Chapters Next
Close
Lamenting Hero6,647 words
A Surprise Reunion3,983 words
Separated Again4,184 words
Self-Worth and Family Scars2,814 words
Ambush4,445 words
Betrayal4,126 words

Lamenting Hero

The stallion's haggard breathing mixed with the overbearing sound of his hooves galloping across the stone floor. His eyes were wide, unblinking as he tried to pierce through the bleak darkness that surrounded him from all sides. Sweat coated his face, staining his golden, royal guard armor, feeling like dead weight as his strength began to dwindle.

With every step he took, it made the pain in his side all the worse. Blood dripped down his stomach and hindlegs, seeping from the deep cut that only worsened with each act of movement. Despite the ever present agony however, it was but a small thought in the back of his mind as his thoughts swarmed with the horrific sights he had seen.

All he could think about was the sight of his fellow guards, their bodies held down and torn apart, blood splattering in all directions as their terrible screams echoed into his mind, then being silenced. What was burned into his memory more than anything were the nightmarish creatures who had attacked them, their monstrous, mangled faces, snapping jaws and sickly flesh. They came out of nowhere, dragging them into the same pit they had sprung from, their kicking and screaming ignored. It had to of been a stroke of luck, managing to escape the creature that held him while his fellows were slaughtered, the blade meant for him only glancing across his flesh.

“Have to get away, have to get away!” the royal guard's frantic inner monologue shouted in his mind. “It was just a routine patrol! Nothing should have happened, nothing ever happens!” It was as if he was in some kind of cavern, the tunnels carved from the very rock that surrounded him. More and more branching paths appeared, making the stallion unable to tell where he was going. “Dead... they're all dead! Just like that! I-I have to get out of here! Oh Celestia, I don't want to die!”

There was no sense of direction, all the stallion did was run, run until he would finally be able to see daylight, for the haunting darkness consuming him to be banished away. Low, deep growls could be heard all around him, echoing through the cavern tunnels, sounding as though the monsters were apart of the black void itself. It was enough to keep the royal guard running, despite the painful pounding of his heart, his overworked lungs screaming in protest, his entire body slicked with his own sweat.

Too weak to run straight, the stallion tripped over his own hooves, crashing painfully to the ground. The impact knocked his helmet away, exposing his soaked mane to the musty, blood drenched air that he was breathing in. All four of his legs flailed about, trying to pick himself up with a growing haste. Panic completely overtook him as an angry snarl sounded just behind him.

A cry of despair escaped his lips as one of the monsters lumbered toward him, as though forming from the impenetrable darkness, like a fish breaking the surface of an ocean. It stood on two legs, its body covered in a jagged armor, colored in a filthy looking bronze that was covered in flecks of splattered blood. Only the monster's face was visible, its sunken eyes gazing down on him with an emptiness that rivaled its surroundings, razor-sharp fangs running down its lips that dripped with foul fluids, covered in a blotchy flesh that looked as though it was about to start rotting off the bone.

Before the stallion could even react, the horrifying nightmare shot a hand outward, seizing him by the neck and forcing him to the ground, its other hand grasping a rusty ax that he began to raise into the air. No matter how much the guard struggled, he was no match for the immense strength his captor had. The inevitability struck him like a hammer, his eyes bursting with frightened tears as his lips quivered. “Please no! Don't-”

The guard's pleas for mercy were cut off as the dark monster brought the ax down on him, filling the tunnel with the sound of his stunted cry of pain and the squishing of bloody flesh being sliced, all the while splattering a flesh coat of crimson onto the monster's armor.

Cries of death erupted into the night air as the denizens of a large camp were attacked. Metal clashing against metal rang out as the trained fighters brought their weapons against those of their attackers. Their eyes were wide with shock as they looked into the faces of their darkspawn opponents, their foul stench and even uglier appearance nearly making them wretch.

They were as merciless as they always were, cutting down whoever they could, never flinching when losing a meager few of their own large numbers. Despite being outnumbered, being ambushed in the dead of night, the large band of mercenaries who owned the camp fought on. One such man, clutching at the wound in his side while his lifeblood seeped out of him, stumbled toward the largest tent nestled in the far edge of the camp.

“Ser, Ser, we need you out here now!” he shouted, hearing the sounds of battle growing louder and louder.

A small ruckus could be heard from within the tent. Startled shrieks from a female's voice as well as angered cursing mixed with the violence that was occurring just outside. Within moments, the front flap of the tent was thrown open, revealing an elf in nothing but his undergarments, an irritated glare worn on his tattooed face. Right after him, a frightened man and woman looked out into the madness, their bodies bereft of clothing as they held up sheets to cover their naked hides.

“Just when I was getting in the mood,” the elf murmured in agitation, looking out to see his camp in such disarray. Soon enough however, his eyes were set on his wounded comrade. “What is happening out here?” Despite the elf's appearance and strong, smooth accent, his voice carried a commanding tone.

“Zevran,” the injured mercenary shouted in haste, “we're under attack, Ser! It's a group of darkspawn, they're cutting us down one by one!”

Surprise showed clearly on the elf's face as he squinted out to see the deformed creatures running amok in his camp. “Darkspawn...” he murmured in confusion. “In the middle of the night? Seems a bit more... organized...?” Shaking his questions aside, Zevran looked down to his previous nighttime companions. “Both of you, get out there and help your fellows! We are not going to be shown up by a pack of mindless monsters!” The two nodded their heads before disappearing back into the tent, re-equipping their armor. Zevran did not wait however, immediately running past the wounded fighter and into the fray.

An archer's corpse was sprawled out on the ground, nearly split in two from the deep cut tearing him open, his bow still clutched in his lifeless hand. Without missing a step, Zevran grabbed the bow and quiver of arrows as he continued to charge into the war zone. The clashing sounds of battle grew louder and louder the more the elf ran, his eyes narrowing with determination.

The darkspawn raid was soon in his sights. Each horrific, monster of a creature attacked the first living thing that fell into their gaze. Around the camp, the ground was already littered with bodies of darkspawn on people alike, the numbers being much greater for the latter. Even though the band of mercenaries were great in their fighting prowess, none were used to fighting against the dark creatures, being completely outnumbered didn't help either.

Zevran stopped in his tracks as soon as he was close enough. At that moment, three arrows were already in his hand, the string of his bow being drawn back. Barely half a second was spared to line the shot before the arrows were loosed, and each found their mark. Three darkspawn were hit, arrows pierced straight through their necks as their lifeless bodies collapsed onto the ground.

By then, the creatures were aware of the elf's presence, charging forward at him, brandishing their weapons to be ready to tear him to pieces. The trained assassin didn't give them the chance however, jumping back quickly as he readied more arrows, firing them off at incredible speeds. A trail of bodies were left in his wake, the attempts at the raid to chase after him.

Before long, the quiver was completely spent, not a single arrow being wasted. The momentary halt in offensive action bought the monsters enough time to close in on him. A sword nearly beheaded him, Zevran ducking just in time. Reacting fast, he swung the bow in retaliation, shattering the wooden weapon against its head. Unarmed once again, the elf used his speed to create distance between himself and the darkspawn attackers, dodging their swings. Without his leather armor, he was much more nimble than he would normally be. Not having any sort of protective covering however, a single blow would surely do him in. It was all the incentive he needed to not get hit though.

One of the still living mercenaries was in his path, seeing the skillful elf coming his way, he held up the two swords he had. Zevran snatched the blades and shoved the man to the side, just in time as a large ax came swinging down between them, throwing chunks of dirt into the air as it impacted the ground. Grip tightening on the hilts, the elf swung them both horizontally, cutting deep into the darkspawn's chest.

More of the foul creatures were already upon them, swinging with reckless abandon as they tried to fell the infuriating elf in one swing. They were strong, powerful things, but it was obvious to anyone's first glance that they were as dull-witted as the most drunken dwarf. It was all the advantage Zevran needed to keep dodging their attacks, seeing them coming a mile away.

A shriek, the sharp teeth in its stunted muzzle bared, took a swipe at him. Again, the talented rogue made a fool of it, jumping back just in time as the long blades attached to its forearms stabbed into the ground, rooting it in place. Grinning from pointed ear to pointed ear, Zevran crossed his swords at the base of the beast's neck before closing them like a pair of scissors. The shriek's body grew still as its head rolled across the ground, its dark-red blood squirting out of the exposed neck.

The darkspawn raid grew still, for the first time, the camp actually seemed quiet, save for the heavy breathing of the remaining fighters. Each scrambled away from the creatures, falling back into a decent combative position as they awaited their next move. The blighted monsters surrounding them slowly stepped closer to them, their empty eyes locked onto the half-naked elf.

Zevran could only smile, blowing a lock of his long hair out of his face as he twirled his dual swords in his hands. A light chuckle escaped him when he matched the gazes of the monstrous beasts. “If only you mentally inept creatures knew the sensation of fear,” he taunted, posing his body in a ready stance, “so you'd know the grave mistake you've made.”

One of the darkspawn roared savagely at him, the best kind of response such a dark presence could muster. As if it were a signal, the large group suddenly charged at them, swinging their weapons wildly. The mercenaries, now ready and prepared this time, took on the beasts like pros, their blades clashing against the crude metal of their opponents' weapons. The bulk of the raid stayed on the elf however, clearly sensing the greater prize in bringing him down.

Again however, the elf proved to be a formidable foe for them. As the darkspawn attacked, he dodged and countered. Several of the malicious monstrosities didn't even get the chance to do that, their attempts at swinging their weapons halted as Zevran used his superior speed to take advantage it.

At least five darkspawn were already brought to his feet before Zevran noticed something strange. The more he fought against them, the more he noticed something strange. Deep within the edge of the darkness that surrounded the camp, movement could be seen. A shadowy figure rushing through, disappearing into the void before the elf's eyes could really focus. It nearly cost him his life as his focus became split, just narrowly moving out of the way of a sudden swing.

Slicing into another darkspawn, Zevran was taken by surprise as a large hurlock jumped from the darkness toward him. The elf only had a second, the monster's massive sword coming down on top of him. Kicking back, he stumbled away just in time, the darkspawn's blade smashing into the one he had just been attacking, cleaving it in two.

This new one looked different than the others, looking far stronger and donning more prominent armor. The flesh of its exposed head was a blotchy, nighttime black, its eyes a glassy blue. Looking at it, Zevran felt that there was something different about it, different from the countless darkspawn he had fought against in his time. Mostly, his eyes fell on the massive sword in its hands, knowing how easily it could cut him to pieces with just a swing.

The hurlock then charged at him, clutching its sword with both hands to swing with all of its might. Zevran chose to take part in its game, heading straight for it as well, his weapons ready. Just as the darkspawn swung down on him, the elf sidestepped him, causing it to miss and allowing him an opening.

Swinging his blade out to slice into its side, there was a loud clang of metal on metal as the creature brought his sword up with amazing speed, blocking the attack. Gritting his teeth, Zevran twirled around to stand behind him, angling his blade to stab through its back. Again, he was surprised as the hurlock's leg kicked back, catching him in the shin and causing him to stumble. Another swing came from it then, forcing the elf back to dodge it, before he could ready himself for another attack though, his corrupted opponent used the momentum from its last wasted attack to swing its leg outward, smashing his armored foot against his chest.

Zevran was sent flying, back toward the rest of his men as they all began to fall back, holding defensive stances while two tried to help up their leader. Getting back to his feet, he looked from his aching chest back to the darkspawn, smirking slightly. “You must be... an Alpha, yes?” he remarked. “Given just a sliver more of intelligence, but still just another mindless beasty.”

The Alpha's eyes seemed to narrow as it stepped toward them, its heavy sword dragging behind it. Though their numbers had been lessened, the rest of the raid followed suit. Not a tinge of worry crossed the elf's face however, a smirk still evident as he made a sharp whistle. Immediately, the rest of his men got moving, grabbing supplies from the crates near the tents around them. In a matter of moments, they all stood together, holding small, spherical flasks that swirled with a red glow.

Taking one for himself, Zevran looked into the blazing contents within, nonchalantly tossing it up and down as his gaze drifted back to the Alpha. “I like to save these for whenever a Crow flutters into our midst,” he said, holding up the firebomb. “But, I think you'll learn to love them too. Now!”

On command, the mercenaries threw their bombs toward the approaching darkspawn. Zevran threw his own as well, watching with growing anticipation as they sailed through the air, landing directly in the center of the band of monsters. As they shattered open, their combined might exploded outward in a bright flash of fire and force. The ground itself shook, the elf and his men having to shield their eyes or risk being blinded, sweat forming across their bodies from the intense heat. When the few moments of blazing chaos were past, they looked to see the darkspawn threat utterly decimated.

Bodies of darkspawn surrounded the blackened, scorched earth where the firebombs had landed. Lifeless and charred alike, nearly every one of the dark creatures had been caught in the blast. Only a few stragglers remained, able to sense their own failure as they moved to retreat. They did not make it far, a volley of arrows quickly piercing their backs and finishing them off.

What remained of the mercenaries began to put together all that had been disrupted. Dragging the dead away, dressing wounds, repairing the camp itself, all things that needed to be done. While his men worked, Zevran strolled about the dead darkspawn, occasionally nudging them with his foot, just to be sure.

Eventually, he stood over the Alpha who had led the raid. It was scorched bad, at least judging by its armor, being hard to tell with the already blackened flesh it had. The sword it carried was also a curious sight, the craftsmanship being far better than he had ever seen from darkspawn standards. Kneeling down to pick it up, his entrapped curiosity caused him to not notice the twitch of movement beside him.

Then, everything changed faster than his mind could react. Before Zevran knew it, he was being jerked up into the air, feet dangling off the ground as the darkspawn's hand grabbed him by the face. The Alpha's fingers dug into his cheeks as its filthy palm pressed against his mouth. Though the elf struggled, his weapons had been lost, his physical strength not even able to come close to matching that of his holder. A wide, fanged grin spread across the malevolent creature's face, blue eyes glinting.

Zevran's own eyes widened as the darkspawn's other hand glowed with a green aura, the fingers melding together with the palm, the very tip becoming sharp and pointed. Its entire arm shifted in shape, becoming a large spike, as sharp as any blade he'd ever seen. The elf could see the tip jutting closer and closer to him as it was thrust forward, the night air being filled with his pained cry.

With a mighty cry, Commander Cousland charged at the adversary before him. Both hands locked tightly around his large blade, he swung the heavy weight at his target, putting his full force into the blow. The chamber was consumed by the loud clang of metal against metal, the Grey Warden's sword stopped by another, equally as large as the one in his own hands.

A struggle of power took place as both blades locked together, their owners not faltering as they pushed against the other. The guards soon connected as neither let up. The commander's eyes were dead set on those of his opponent's, their faces separated only by their crossed weapons. There was a matching expression of struggle on the wielder's face, doing his best to keep the Warden's blade back.

Seeing it, a large grin spread out across the commander's face. He even chuckled, finding amusement from the sight. “Come on now,” he jeered, never breaking his gaze away from the young man he was fighting, “you've got to be able to withstand more than this.”

The human he was fighting didn't say a word in response, his face only twisting in his overexertion to overpower his superior opponent. But the commander only chuckled once again, finding little threat in the attacker's might. The young man still didn't let up however, still putting all of his strength into forcing the Warden back.

With one hand, Commander Cousland continued to keep the young man at bay. Placing the palm of his other hand on the mid-section of his blade. With feet firmly pressed to the ground, he suddenly pushed forward.

A surprised gasp escaped the opponent as he stumbled back, taken off guard as their blades finally disconnected. The commander didn't follow up on it though, still holding his ground while he readied his sword for another attack. Without waiting himself, the man regained his footing and charged, holding his blade high over his own head before bringing its weight and all of his strength down onto the commander.

Raising his own blade up horizontally, the Warden-Commander took the full brunt of the attack. Surprise showed clearly on his face as the attack made contact, feeling his knees nearly buckle under the strain. The look disappeared instantly however, his leg kicking out to hit the man's shin, causing him to jump back again to create a distance between them.

“Heh,” the commander breathed, still grinning from ear to ear. “Not bad... but my mother could do far better, and she was an archer!”

Teeth clenched, his blue eyes nearly blazing with determined fury, the young man charged again. Rather than putting all of his power in a single blow, he swung his blade out as quickly as possible. The commander once again had his blade up to block the attacks, the familiar sound of clashing steel piercing through the ears of all close enough to hear. Again and again, the young man furious swung his blade into the commander's.

Commander Cousland found himself stepping backward, feeling the power in each blow growing more and more. After the latest blow, for a single moment, the Warden's grip on his sword grew lax. Just then, the attacker swung his sword upward, the force of it destroying what was left of his hold on the blade, sending the commander's sword flying, disarming him.

Surprised, the Warden-Commander stumbled back, seeing his opponent making one more attack. Falling back to dodge the swing, the sharp tip of the blade's edge grazed across his arm, cutting a shallow wound through the flesh.

Tripping, the commander landed hard on his backside. His opponent stood over him, large sword still in hand. The young man's expressions immediately softened, looking worried as he sheathed the blade. “I-I'm so sorry, Commander Cousland, I didn't mean to wound you!” he shouted.

Unable to contain it, the Warden-Commander bent his head backwards as a fit of laughter overtook him. The man just stood there uneasily, unsure of what to do. After another moment of merriment, the commander simply smirked at him. “No apologies are necessary, Aseril, you did good,” he responded, eyes slowly moving down to the bleeding wound on his arm. “It was my idea to spar with real weapons anyway.”

“You really think so?” Aseril questioned, not looking so sure as the Warden picked himself up.

The commander nodded as he said, “Of course, you're as skilled with that blade as I first thought. Though you've only been with the Grey Wardens for a short time, you and your brother have certainly been impressive. Though you were good when you first came here, you've still improved yourself greatly. I'm proud of you.”

A weak smile appeared on the young man's face, eyes practically sparkling with mirth. “That means a lot... coming from you,” he murmured in reply.

“Speaking of,” the commander continued, running a hand through his sweat-soaked, black hair, “where is your brother? Haven't seen him all day.”

“Oh, Tearser?” Aseril questioned. “He's still in Amaranthine, looking into that blood mage problem you tasked him with.”

“Ah,” the Warden-Commander returned, remembering it himself. With a simple tilt of his hand, he gestured toward the exit of the training hall they were in. “Very well, go and clean yourself up, you've done enough training for the day.”

Aseril bowed his head respectfully. “Yes, Ser,” he acknowledged, turning and walking away from his commander. With the young Grey Warden gone, Commander Cousland headed toward the far wall where a bench was. Sitting down, he took a relaxed breath before grabbing a nearby supply box, looking for bandages to dress his wound.

With the room utterly empty, no other sound to be made, his ears quickly picked up on the distinct noise of footsteps. The commander didn't need to look up from what he was doing to know who it was, having grown accustomed to it long ago.

“You enjoy watching fights than being apart of them now, Varel?” he asked wryly, his gaze drifting toward the man now standing beside him. The seneschal of Vigil's Keep certainly looked his age, with hair that was long since grayed, the rough facial scruff he wore, as well as the ever-present sight of wrinkles cracking across the usual places on his face. As was customary in the land of Ferelden however, appearances were quite deceiving. Though the man was aged, it was by no means a crippling blow to the warrior he was. Being both strong in will and strength, the commander would trust him with his life, having to actually do that very thing years ago.

“Just thought I'd appraise the young lad,” the old seneschal remarked gruffly, looking off to where Aseril had left the chamber. “You were much tougher on him than you usually would be on such a new Warden. And it seems... he was able to handle you quite well.”

“Yes,” the Warden-Commander nodded, still sounding impressed. “He and his brother are both capable fighters. In the three months since they've gone through their joining, they've proven to be far more skilled than any other recruits I've seen.”

“Tearser is the better of the two, isn't he?” Varel questioned. “From what I've heard, he fights like a demon. So furious... it's surprising that he hasn't gone to Oghren to learn how to be a berserker. Both are tough as nails too. I remember their joining, both took to the taint better than that drunken dwarf did himself, barely even phased them...”

A light chuckle escaped the commander as he idly rubbed the back of his head, remembering the sore spot he had there for days when he passed out after his own joining. “They are a curious pair,” he continued, finishing with the bandages as he made sure his cut was wrapped up. “They say they're self-taught, an amazing thing considering their abilities with their blades. I haven't seen such talent since-”

“Yourself?” the seneschal asked, earning a slight chuckle from the Grey Warden.

“I was trying to be modest,” he admitted. “But... I suppose, yeah.”

There was a silent pause between them, the old warrior scratching his chin, his gaze drifting between the commander and the chamber's exit. “Their ability isn't all that resembles you,” he offhandedly murmured. “It's their drive, that fire burning in their actions that blazes on with every swing of their swords. It's the same drive that you have. Or... that you had.”

The Warden-Commander huffed lightly as he looked at the old man out of the corner of his eye. “Is that you trying to make a point of something?” he muttered in response.

A simple shrug was the seneschal's first response before returning to scratching his fuzzy chin. “I've heard of how determined you were during the Blight, facing off against all that was set before you. It was what you showed when you and I first met, the day you arrived at the keep.” Varel's gaze then locked onto the Warden, his eyes staying focused, as though dissecting him. “In recent years though... things seemed to have changed... You're still in the prime of your youth, despite all you've been through. And I don't think simply being the Commander of the Grey and an arl would drain you so...”

“It's nothing,” the commander quickly said, almost sounding defensive.

“If I may be so bold, Commander” Varel returned, not forgetting his place, despite the company, “it seems like an awful lot of nothing. You remind me more of the old veterans after the war with Orlais was over. Soldiers who had nothing left to fight... having to face threats far less serious than an enemy trying to take their homeland...”

“Is this really any different?” the Warden asked, crossing his arms as he leaned his back stiffly against the wall. “The Blight is over. What further use does Ferelden have with the Grey Wardens? Over the last few years, what have we done but purge the land of a few bandit upstarts or...” a heavy sigh escaped him, “prevent an uprising between the mages and templars?”

Varel heaved his own little sigh, knowing how much of a touchy subject that the templars were for the Warden-Commander. It only made things worse that he was doing his best to keep the peace within the Circle Tower, whispers of an uprising matching the one that happened across the seas in Kirkwall forming. The seneschal quickly shook his head and brought his thoughts back to the matter at hand. “But you are Grey Wardens, you are meant to stay vigilant, yes?” he questioned. “Certainly you know this. To be prepared for whenever the darkspawn might attack again, for when the next Blight-” He was cut off as the commander began laughing. It was an odd noise, one without any sense of amusement or joy. It almost sounded sad.

“The next Blight?” the commander asked, ending his laugh. “Do you honestly think those mindless wretches will uncover the next Archdemon any time soon? That the next Blight will come in our lifetime? No... our own war with the darkspawn is over. Now, we're just wasting away here until our lives are finally claimed... What an end to the legacy of the 'hero of Ferelden' eh?”

Varel said nothing in response, all he could do was hold a frown as what the commander was saying sunk in. It wasn't the possible truth in his words, but the tone in which he said them. The once great hero sounded so dejected, so defeated, even if he did not know it himself. The thought caused the old warrior's eyes to fall onto his bare chest, seeing the markings that have long since been there.

Just underneath the thin surface of sweat that covered much of his body, the Warden-Commander's old wounds showed easily. Though his body was barely warped from his many adventures, thanks to the heavy armor he wore in battle, there was one wound that showed clearly on him. Two sets of five notches running across his chest, looking rough and jagged, like what would be left by the claws of a primal beast. On his back, the exact same scars were mirrored.

All that Varel knew of the scars was when they occurred. During that time, those seemingly few years ago, when he and King Alistair disappeared from Ferelden without a trace, only to return days later. None of them discussed what had happened, neither did a word come from those who were with them. Even Oghren, usually so easy to coerce when pumped full of a good brew, was useless. All the old dwarf ever spoke of were nonsensical, drunken ramblings of talking animals, colorful horses and something about Alistair breaking his first mount, whatever that meant. But something told him that the commander's appearance wasn't the only thing that had been changed.

With their conversation having clearly ended, Commander Cousland brought himself to his feet. After sparing a moment to wipe the sweat from his body with a cloth, he grabbed his sword and headed for the exit. Only for a moment did he stop, turning his head slightly to eye his loyal seneschal and say, “Good talking with you, Varel, as always.”

“Yes, Ser,” the aged man replied, bowing his head respectfully as he watched the commander leave. “I suppose I'll just get back to my day to day rituals then.”

Leaving the training hall, Commander Cousland made his way back to his chambers. He saw little of his fellow Grey Wardens as he traversed through the keep, not creating any stops for his simple trip. In no time at all, he was pushing open the door and given a full view of his room.

It was rather spacious compared to the quarters of the others, something to be expected considering his position. The décor was quite regal, reminding him of the halls of his old home, when his Teyrn father ruled it. Cozy rugs were laid out on the floor and beautiful tapestries hung on the walls. In the corner, his armor was propped up by the stand that held it. It was a finely crafted set, black with a dull-gold trim, with two gryphons depicted on the chestplate, the symbol of the Warden-Commander.

Breathing a contented sigh, the commander stretched out his arms until he could feel the satisfying pops of his joints. Finishing with cracking his neck, the set his large blade against the wall, admiring it for a moment. It was a far cry from the blade he used to own, not nearly as strong. Of course, he already knew it would be hard to match a sword made from a metal that fell from the heavens themselves, the one he now used was certainly a beautiful piece of craftsmanship.

Settled in, the Warden-Commander stepped toward the far center of the room, where a large desk was resting. He took his rightful place before it, sitting down in front of a large stack of papers, some having been looked at before and some not. Rifling through them, he eyed the words written on them with little interest. One was a basic report on the goings on in the region he ruled, another was a request to meet with the First Warden in Weisshaupt, while one was a kind letter from an old bard friend that he should reply to at some point.

Most of the paperwork was just what usually fell before his gaze. Everything that had to be pushed under his nose for being both the leader of the Ferelden Grey Wardens, as well as the Arl of the region. Having once spent his days outdoors camping while he traveled the land with his friends, fighting off the fiercest monsters that the world could throw at him, what became of him seemed rather pathetic. It at least made him sympathize with Alistair, experiencing just what the royal bastard would always complain about.

With time slowly ticking by, the idle commander's gaze became less and less focused. Soon enough, he was no longer looking at the papers at his desk, holding a blank stare as his hand slowly raised up to his neck. It was there that his fingers grasped at what he wore around it, gingerly feeling the pendant that dangled there. It was a simple thing, made of thin bars of metal that were carefully bent in the shape of two gryphons, matching that of his symbol.

Just holding it comforted him, even as absently as the action was. Before long though, he noticed what he was doing, holding the pendant up to his own gaze. It made him think on how much his thoughts had been shifting as of late, to that wonderful place, to her. Though they were happy, the memories always brought a weary sigh from him, an old and dreadfully familiar feeling.

Letting the simple accessory slip from his fingers, the commander reached down into a drawer at the side of his desk. An already opened bottle of strong wine was pulled up, a habit he had found himself indulging himself in far too often in recent years. Still, it did not stop the Warden from bringing the bottle to his lips and tipping it upwards.

Only a moment past before he blinked in surprise, slowly pulling the bottle away from his mouth. Holding it out, he tipped it once again, not stopping until it was completely upside down. Not a single drop fell from it, the bottle was as dry as a bone. A groan came from the tired Warden as he grumbled a single name, “Oghren.”

Tossing the drained bottle aside, it landed in the far off corner of the room and shattered. As he began rubbing his eyes, a small yawn reminded the commander of how exhausted he was. Sleep was a rare occurrence to him lately. Even then, it was never a very good one. Gaze falling down to the papers at his desk for an instant, he realized he wouldn't make any progress with the pile for the rest of the day anyway.

Another yawn, much stronger than the last, forced Commander Cousland to look drowsily toward his bed. Just the sight of the piece of furniture made his muscles grow weaker, his eyelids becoming heavier by the second. He could almost fall asleep at his desk just thinking about it. Coming to terms with the fact that he wasn't going to win such a battle, he stood up from his desk and graciously approached the comforting sight.

It truly was a nice bed, looking like something one would see in the royal castle. Surely King Alistair was sleeping in something just like it. By the time the commander reached it, his feet were dragging against the stone floor. It was all he could do to not simply collapse into the large mattress, allowing it to consume him utterly as he climbed underneath of the plush covers.

The Warden-Commander then uttered a pleasant sigh as he relaxed himself completely. It took a little time for him to get comfortable however, tossing and turning until he could find the best position for him to sleep in. Finding just the place on his side, he snuggled into the cushioned softness of his bed. The more he laid there though, the more his steadily drifting mind began to think on how something was different. It felt as though there was more weight being pushed down on his bed, just a few inches away. Partially peering through his lids, his eyes immediately cracked open at what he saw.

A creature was lying in his bed. The commander's heart stopped beating in his chest for just a moment, the breath being stolen from his lungs as he recognized her. She was a pony, a unicorn mare with a beautiful lavender colored coat across her body. Atop her head, a mane that consisted of several shades of purple rested. The mare appeared to be holding onto just a few strands of consciousness. With the human's stirring, it caused her to fully awaken, her eyes opening to reveal the lovely violet irises she had, looking directly into his own.

The commander immediately fell backward, a startled cry of shock escaping him as he rolled off of the side of his bed. With a painful thud, he smashed the back of his head against the stone floor, dazing himself while his legs remained propped up on the edge of the bed. As his blurred vision steadied and refocused, looking up at the ceiling of his chambers, the view was soon dominated by the face of the mare as she leaned over the side of the bed, looking down at him. Spreading across her face was a large, gleeful smile, while the commander's own gaped with utter disbelief as he stared at her.

“T-Twilight?!”

1,734 views

106

Chapters Next

Comments ( 12 )

Viewing 1 - 50 of 12
- Newest First
- Oldest First

Icecane

Icecane #1 · Jul 10th, 2013 · 3 · ·

Hello again all! Icecane here, bringing you the sequel to my last Dragon Age story! (As I said up top)

I do hope everyone's as excited as I am about it. We'll be seeing faces both old and new, setting of to grand destinations as the growing conflict of the story commences. Already, I'd say we're off to a good start. Yup... Says a lot when you kill off a character in the first chapter... *cough*

I'm also sorry for the long wait. Compared to my little notice that I was working on this, and to when this is actually posted. There's just been a ton of things keeping me from it, as well as stuff that'll still be a bit of a cluster to get through. But, I've gotten this chapter done and hope it'll get every wanting more. And as you'd notice, I did change the title a bit as what I previous added. Just thought it'd be better off this way.

And if you're a new reader stumbling onto this story, please read the previous one. It isn't THAT bad and it'll help get into this one!