle. It's poison to us. Daveth, here, will probably last a few hours before turns into a mad, raving ghoul hungering for human flesh." His light, jovial tone faded as he saw Fergus touch a similar, blackening cut with his knuckle on Ceostre's cheek. She pressed her face momentarily into his hand before turning to him.
"You," she said, "You were impaled on the tainted blade, and yet here you still stand. Are you not affected?"
"It's part of being a Grey Warden. I—"
"Then let us move on," Fergus said. "I assume you have a purpose in being out here. If it is possible we will assist with your mission and make a rapid return to Ostagar so that my sister's and your comrade's lives may be preserved. You will induct them, yes?"
"Well, I—er, not me personally, but yes—"
"Then let us move. We're wasting time here." Fergus said. Alistair nodded and bound Daveth's wound. He gave his care unto Jory, who grumbled a bit before hoisting him on his shoulder. He divested most of their weapons and passed them to the siblings. Fergus armed himself well, while Ceostre stood there, ill at ease.
"If I am not mistaken, that is my sword bound to your back, Alistair. Might I inquire as to how you obtained it, and implore its return?" He blinked and handed it to her.
"Um, the dog—"
Her mabari, chagrined at having being ignored for quite awhile, barked and paraded about. Ceostre smiled wanly and rubbed the dog with her hand, which quieted at her touch. She even chuckled a bit, and Alistair was in awe how different the woman before him and the dark wraith he had been scared out of his wits by not a full day before seemed.
She thanked him with a tiny salute. "Lead on, sir Grey Warden."
Author's Note
Gah! I'm a bad, bad person... I wanted to get this posted but I kept on spying little mistakes so I kept on taking down the chapter, editing, and posting it back. I'm sorry! I won't touch it again. :(