#m!warden x alistair | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

maydayy98 · 1 year

Text

Alistair x Cousland Headcanon - Dancing

I have this headcanon that when my Warden Cousland was a young girl in Highever, she loved dancing. And she was really good at it too! Like she wasn’t super great at a lot of the “noble lady” things, and big social events and small talk with nobility weren’t usually her cup of tea. But if there was ever a castle party, you’d for sure find her dancing all night long. Maybe something about it reminded her of swordplay? The footwork, the balance, the energy of it? The interplay between two people? Either way, young Lady Cousland was always an excellent dancer as well as a warrior

Fast forward to the middle of Origins. One night at camp, Leliana is playing some music by the fire, maybe some other companions are joining her, and the Warden can’t remember the last time she danced but listening to the music, she suddenly misses it. Zevran whose sitting nearby and listening, offers to be a dancing partner for a song if she misses it so much, because of course he does and I could imagine he’s a damn good dancer himself lol. Nothing flirtatious about this offer, he just wants to enjoy the entertainment of it. And Cousland agrees.

Now Alistair, also nearby, is NOT a dancer. Never really had the chance to learn, thinks he can’t dance for the life of him and doesn’t really want to be seen trying, doesn't want to look the fool. So when others at camp begin to join in the fun he is quick to back out of it (alongside Morrigan because she would not be caught dead lol).

Until he sees his Warden twirling and laughing by the firelight, almost glowing it seems like, and he’s just so fucking smitten. She’s smiling so widely, he doesn’t know if he’s ever seen her smile like that before and Maker she’s just beautiful. And her laugh, it’s like music. Alistair knows that he cares deeply for his fellow Grey Warden by now but he hasn’t shared these feeling yet. Though it’s harder to ignore them now…

When the dance ends, the Warden is nearer to Alistair than before, laughing and clapping and as another song strikes up, Lady Cousland specifically asks Alistair if he’ll dance with her. Promises that it’ll be fun. When he admits that he doesn’t really know how, she says she’ll teach him and he agrees. Because he’d be willing to look the fool a dozen times over if it meant getting to dance with her like that.

Insert a VERY CUTE SCENE when the Warden teaches Alistair how to dance and he’s all left feet at first but he eventually starts to find his footing and they get into a proper rhythm and it is so much fun. And Alistair admits he’s surprised that the Warden enjoys dancing so much and she talks about the dances in Highever and how her father taught her how to when she was very small, and during castle parties visiting nobleman’s sons would try to ask her to dance in order to "woo" the Teyrn's daughter, so she'd make her brother Fergus dance with her most of the night to keep them at bay. They both laugh at the silly stories, and it’s the first time she’s talked about her family or her life before the blight with any real joy in her voice and Alistair thinks that he would have liked to know her then, before all of this death and tragedy and the loss that she had suffered. The Warden mirrors these thoughts back to him by saying that he would have loved a party thrown by the Couslands, and she would have liked to show him her home before…before Howe and...

Her face falls, the light leaving her eyes a bit, and Alistair feels an ache in his chest. He tries to lighten the mood and bring back her smile by stumbling a bit and joking that he would have made an awful dancing partner if he’d ever attended a party in Highever. Cousland laughs softly and assures him that he’s doing fine, and they continue in the dance as the music picks up. A couple knowing eyes watch them together, because neither one of them are as subtle about their feelings at they think that they are. But it hardly matters; they’re both having so much fun, joking and smiling, and maybe even flirting just a bit. Then the song comes to a close and they realize how close they are and the Warden actually starts to blush a bit. And damnit if Alistair wasn’t completely smitten before he sure as hell is now. If he forgot himself too much, he might have even leaned ever so slightly towards her lips, they were right there after all. Her face so near to his, her frame fitting into his arms perfectly. She was right there…

The couple are bumped into by Zevran who is trying to teach other partners the steps to the dance, without much success. This takes the two lovebirds out of their moment together, and Cousland laughs to break the tension, and makes an awkward mock curtsy before excusing herself, leaving Alistair slightly red-faced and gazing after her, trying to figure out how he’s going to ever admit that he’d really like nothing more than to to dance with her every day for the rest of his life...

(Ah God I really don't know where this all came from, and I know it's not good at all I just wanted to share all the cute fluff that lives in my brain. I would literally die for these two idiot Wardens sharing one brain cell between them. I have so many feelings, Maker end my suffering T-T)

41 notes · View notes

rivilu · 2 years

Text

See, the issue with me is that every single time I replay Origins I fall in love with everything about it more and more. Which consequently also makes me hate Inquisition more and more vitriolically each time.

#dragon age #dragon age origins #dragon age inquisition critical #inquisition critical #2 is the middle ground if you're wondering. it has a lot of flaws but I still love it a stable amount.#inq though. inq my behated. my beloathed.#at this rate my da keep will never be completed jhbjgs #Imagine setting up and fleshing out such a fascinating and wonderful dark fantasy world #only for the second successor to spit at everything you created- retcon half your shit and add nothing of value #not content to JUST sanitize it for mass consumption- but doing so by placing the protagonist as head to a fucking religious institution!#FORCED TO WATCH / T H E M / DO THE SANITIZING IN REAL TIME! MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM #Also i vehemently hate the '[x pagan/non christian coded god/ deity] revealed to just be some guy!' trope. I fucking despise it.#just spit at my face and tell me my religion is childish and stupid instead! Save us both some fucking time!#Then there's the whole plight of the mages being treated as fucking laughing stock and the wardens suddenly becoming incompetent babies #most likely just to bolster your protagonist's ego because look! This whole supposedly world saving order is stupid enough -#to fall to Coryphallus! But not you inquisitor- you're truly so strong and special and perfect and so much better than them!#just thinking about the wardens in inq. Mmm violence.#You know. darkspawn chronicles implies the Warden is the only reason the blight was defeated right?#similar to how the time traveling in inq implies the inquisitor is the only one that can stop corypenis #However the big difference is that 1. neither the warden nor the player explicitly know (could be assumed that Alistair/Riordan-#would manage without you)#2.though your recruitment was coincidental- it was still /earned/. and your connection to the taint is what influences it ending.#you're not a chosen one. just one of the chosen ones; in a sense #3. by inq- after seeing to protagonists accomplish way more with way less. I'm sorry but magic hand or no i'm not convinced-#that the inky is the only person capable of saving the world. Just not buying it.#And i'm not even done touching on HALF the things I hate! Yet another example: inq as a game has the strongest obvious agenda #and it's infuriating #Oh you're allowed to be a piece of shit to Sera; but you want to tear into mother Gizelle for literally spreading fucked up rumors-#about your love interest (talking about Dorian) and then having the GALL to come up to you fake concerned asking you to break up?#sorry mate the worst thing you can say is 'And where did those rumors come from?' mildly aggressively

69 notes · View notes

bluerose5 · 1 year

Text

I just had to share this part from my fic on its own because I loved it.

Talk about irony.

Darrian struggled to counter that, so Alistair took advantage of his silence to present him with his latest creation. The flowers from before were successfully woven together to form a circle, a little loose and lopsided, but they ultimately served their purpose well enough.

"Here," Alistair said. He took his time to brush Darrian’s hair back behind his ear, encouraged to linger when he felt Darrian lean into his touch. "A crown fit for a king."

Darrian snorted, but accepted the gift nevertheless.

"Heh, right." After Alistair placed the flowers atop his head, Darrian adjusted them to a more comfortable position, the crown a tad too big as it tended to lean to one side more so than the other. "And when was the last time you saw an elven king?"

—an excerpt from my fic, "At Your Service" on ao3

#dragon age #darrian tabris #alistair theirin #king alistair #aliwarden #m!aliwarden #alistair x tabris #alistair x warden #bluerose writes

9 notes · View notes

mortuarybees · 6 months

Text

king and lionheart was written for one pairing and one pairing only and that's Alistair/Warden

#m!warden specifically 🥰#i hate making alistair king but i love king alistair x warden he cant marry angst #henry speaks #da

4 notes · View notes

sulky-valkyrie · 2 years

Note

Things you said while you thought I was asleep for Alistair/anyone you'd like!

for @dadrunkwriting ~~~ Alistair was dozing lightly, when he felt Morrigan roll over. "I'm surprised he stayed."

"Why?" Aedan eased himself up slowly, shifting the other man's arm from his waist to his lap.

"He doesn't like me."

Aedan laughed softly. "You haven't exactly been nice to him, Mori."

Her voice was low and amused. Maker, had she always sounded like that? Sultry? Was that the word? "He called me a witch and said I'd turn him into a frog when we met, if you recall."

A calloused hand stroked his forehead. "Considering you are a witch and you have threatened to turn people into frogs, that hardly seems fair."

She moved again, soft curves brushing Alistair's fingers. He held them still, not wanting to eavesdrop, but also not wanting to interrupt whatever moment was happening above or near him. "He gave me the idea, and it's hardly my fault for using such a threat, even if that does take more power than its worth."

"So you could do it, but you're lazy?" Aedan’s fingers were in his hair. "And this, will it be worth all that power you’re spending?"

"You'll still be alive. You'll still have him." The tone was more wistful than bitter.

He could hear Aedan’s frown. "You could stay, too, Mori. I never - Mori, I'm sorry I believed you when you said it didn't matter, that you didn't care about me like that."

"Warden Cousland, you owe me nothing. There is no future for us and there never could be." Her voice was firm. The bed dipped as she leaned forward, and then Alistair’s hand wasn't just pressed against warm yielding flesh, but damp curls. Aedan's breath sped up, and the hand on Alistair’s scalp tightened.

"You want to make sure it took?" He asked softly. "If we're going to for another round, it's only fair that I wake him up."

"Does it really take two Grey Wardens to satisfy a Witch of the Wilds?" she teased back. "Am I so wanton and shameless?"

"Aren't you?" Aedan murmured softly. "You come to our bed, ask us for a child so we can survive saving the world? How is that not wanton or shameless?" Alistair could hear them exchanging kisses, and she was rocking against his hand, likely without realizing it.

"Shameless would be if I rode you while he slept."

Alistair’s eyes snapped open at that. "Um," was all he managed to get out before Aedan was leaning down to kiss him too, and he tasted like Morrigan. Until a few hours ago, that would've infuriated or horrified him. Probably both. But now, now it was just another part of the man he loved, and the woman they'd fathered a child with.

"Dire news, your highness," the other man said after he broke off the kiss, eyes twinkling.

Alistair snorted. "Has the kingdom run out of cheese?"

"Far worse." Aedan turned and wrapped his arms around Morrigan, then pulled her across his lap. "There's a woman in our bed."

He sat up, hand to his forehead in mock terror. "Maker, no! What will the Bannorn say?"

She poked him in the chest. "They'll ask why it's not Anora."

"Because she's terrifying." He shrugged and cupped her face as he leaned forward to kiss her. "Now, did I hear something about another round?"

#da drunk writing circle #dragon age #fanfic writing #warden cousland #m!cousland x alistair #warden x alistair #warden x morr #warden x morrigan x alistair #lemony #mild spice #prompt fills

22 notes · View notes

1ncend1ary · 9 months

Text

its like a fun little surprise of what i'm going to post each day. i know i tend to flip around with my art because i'm just drawing for me, but currently i've been doodling my dnd character (post when its done) + my dragon age zombie apocalypse au that i've been writing with the help of one lovely @rando-lesbo210

5 notes · View notes

trans-ruffboi · 2 years

Text

Zevwarden week 2022

Day 5: Promises

Zevran/Male Surana (Renlin Surana) very slight pre-alizevwarden

You Told Me

1,237 words

kinda squashed together a few conversations here. (Edited: added a very important scene that I forgot to paste!)

"But that is what I am asking. Do you want me to go? Do you need me here?"

Renlin hesitated, "...Of course I want you to stay, but I also want- I want you to do what's best for you. I don't want to be keeping you trapped anywhere."

Zevran seemed taken aback by that answer, "I admit I am, unsure what to do with that. All my life, these things have been decided by others. For now I believe I will… stay. Until such a time that one of us decides to leave."

Renlin smiled, and looped his arms around Zevran's neck, a little more brazen than he would ordinarily be in public. "I won't leave you unless you want me to, Zevran. I promise." Perhaps not the smartest promise to make, but he meant it.

Zevran didn't reply in kind. but he didn't need to. Renlin had meant it when he said he didn't want to trap him. He didn't need more from Zevran than the other man was willing to give, as much as he wanted it to be more than just for now.

But Zevran did say, "I am with you until the end, provided you do not tire of me first," and made a few quips about dying which had Renlin smiling from where his head had fallen to Zevran's shoulder.

Then Zevran lifted his chin and kissed him, right there in the alley, and he didn't hear Leliana's cooing or Alistair's feigned disgust over the sound of his heartbeat in his ears.

The Archdemon was rearing back, and Alistair yelled in response. No. No that's not happening, Alistair can't die and-

And he wrenched him back, Renlin’s blood streaming from one cut or another, it didn't matter. All that mattered was that they couldn't die, Zevran, or Alistair, or any of the rest of them. So he reached into his body, seeking the Tainted, Blighted energy within him, and reaching towards Alistair and the Archdemon, wresting the dragon to the ground even as he felt himself fading.

He looked at Zevran before he did it, the man looking shocked but as always beautiful, and stabbed his staff blade into the things skull once and for all.

He was sorry he'd have to break that promise, but if Zevran was alive he thought it worth it.

He had expected to wake up dead. Or not wake up at all, as it were. He hadn't expected to groan awake and send an elven servant scurrying to get "His Highness" before he could even say anything.

His head was a bit fuzzy, and the pitcher of water on the nightstand might as well have been in Antiva for all that he could get it. He tried to reach for his magic to rejuvenate himself, but that set him falling back to the pillows, vision spotting.

"Yeah, Wynne said not to do that, ideally, if you woke up. I was beginning to worry that Morrigan was full of it." Alistair was just standing there, arms crossed; he didn't know when the other Warden had shown up.

"I-" His voice was tight, with sleep and time. He must've been out for a decent amount of time. "I don’t understand. Why am I-"

"Alive? You are, just barely. Wynne said you 'gravely overdid it', with whatever that Grasp thing you did was." Alistair was angry. His voice was clipped in a way it usually wasn't; harsh in a way that had it been when they met Renlin might've been left quaking.

"I… yeah. Yeah that." He looked away, towards the water, and even though Alistair was angry with him he sighed and grabbed the glass for him, helping him sit up a little and pressing it into his hands before speaking.

Renlin sipped it while Alistair spoke. "Despite your best efforts you are alive, because Morrigan had a spell, or ritual or something. She left, so I can't explain it to you fully, but we had to… do some things. To get both of us out of this. I'll explain better later, but Zevran is very worried about and cross with you, so I'll leave for him in a moment."

He would be, but "Is he alright? Please, I-"

Alistair's expression softened a fraction. "He is. He's angry though, and hiding it behind all his snarking about the way that he does. He cares about you, we both- all- care about you, and you tried to go and die on us." His voice had quieted, by the end of the statement, and he patted Renlin on the shoulder before he turned to leave.

"Oh, and Ren?" He said over his shoulder.

"Yes?"

"I'm glad you're alright, even if I'm angry with you." And then he left.

Zevran came in a moment later, face entirely unreadable. Alistair had said he was alright, but seeing him was a different matter. When Zevran sat down on the chair by the bed Renlin found it in him to sit up further, wincing, and reach for his hand, eyes watering when Zevran gave it to him.

"Are you okay? Zevran I-" He cut off, throat tight. He needed him to be okay. What was the fucking point if Zevran wasn't okay?

"I am, physically, quite alright, Warden."

"That's, that's good. I didn't know-"

"What did you not know, Warden? If there would be fallout from your endeavors? It seems there were perhaps a great many things you did not know." Zevran was rarely harsh; he teased around subjects, hid them in misdirection and charm, but now he seemed to have lost patience.

"I just," he looked down at their hands, the first few tears threatening to fall, "I just wanted you to be alright. I needed you, you and Alistair and the rest of you; I needed you to be alright."

Zevran said, somewhat quietly, "You made me a promise, mi amor. You claimed that you would not leave me."

"I didn't think there was a way out of it, without breaking that promise."

"I know that you did not know, but you made me a promise, and did not tell me when you intended to break it. Subterfuge and diversion is all well and good, but you expected to die, and for me to continue unknowing."

Renlin felt a tear on his cheek. Stupid, really, he was the one that fucked up, and everyone was fine, and that was all that he had wanted. But Zevran was angry with him, and he'd probably leave, and Renlin would deserve it. But he still choked out, "I thought, that if you didnt know; if you thought it was accidental, then it might be easier. But I guess, if I broke my promise, then you have no reason not to go then."

Zevran pulled his hand away, gently, and Renlin pursed his lips. There he goes; he's going to go, because there was no Blight, and Renlin was a coward and he was just trapping him here, and-

But Zevran just held his face, finger point brushing over where his earring still sat, and likely forever would, bringing Renlin’s gaze back to his face. "I did not promise you, mi amor, but I did say I would be here, until the end. And as neither I nor you have perished in some grisly and unfortunate manner, I will remain, as ever, your man."

"I love you, Zevran. I love you so much."

"Yes. I know that."

#renlin surana #zevwarden week 2022 #zevwarden #zevran x surana #zevran x m!warden #fic #my writing #k i know im late but also i am drunk so #if its not clear in my canon renlin and alistair got into an argument about the final sacrifice and then #alistair ended up doing the ritual without telling renlin #lmao forgot the fuckin Archdemon!

8 notes · View notes

thiefbird · 2 years

Note

Alistair meeting Anders again after Anora makes him go after Dirthail 👀👀👀

I had a fun idea for this! For @dadrunkwriting

Alistair rushed up the stairs to Dirth's quarters, dodging servants and junior Wardens as he went. He'd never been up here, had barely ever set foot in Vigil's Keep, really. Thankfully the senechal had given him detailed instructions on how to get there, or else he'd have been completely lost

The hallway at the top of the stairs was dauntingly long, and Alistair lowed his pace, eyeing each door nervously. The senechal had advised him that Morrigan's quarters were on this hall, too, and the Howe's, as Warden-Constable, neither of which he relished seeing. Morrigan because of their long-lasting rivalry, and Nathaniel Howe because of murdering his father.

Though Dirthail had been involved in the murdering, and by all accounts, he and Howe were perfectly amiable. More amiable than Dirth and Alistair in recent years.

And didn't that sting? Alistair knew he had been the one to pull away, but still. Dirth could have reached out, could have apologised.

Alistair finally made it to the end of the hall, and without knocking, burst into the grand, yet cosy, quarters.

A fire was gently roaring in the hearth, Barkspawn snoring gently in front of it. And prone on the couch was...

A decidedly naked blond man, posed provocatively, and fast asleep.

"Oh dear Maker! Alistair exclaimed, waking both the man and the mabari as he covered his eyes.

The blond man screamed, hands flying to cover his crotch. "What the fuck?!" he shouted indignantly. "Who in the Fade are- King Alistair?!"

Alistair's face was burning red as he peeked out from behind his fingers. The man had tossed a pillow into his lap and was now leaning back on the couch, completely comfortable in his nudity now the shock had passed.

"Err- yes. That's me? I, uh, I'm afraid I don't know your name."

The naked man snorted, head lolling back on the armrest. "Of course you don't. I am Anders, former apostate and current Warden-Healer. I'm honestly hurt, ser, you were there when I was recruited."

That jostled Alistair's memory, a dim idea of arriving at the Vigil just after Dirth had taken command. "Ah, yes. You're-" Dirth's apostate. Well, his other apostate.

"You're-" he repeated, trying to find a less imprudent way to refer to Anders.

"I'm the Warden-Commander's kept man, as opposed to Morrigan, yes," Anders drawled lazily, gesturing to the room around them. "Which explains my presence. I assume you were not looking for me, but for Dirth?"

Something in Alistair's chest (not his heart, no, it couldn't be his heart) snapped at the casually possessive tone in Anders' voice. He was too late.

"Yes. I have... important matters to discuss with him. Kingly business."

Anders grinned, wiggling his eyebrows. "He's busy."

"Well, when will he be available?" Alistair demanded, feeling the childish urge to stomp his foot at the cheeky expression on the mage's face.

Anders shrugged, "He's with Morrigan and their- and our son," he corrected himself, a slight blush coloring his cheeks.

"And you were... waiting for him?"

"Mmm," Anders agreed. "A surprise. I should probably get dressed, if you have 'kingly business' to discuss. Maybe I'll go bother Nate instead."

He stood up, smirking as Alistair averted his eyes again, and threw on a set of rather revealing robes. It was almost worse than seeing the man naked, watching him fuss with the flimsy, sheer material, draping it artfully around his waist and hips.

Anders gestured to the now-vacated couch as he moved to the door. "Good luck with your business, King Alistair." he said with a wink as he left.

#dadwc #thiefbird writes #Anders x Dirthail #anders x mahariel #Alistair x Dirthail #Alistair x m!Mahariel #Anders x Warden Commander #Anders x hero of Ferelden #Alistair x Warden commander #Alistair x hero of Ferelden

5 notes · View notes

eliphasgraham · 1 year

Text

Just two gay rogues surprising each other with smooch attacks and some carrots

#if you're asking yourself why they all change skin/hair colors in each drawing it's very simple it's because idk wtf im doing #BUT im learning i think and this one is OK #dragon age #dragon age origins #dwarf warden #warden brosca #zevran arainai #zevran x m!warden #zevran x brosca #alistair theirin #bisou bisou

88 notes · View notes

ringneckedpheasant · 2 years

Text

t4t bi alistair romance but it’s just things in my reaction image folder

#rhys x alistair #rhys mahariel #alistair x warden #alistair/m!warden #marc.txt

58 notes · View notes

laurelsofhighever · 4 months

Text

Fandom: Dragon Age: Origins Characters/pairings: Alistair x Cousland Chapter: 11/? Rating: M Warnings: Canon-typical violence Fic Summary: The story of the Fifth Blight, in a world where Alistair was raised to royalty instead of joining the Grey Wardens.

Read on AO3!

Two more days of uneventful travelling brought the little group to the outskirts of civilisation, chilled and soggy under the pall of wet snow that had closed over them the night before. They had sheltered, shivering, in an abandoned barn, one of many along the old, paved road they were following, which had been in poor repair even before rumours of war had channelled carts and animals and the refugees who drove them out of the southern hinterlands. Now, it was a struggle to trudge through the lines of muddy, iced-over puddles where the flagstones left gaps, breath coming in harsh clouds of white fog and cold-numbed fingers tucked as much as possible under the folds of the oilskin cloaks Flemeth had been able to spare them.

“Lothering,” Alistair huffed when they finally paused for breath on a bluff overlooking the village. Thin banners of smoke rose from the hunched cluster of buildings in the settlement proper, and from the damp campfires dotted between the mass of grubby tents that spilled out over the southern boundary like flotsam from a shipwreck.

“Pretty as a painting.” He shot a sidelong grin to Rosslyn on his left. “I almost didn’t think we’d make it.”

“It’s a real sight, isn’t it?”

The new, reedy voice came from just off the road, from a small campsite set far enough back into the bushes that any travellers heading north would miss it on the way past. The thin, gaunt man it belonged to stepped out onto the path in front of them. Four others emerged after him, in front and behind to block their path, all in similar states of beggary with weapons drawn. Rosslyn’s own hand reached for her sword at the same moment Alistair stepped closer to guard her flank. The shiver of air along her spine told her that Morrigan, too, readied for an attack. She hoped it would not come. Though her shoulder had knitted together far faster than should be expected even with the aid of magical healing, the dull twinges that flared with every movement warned of the permanent damage that could be done if she got into a fight before the muscles fully recovered.

“Let us pass,” she commanded from beneath her hood. At her side, Cuno growled his own threat, the sound a low vibration against her leg.

“Ah, the pretty one is in charge, I see,” the stranger cried, as if delighted. He looked malnourished, his hollow cheeks exaggerated by the cracked, ill-fitting leather armour strapped about his shoulders, the sour odour of his unwashed body an offence even from ten paces’ distance. Everything from his stance to the flashy, overly stiff grip of his sword screamed his lack of skill, even without the coating of rust on his neglected blade that would have gotten any squire in Castle Cousland flogged.

One of the other bandits shifted on his feet when she didn’t respond. “Uh… these ones don’t look much like them others,” he ventured. “Maybe we should just let them pass?”

“Nonsense,” the leader snapped, and turned a greasy smile on Rosslyn. “We have rules, you know. There’s a toll. A simple ten silvers and you’re free to move on.”

“You’re not very well dressed for tollkeepers,” Alistair noted. “Better hope Bann Dunstan’s militia doesn’t catch you preying on those fleeing the darkspawn.”

The man laughed. “Bann Dunstan went north with Teyrn Loghain, and took all his soldiers with him. There’s only a few templars left at the chantry now – so we’re taking the initiative.”

“You are fools to get in our way,” Morrigan told him with a sneer.

“Loghain came through here?” Rosslyn pressed, before the bandits could test the claim.

The leader shrugged. “Day before yesterday, leading his whole army and saying the Grey Wardens betrayed the king and got him and themselves killed.”

“That’s not –”

“No other survivors?” she interrupted.

“A few,” he answered. “Band of Ash Warriors came through yesterday – stayed right out of their way, I can tell you. But you aren’t Ash Warriors.”

“No?” she asked lightly. “We came from the south, we’re armoured and armed better than you, and I can tell you exactly how far the darkspawn are behind us. Are you really going to risk yourselves on a losing battle here when you could be running?”

“Uh… you don’t seem to realise –”

She feinted forward. He flinched, and she tilted a cold smile at him.

“Alright!” he huffed, throwing up his hands. “We’re just trying to get by, before the darkspawn get us all.”

“Then go,” she suggested. “And hope they don’t catch up.”

He risked a glance sideways at the campsite, one hand rising in a hopeless gesture that faltered with the deliberate step she took towards him, his eyes glued to the inch of white steel drawn from her scabbard.

“Those things don’t belong to you,” she reminded him.

“Yes, right.” He swallowed. “Of course. Come on, gents – it’s slim pickings here anyway.”

She kept her gaze on him as he stumbled backwards, tense in case of a double-cross, though she had spent enough time among her father’s hounds to know a beaten dog when she saw one. The patter of the rain fell heavily in the mud as he retreated with the rest of his miserable band slinking at his heels, reluctant, but not one daring enough to attack alone.

They would not remain cowed for long.

As soon as the last man retreated into the cover of the trees, Rosslyn turned and leapt the ditch between the road and the bandits’ makeshift camp, hissing a curse as her boot slipped on the landing and wrenched her shoulder.

“Uh… what are you doing?” Alistair asked, coming closer.

“Outfitting,” she replied. “Before they come back.”

“If they do, I say teach them a lesson,” Morrigan scoffed. She had stayed on the road, vigilant as a wolf with the distant scent of deer on the wind.

“The best way to win a fight is to not fight in the first place.” Busy hunting through the meagre spoils the bandits had managed to scrounge together, the adage came to Rosslyn’s lips almost without thinking. It crowded with others in her head, the stories retold by the hearth on winter nights that spoke not of the glory of battle but of the hardships that went between, nights of cold and hunger where morale wavered like a candle flame by an open window. There had been days, her father said, where the Orlesians had forced them to choose between the tired army and starving civilians.

Behind her, Cuno whined. A small animal, perhaps a yearling lamb, lay poorly spitted over the fire, its flesh half-cooked and the tips of its shanks beginning to burn. Drops of fat hissed as they surrendered to the flames. In the few days of travel from Flemet’s hut, the dog’s share of their meagre rations had been smaller than she would have liked, stretched as far as possible with grains but limited by all the things he couldn’t eat.

“Such a good boy,” she crooned, leaving off her inspection of a tatty bedroll to cut away one of the haunches for him. The heat of the bone warmed her numb fingers through the thick leather of her gauntlets, gone again the instant she wiped the juices away on the inside of her cloak.

“Are we taking this stuff, then?” Alistair tried. “You know it was stolen.”

“We’re taking what we can carry, what we need,” she corrected, without looking at him. “I don’t like it either, but you heard what he said about Loghain just as well as I did – we need all the advantages we can get.”

Morrigan delicately flicked a cleaning rag away from the rim of an engraved silver bowl so she could inspect it. “If the former owners of these items were foolish enough to allow themselves to be robbed, ‘tis no concern of ours.”

“The people who passed through here were desperate,” he insisted. “They had nothing else.”

“Neither do we,” Rosslyn reminded him, and sighed. “We can pass word in the village once we get there – maybe someone will come for what’s left.”

A long moment passed as he wrestled with his conscience, as the snow thickened overhead and Cuno crunched down the bones of his impromptu meal, until necessity overcame nobility and with a snarl at nothing in particular he tramped over to the bandits’ tent to dismantle it. Even through the thick layers of armour and cloak, the tension in his shoulders screamed loud enough that Rosslyn had to grit her teeth and turn away. She swiped a bag of dried provisions and a coinpurse from the bottom of an unlocked chest, and an extra cloak and bedroll that she hoped weren’t infested with lice, before hunting around for something that might serve to wrap the rest of the meat.

Further into the trees, they found a pair of tacked-up horses tied to the branch of a bare oak. One was of much finer quality than the other, with the tall, strong-boned confirmation of a knight’s charger, but both had been neglected, left to stand with no sign of fodder in a slurry of mud up to the fetlock.

“Ah, I see we are to rescue every pathetic creature that wanders across our path,” Morrigan commented as Rosslyn ran her hands over the destrier’s legs to check for swelling.

She shot a glare over her uninjured shoulder. “Would you prefer to carry the tent?”

With their baggage now strapped to the horses, the last stretch of the journey took less than an hour. By the time they reached the outskirts of Lothering, the blizzard had eased and a glance of pale sunlight managed to slip past the bars of cloud. The squalor it illuminated rose bile in the back of Rosslyn’s throat as surely as the smell. Families huddled beneath scavenged yards of cloth trying to stay dry as the few campfires still burning billowed acrid curls of smoke, their meagre possessions kept within sight and easy reach.

“I wonder, Alistair,” Morrigan commented as they passed through the gauntlet of wan, wary stares, “why do none of them recognise you? You passed through Lothering on the journey south, did you not?”

“I was considerably better dressed then,” he pointed out, but pulled the hood of his cloak lower over his forehead nonetheless. “It’s probably for the best that we’re not recognised, if what that bandit said about Loghain is true. It does make you wonder what all these people are waiting for, though. They have to know the darkspawn aren’t that far away.”

Morrigan clicked her tongue. “‘Tis not our concern if they wish to sit like rams waiting for the wolf.”

They trudged further in silence, until the cobbles of the road once more emerged from beneath the quagmire of the squatters’ field. In the distance, the tower of the village chantry rose above the lines of shingle roofs, its pennants flashing with gold-embroidered sunbursts. If any organised retreat existed, the templars would have charge of it, though to judge from the blasphemous ravings of the merchant they passed arguing with a lay sister, their grasp on order was tenuous at best.

“Please, sers – have you seen my mother?”

Rosslyn stopped cold. A small boy, older than Oren but not by much, and with lighter hair, huddled under the eaves of an empty doorstep, clutching a scrawny, point-eared mongrel about the neck. His clothes were thin and ragged at the hems, smeared with the dirt that also smudged its way across his cheek.

“Your mother?” she repeated, fighting back the shake of double vision.

“She’s really tall, and she has red hair,” the boy said hopefully. “Some mean men with swords came and Mother told me to run to the village as fast as I could, so I did. She said she’d be right behind me, but I’ve been waiting and waiting and I can’t find her.”

“Do you know where your father is?”

The boy’s gaze turned briefly to Alistair before settling on the dirt. “He went with William to the neighbours’ yesterday, but he didn’t come back.”

“‘Tis likely your parents are dead,” Morrigan told him, without sympathy. “Waiting for them here is pointless.”

“That’s not true!” The boy wiped his nose on his sleeve. “She said she’d come.” But his lip trembled, and he drew his arms tighter around the dog.

“Here,” Rosslyn interrupted, reaching to her side before the tears could truly come. “Get yourself something to eat, then go to the chantry. It’ll likely be the first place your mother will look for you.”

With a hearty sniff, the boy peered dubiously at the offering before lighting up in glee, his worry forgotten. “A whole silver!” He made to grab for it, then remembered his manners. “Thank you – you’re a really nice lady, kind of like mother.”

“Go on,” she commanded with a rough jerk of her head, and watched him disappear through the crowd.

“Poor thing,” Alistair muttered. He rounded on Morrigan. “Did you have to do that?”

“I only spoke the truth,” she retorted.

“And what good did it do?” Rosslyn demanded.

“What good is a silver to someone who will likely soon be prey to the darkspawn?”

In terms of cold practicality, the point was well barbed; it fired clean and struck true, even if the silver for the boy’s meal had come from an already-stolen purse. Rosslyn’s hands curled into fists nonetheless, the image before her eyes smeared not with mud from the gutter, but with blood.

“You don’t know that,” she growled.

“Denial will not –”

“I won’t argue this.” She drew in a steadying breath and clucked at the horses to walk on. “We should get to the chantry.”

Morrigan scowled at her. Alistair, too, held a wary edge in his posture, as if daring himself to ask whether she was alright, but she ignored them both to push on through the crowd of people milling about without much seeming purpose at all. Most wore the simply stitched clothes of farmholders, bundled up against the cold in cloaks of thick wool. A few, wealthier, had rabbit or squirrel trim about the collar, but none could be considered truly rich in their dress, and like the refugees beyond the village boundary they all kept close watch of their belongings, heads bowed like workhorses at the plough as they hurried about their business. Clearly, any with the means to leave had already made their escape.

Further on, a crowd had gathered in the lee of the chantry wall, their number shifting uneasily as a wiry man in the leather tunic and cross-tied cloak of a Chasind trader gesticulated at them from atop an overturned crate. His hair was lank and matted, his hose stained with mud to the thigh, and wild exhaustion creased the sun-darkened skin around his eyes.

“The legions of evil are on your doorstep!” he cried. “They will feast upon our hearts!”

“At last, someone who seems to understand the situation,” Morrigan noted dryly.

“There! One of their minions is already amongst us!”

Several faces turned in the direction of his point, and murmured amongst themselves as their eyes landed on Rosslyn, trying to guide her horse to the quieter side of the road. Travel-worn she might be, and scowling like a thundercloud, but a disappointing comparison to the monsters that haunted the dark edges of their bedtime stories.

“Prettiest darkspawn I ever saw,” someone laughed. “If they’re all like that, maybe I should join up.”

“This woman bears their evil stench!” the man insisted, spit flying from his lips. “Can you not see the vile blackness that fills her? The darkspawn will cover the world like a plague of locusts, and she is but the beginning! There is nowhere to run – better to slit your children’s throats now than let them suffer at darkspawn hands!”

Rosslyn stopped. Her lip twisted in a moment of indecision before she dropped the leading rein and started into the crowd with Cuno at her heels. Above, a bank of cloud shifted again and covered the sun, so that as she advanced, with onlookers scrabbling out of her way and drawn in her wake to see what would happen next, the sky darkened and the little warmth left bled from the air.

“I am not your enemy,” she declared, when she finally stood before her accuser.

“You are but the first of those who will destroy us!”

“What’s going on here?”

The Wilder shrank from the bite of the new voice, from the two soldiers in Gwaren Black fighting through the ranks of people, shoving with the hafts of their polearms when someone was too slow to move.

“You again!” spat the taller one, who had a sergeant’s band around his upper arm. “We’ve warned you. Move along, and stop causing trouble.”

“You would punish me, but not this thing of evil?” the wilder demanded. “Look on her! See the corruption thick in her veins.”

The soldiers were already looking, eyes half-lidded in affected disdain as they measured her. She stood, half a head taller than either of them, and glared coolly back.

“You’re well-armed, traveller,” the sergeant said. “Come from the south, did you?”

“Most recently,” she allowed.

The man scratched his chin. “No sigil, and no company. No mercs that I saw at Ostagar, and an honest soldier would wear a liege lord’s colours. Corrupted, you say?” he added, turning to the Wilder. “That sounds like a Grey Warden to me. I think we’ve just been blessed.”

“In what manner?” Rosslyn asked. These were not desperate farmers driven to banditry; all reports said Loghain trained his soldiers hard, ever fearful of a new invasion from Orlais, and they would not tuck their tails like scolded mongrels if she merely bared her teeth. She stood relaxed, drawn up to her full height despite the pain it brought to her shoulder.

“There’s a bounty out for traitors,” he leered.

As his hand shifted for a firmer grip on his polearm, his gaze slid to a point to Rosslyn’s left and widened in disbelief. A red-haired woman in the dawn-coloured cloth of a lay sister slipped into the open space the crowd had drawn around the confrontation, her graceful fingers splayed palm to palm in the sign of the sunburst as she placed herself gently as a feather between the soldiers and their hoped-for prize.

“Surely there is no need for trouble, gentlemen,” she said, her voice low and melodic, lilting with the precise inflections of court Orlesian. “No doubt this is but another poor soul seeking refuge.”

The sergeant gestured with his weapon. “Stay out of our way, sister, or you’ll get the same, chanter’s robes or no. The Wardens killed the king, or haven’t you heard?”

The crowd tensed. Rosslyn didn’t move. Out of the corner of her eye, she spied Alistair hanging in the first line of onlookers, his stance and sword ready to aid her should any real fighting erupt, though he kept his hood low over his face, hunched to disguise his height. She could worry about his silence later, but for now she was glad neither Morrigan nor the horses were with him.

“It is no excuse for ambushing –”

“Loghain is the one who betrayed the king!” she called out over the Chantry sister’s misgivings, a clarion note on the dull air as she circled to once again stand before her opponent. “When the moment came for his support in the battle, he turned and fled, and left King Cailan and the Wardens to be overwhelmed. Their sacrifice is the only reason the darkspawn are not already swarming at your door.”

“Lies!” the sergeant spat. “This isn’t even a true Blight!”

“When the moment came,” she repeated, in a voice like winter, “he chose cowardice over loyalty.”

The insult struck. With a bellow like a bull the sergeant charged, polearm lowered to skewer her. She was ready. Whistling two quick notes, she stepped into the attack and drew her sword to parry the blow, the movement a graceful arc into his guard that slammed down into a pommel strike against his neck that sent him to the floor. His companion yelled a protest, but before he could intervene, Cuno’s massive jaws clamped around his arm. Surprise broke off into screams as he was borne to the ground and shaken like a dust rag. There was crack of bone.

“Alright!” the sergeant cried, as the crowd swayed, sickened by the sound. “Alright! You’ve won – we surrender!”

Rosslyn, her sword laid like a whisper against his neck, whistled once. In an instant her dog let go and backed off, though his thunderous growls still reverberated through the space, and left no doubt about his intentions should anyone else dare to attack his mistress. A few lost snowflakes drifted down against the stones.

“They have learned their lesson now, I think,” the Chantry sister said, calmly, as if the soldiers had lost a chess match and weren’t both lying in the dirt, the one cringing against a white steel blade and the other cradling his bloodied, broken arm. “We can all stop fighting now.”

“Can we?” Rosslyn asked of the sergeant.

Eyes wide, he nodded. “Maker bless you for your mercy, ser!”

“My mercy,” she repeated. “There’s precious little of it. I want you to be of use to me.”

“Anything – anything!”

“You’re going to take a message to Loghain,” she said.

“Uh, what –” He swallowed. “What do you want to tell him?”

She glanced up and met Alistair’s eyes, the lines of his mouth pinched in worry as he slowly shook his head to urge her to caution. For a moment, her jaw clenched around the desire to rebel, to issue a challenge like those her ancestors had laid down before their enemies, a bright, shining pennant to unfurl across a battlefield, a streak of midnight intent, but the urge bled from her as she once again felt the ugly itch of the whispers in the back of her mind. Loghain possessed an army, and in sacrificing the Wardens had excused it the obligation of stopping the Blight; for now, Alistair’s survival, and her own identity, were the only tactical advantages they had.

“Tell him there are those who know what he did,” she growled. “And that we will see justice done for it.”

She took her blade away, and kicked him for good measure as he scrambled to his feet His lackey stumbled after, cowering away as she flexed out the rush of the battle-blood that made her fingers shake. She would pay for that burst of action later. All eyes were fixed on her, or on Cuno nosing up under her hand for a scratch behind the ear. Even the Chantry sister, who seemed far less bothered by the violence than should be expected, watched with curiosity to see what would happen next.

Her father would have known what to say; he would have chided her for shrinking back from her duty.

“I am a Grey Warden,” she told the gathered crowd. “Listen to me – the darkspawn are coming. King Cailan bought you time, but it is falling away and they cannot be stopped. They do not reason. If you do not leave, you will die.”

“Coward’s talk!” someone shouted.

“We’ll show ‘em if they dare creep out of the Wilds!”

“Maybe the Wardens killed the king and you’re trying to cover it up!”

The Chantry sister raised her hands. “Good people, please –”

“If it is so safe here, then why did the bann flee north?”

The voice did not come from one of the villagers, but from Morrigan. Her disdain rang so clear that it might have been amplified by magic, and it blunted the anger of the crowd into a low, uncertain buzz that faded entirely into silence as the lay sister once more stepped forward to address them.

“Please, do not despair,” she said. “The Maker sent this Grey Warden as a warning, to help us in our hour of need.”

“Do you think we should tell her who actually sent us?” Alistair muttered in Rosslyn’s ear as he sidled up to her.

“It would be interesting to see how things could get worse,” she muttered back.

“You handled those soldiers pretty well – I’d almost forgotten how scary you were in the lists.”

Disbelieving, she glanced at him and found nothing but sincerity in his shrouded features, a soft trust that stung not least because part of her wanted to throw back his hood and show him to the people in all disregard for sense. Such a move would certainly make them listen, but if Loghain had truly put out a bounty for captured Grey Wardens, how much more would he be willing to pay for Cailan’s only heir? Perhaps, at least until they met with Arl Eamon, it would be safer to pretend he was another Grey Warden instead, to shield him with her own status as much as it was her duty as a Cousland to shield him with her body.

As she mulled this over, the crowd succumbed to the lack of fresh entertainment and let itself be chivvied back about its business, clearing the path to Morrigan and the main doors of the chantry that had been their first destination. The lay sister remained, a demure smile upon her face as she waited for them to notice her.

“Thank you for intervening, Sister,” Alistair said. “We’re glad the crowd decided to listen to you.”

“I couldn’t just sit by and not help,” came the reply. “Though from your display of skill I see my aid was not required.”

“A welcome attempt nonetheless,” Rosslyn told her.

The woman smiled and dipped into a curtsey. “Then I am glad. Perhaps, if you wish it, I can offer further assistance by escorting you to the chantry?”

#dragon age #dragon age fanfic #dragon age fanfiction #dragon age: origins #dragon age origins #da:o #alistair x cousland #alistair x warden #warden x alistair #cousland #warden cousland #rosslyn cousland #cousland feels #morrigan #leliana #barkspawn #lothering

15 notes · View notes