Justinian 30, 9:30 Dragon
Maker, I hope Duncan knows what he's doing. He promised to return today or tomorrow, and if you ask me, it can't be too soon. Only three new recruits seems a small number, and the wardens may not even see that many through the Joining. More importantly, our warden-commander should be here, especially since King Cailan seems eager to battle. I hope he continues to wait for Duncan. The inactivity is making him seem rash.
There's plenty of work, though. Regular patrols to keep the darkspawn pushed back from Ostagar as the armies continue to ready and assemble. Just today I went out with Brynk and Ash, just to the edge of the wilds. Scouting business, and all. One of the other wardens claims he saw a woman when he was checking the swamp the other day. Of course some of the more experienced wardens called him crazy. I don't know. The witches of the wilds is a tale I'd be willing to believe. The Circle certainly believes the stories.
Ser Jory keeps approaching the wardens. He's worried about the Joining, and has no one to allay his fear. The other gray wardens have taken to ignoring him, and Daveth has grown impatient. I suppose I do feel sorry for Ser Jory; it is easier to stomach the duties of a warden when there is no close family.
Daveth keeps to himself. He has a small, needle-like dagger he takes to spinning around in his fingers. Duncan told me that he'd caught him pick-pocketing in Denerim. Another use of the right of conscription. Never trust a cutpurse, if you ask me. But for all that, though, his views on the Blight are firm, and he wishes to fight.
Best not to speak of the recruits, though. The Joining will determine who will be a gray warden...and who will not.
Ah...here comes the Reverend Mother, with a particularly determined look in her eye. I wonder what new menial task she has devised to twist the knife. She can't get over how Duncan got me out of Chantry service just in time, but far be it from me to tell her that these past six months have been some of the best I've ever known.
And there's the sound of the scouts' horns--that must be Duncan. Best finish this task quickly; if I know Duncan, he'll direct whatever new recruit he's dug up to me. First impressions, I suppose.
...which apparently shouldn't include a shouting match with a mage. Apologies aside, I can't say I'm entirely impressed with Duncan's choice. I'm not sure which is rarer--that the recruit is a dwarf, or that she's female. Not many women choose to be a gray warden, it seems. We tend to be seen as a brotherhood, almost.
Her name is Lay-lin...Laylynn? I should have asked how to spell it. There's a couple of rusty swords strapped to her back, so either a warrior or a rogue, most likely. I haven't met many dwarves in my lifetime; only a couple ever came to Redcliffe when I was a boy, and none bothered with the Chantry. Their beliefs are different; they revere the Stone as their creator or deity.
There aren't even any stories or rumors about dwarves that I know of. I'd guess them to be blunt and surly at times, but not this one. Rather, she's startled. All the time.
Of course, I imagine I had the same wild look in my eyes when I first came here, too. It was only to be expected, though, coming from the Chantry. Being trained to chop a possessed mage's head off while praying to Andraste is a far cry from guiding recruits through the wilds in search of darkspawn.
But enough of that. We've gathered Ser Jory and Daveth, and now all we need is some darkspawn blood. Let the junior warden responsibilities begin.
P.S. Laillyn. I had it mostly right.
Showing posts with label #DAdiaries. Show all posts
Showing posts with label #DAdiaries. Show all posts
Thursday, January 8, 2015
Thursday, December 18, 2014
Dragon Age Diaries: The Hero
Day 30, Month of the Kingsway
I had put this off as long as possible. I didn't wish to return to Orzammar at all, but the Gray Warden treaties I hold in trust require that we ask for aid from all peoples. Alistair has said that all must honor their place in these treaties, and I've taken him at his word.
But what good have any of the dwarves dwelling in Orzammar ever done me?
However, my business with the Dalish elves concluded far sooner than I had liked--at least they were polite to outsiders, if initially mistrustful. And given the choice between paying Flemeth a visit at Morrigan's behest or going back to the mountains, too much needed to be done in Orzammar for me to keep ignoring it.
Even the bounty hunter and his hired band were a welcome distraction from the gate that loomed in the distance, but that fight was not lengthy.
If Wynne or Alistair noticed a change in my behavior, neither said anything. Charl gave my face an extra lick, his short tail wagging as we searched the bodies of the bandits. I found no bones for him this time, but it didn't deter him from sniffing around.
With my mabari at my side, and my two human companions trailing behind, we approached the gates. It took all of three seconds for the gatekeeper to say the words.
"Filthy brand."
I'm sure I winced; my face tightened like I did, but I had the Gray Warden treaties, and I had eyes on me. I didn't rise to the bait. The human there on behalf of Loghain took issue with me, regardless. But even if the gatekeeper had no respect for my person, he did have respect for the seal on those aged documents.
I kept my anger sheathed. I have my own thoughts about Loghain, but in front of a dwarf was no place to voice them. Especially a dwarf mired in politics of his own.
You would have thought that the blood still drying on my armor would have warned Imrek not to trifle with me or my party. I was wrong. He died quickly.
Entering the Commons was familiar, yet still strange. The weight of the earth so close over my head should have comforted me, for I had missed it. And yet...
I felt a burning sensation on my face--I had all but forgotten about my brand. Maybe I'd had a false sense of security all along, but now I felt it was a blazing beacon, standing out to all my kind. A heavy, unpleasant feeling seemed to creep beneath my armor, clinging to me. There were going to be looks. Challenges. Slurs and curses.
The friends with me would see them and hear them. Nothing I could do would stop that, but oh, I wanted to stop it. I should have stayed at the camp, polishing armor, or practicing with my blades. Part of me knew that this task would have been easier if I had made Alistair the warden in charge, but traditional dwarves are naturally suspicious of outsiders.
They fear the outside influence upon their precious caste system. Because everybody knows that the fortune or misfortune of your birth holds value. And because I am a female born of another casteless female, I was never allowed to choose a different fate for myself. Work on my back, work for Beraht, or starve. I had thought those were my choices.
But Duncan gave me a different choice.
I was handed a chalice with a delayed death sentence inside. And still I drank deep.
The wardens don't tell you much about the Joining. I know why, now.
Death tastes bitter, for those who might read this. And the aftertaste is terrifying--the nightmares are frequent, despite Alistair's words.
More than once, I have desired to dig my fingers into my flesh and simply rend it from me. The itchy, uncomfortable feeling of frustration kindles rage, and the pain feels good. The pain reminds me that I am strong. Only the strong survive, and here I am.
I dread it.
I dread the warm, suffocating air, the burning tang of the lava flows...the dark, warm colors that always seem to have some derivative of brown tinting them. There is no welcome in Orzammar. There's the in-fighting, the politics, and the castes.
I know better than to have any expectations of my fellow kind. The instant the gates of Orzammar closed behind me, it was as if the last three months spent on the surface had been a dream, and I had awakened to find that I was as insignificant and powerless as I had been raised to be.
And then, to be immediately found by Rica, my sister...I wasn't sure if I should be happy, or wary. Pleased to see her, certainly. Wary of what she thought of me now.
Her first words were reassuring, and true. Of course I am happy for her--she has been able to provide for herself, and for Mother. And now my new nephew. But in the back of my mind the suspicion lurks--did Bhelen choose my sister as his concubine because he knew I might be back? Did he suspect that the increase of darkspawn meant there was a new Blight?
The machinations reported to be behind his hopeful ascent to the throne seem too well-timed. But I can't breathe a word of that to Rica; she seems so sure of her and her son's destiny. And I won't put her in danger. This is all a game of shifting balances and loyalties, and I don't know how to play it. But there's Wynne. And Alistair. Waiting for me to lead them to victory. And I can't explain this to them.
For the first time...I am alone.
I had put this off as long as possible. I didn't wish to return to Orzammar at all, but the Gray Warden treaties I hold in trust require that we ask for aid from all peoples. Alistair has said that all must honor their place in these treaties, and I've taken him at his word.
But what good have any of the dwarves dwelling in Orzammar ever done me?
However, my business with the Dalish elves concluded far sooner than I had liked--at least they were polite to outsiders, if initially mistrustful. And given the choice between paying Flemeth a visit at Morrigan's behest or going back to the mountains, too much needed to be done in Orzammar for me to keep ignoring it.
Even the bounty hunter and his hired band were a welcome distraction from the gate that loomed in the distance, but that fight was not lengthy.
If Wynne or Alistair noticed a change in my behavior, neither said anything. Charl gave my face an extra lick, his short tail wagging as we searched the bodies of the bandits. I found no bones for him this time, but it didn't deter him from sniffing around.
With my mabari at my side, and my two human companions trailing behind, we approached the gates. It took all of three seconds for the gatekeeper to say the words.
"Filthy brand."
I'm sure I winced; my face tightened like I did, but I had the Gray Warden treaties, and I had eyes on me. I didn't rise to the bait. The human there on behalf of Loghain took issue with me, regardless. But even if the gatekeeper had no respect for my person, he did have respect for the seal on those aged documents.
I kept my anger sheathed. I have my own thoughts about Loghain, but in front of a dwarf was no place to voice them. Especially a dwarf mired in politics of his own.
You would have thought that the blood still drying on my armor would have warned Imrek not to trifle with me or my party. I was wrong. He died quickly.
Entering the Commons was familiar, yet still strange. The weight of the earth so close over my head should have comforted me, for I had missed it. And yet...
I felt a burning sensation on my face--I had all but forgotten about my brand. Maybe I'd had a false sense of security all along, but now I felt it was a blazing beacon, standing out to all my kind. A heavy, unpleasant feeling seemed to creep beneath my armor, clinging to me. There were going to be looks. Challenges. Slurs and curses.
The friends with me would see them and hear them. Nothing I could do would stop that, but oh, I wanted to stop it. I should have stayed at the camp, polishing armor, or practicing with my blades. Part of me knew that this task would have been easier if I had made Alistair the warden in charge, but traditional dwarves are naturally suspicious of outsiders.
They fear the outside influence upon their precious caste system. Because everybody knows that the fortune or misfortune of your birth holds value. And because I am a female born of another casteless female, I was never allowed to choose a different fate for myself. Work on my back, work for Beraht, or starve. I had thought those were my choices.
But Duncan gave me a different choice.
I was handed a chalice with a delayed death sentence inside. And still I drank deep.
The wardens don't tell you much about the Joining. I know why, now.
Death tastes bitter, for those who might read this. And the aftertaste is terrifying--the nightmares are frequent, despite Alistair's words.
More than once, I have desired to dig my fingers into my flesh and simply rend it from me. The itchy, uncomfortable feeling of frustration kindles rage, and the pain feels good. The pain reminds me that I am strong. Only the strong survive, and here I am.
I dread it.
I dread the warm, suffocating air, the burning tang of the lava flows...the dark, warm colors that always seem to have some derivative of brown tinting them. There is no welcome in Orzammar. There's the in-fighting, the politics, and the castes.
I know better than to have any expectations of my fellow kind. The instant the gates of Orzammar closed behind me, it was as if the last three months spent on the surface had been a dream, and I had awakened to find that I was as insignificant and powerless as I had been raised to be.
And then, to be immediately found by Rica, my sister...I wasn't sure if I should be happy, or wary. Pleased to see her, certainly. Wary of what she thought of me now.
Her first words were reassuring, and true. Of course I am happy for her--she has been able to provide for herself, and for Mother. And now my new nephew. But in the back of my mind the suspicion lurks--did Bhelen choose my sister as his concubine because he knew I might be back? Did he suspect that the increase of darkspawn meant there was a new Blight?
The machinations reported to be behind his hopeful ascent to the throne seem too well-timed. But I can't breathe a word of that to Rica; she seems so sure of her and her son's destiny. And I won't put her in danger. This is all a game of shifting balances and loyalties, and I don't know how to play it. But there's Wynne. And Alistair. Waiting for me to lead them to victory. And I can't explain this to them.
For the first time...I am alone.
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