Chapter 4: A Few Minor Details
Apr. 10th, 2011 11:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
morwen_eledhwenTitle: Unbound, Chapter 4
Characters: F!Amell/Loghain Mac Tir
Rating: T
Summary: Enchantment! The re-vamped Wardens get the show on the road.
Even the Mage knew that no verdict could truly be given on the new sword until it had been tested in the field. She suspected, however, that an opportunity would soon arise.
"Next stop, the Deep Roads," she announced in camp that afternoon.
Groans and shouts of protest from her followers. "Are you sodding kidding me?" growled Oghren. Morrigan clutched at her temples: "You can't be serious," she griped. "But I have just gotten the stink of those Deep Roads out of my hair!" moaned Leliana. A rumble of disapproval issued from Sten's throat. In the past he would have objected as strenuously as the others, but these days he restricted himself merely to putting on a sour face and abiding in silence. Shale, on the other hand, seemed to perk up somewhat, and regarded the Mage with interest.
The Mage waited patiently until the storm of complaints subsided. "It's like this," she explained. "We don't know how much time we have left before the Archdemon makes its move, but we have a feeling that it won't be long. We now have the semblance of an army, but it's still not as well equipped as I'd like. In fact," she admitted, "if the Archdemon were to make its move on Redcliffe tomorrow, the only ones of the whole lot of us I'd call fully equipped for battle would be this company and the Werewolves."
"He has no helmet," said Leliana, pointing at Loghain.
"Perhaps I choose not to wear one," he retorted. "Perhaps I am fully capable of outfitting myself, and need no handmaids to dress me."
"Perhaps I don't care," interjected the Mage, "as I prefer not to have to worry about unnecessary head injuries to any of my followers."
Loghain took the epithet with a sour look, followed by an ironic obeisance. "As you command, Grey Warden," he said. The Mage made an exasperated face and turned back to the others.
"The point is," she resumed, "our job until the final battle will be to gather as much coin, supplies and equipment for our armies as we can, as quickly as we can. Now, I know that the Deep Roads were no fun." Grumbles of assent from the company ("You can say that again," snarled Oghren). The Mage's voice grew louder to cover them. "But they were extremely profitable," she continued, "as you are all aware. You also know that we left quite a bit of them unexplored in our haste to find Branka and the Anvil." She paused to let this sink in. Her company was, for the most part, a fairly mercenary lot; they were thinking of the coin, weapons, armor and other treasures that they had already found in the caves and tunnels beyond Orzammar –some of which they had taken for themselves, rather than sell or give them away. She knew that they also recalled how many avenues in the old Dwarf kingdom they had passed by on their last mission. The grumbles ceased. The Mage cast her eyes over them until each one refocused and faced her again. "The Deep Roads are our best resource," she concluded. "And we'd be within a reasonable distance of Redcliffe, should we be needed."
The silence that followed was broken by Oghren, who turned to Loghain with a snort. "Well, you're in luck, Ser Regent or whatever you were until yesterday," he said grimly. "The boss is letting you cut your teeth on the toughest Bronto's hide of them all. Welcome to the Grey Wardens, heh."
"I hardly think his teeth need cutting, Oghren," said the Mage mildly.
"Yeah, well, he's gone soft in that palace of his, I'll bet," growled Oghren. "All those soft beds, and servant girls, and. . .wine. . .Just don't expect me to hold his Grace's hand when he catches his first sight of the Deep Roads." Loghain gave the Dwarf a peculiar, humorless smile at this, but said nothing.
They broke camp quickly. Bodahn left first to take the cart-worthy road to their next camp site. The emissaries would not be following the company into the Deep Roads, so the Mage sent them on to Redcliffe Castle with a note for the Queen and Arl Eamon apprising them of the Wardens' plan. As she handed over her message to the knight, the Mage made sure to mention to whom it should be delivered in a voice loud enough for Loghain to hear, in case he cared to add a postscript of his own for his daughter. A stiffening of his back told her that he had both heard the name and caught the hint, but the newest Grey Warden merely strode away to kick another layer of dirt over the remains of the fire. Bodahn gave the company a wave as he and the caravan left the clearing; the company themselves prepared to fall in behind the Mage according to their custom. Loghain, standing by to watch their formation, saw Shale stir last of all and take her usual place next to Sten. The Mage, waiting at the head of the pack, saw Loghain check, and frown, as his eyes searched first Sten's hands, then the Warden's, and finally Oghren's. She thought she could guess what he was looking for; he had certainly made three reasonable assumptions as to where the item might be.
"All right, I give up," announced Loghain to no one in particular, as though calling an end to a practical joke. "Who's got the golem's control rod?"
Immediately Shale stopped in her tracks, slumping forward like a discarded marionette. Morrigan groaned and buried her face in her hands. Sten fixed Loghain with a stony glare.
Eyes still on the ground, Shale spoke in a monotone. "I apologize. . .I cannot move without the Master's permission. . .I am but a tool in the hands of the Master. . .I await the Master's command. . ." she said.
The Mage sighed, and explained. "The golem has no control rod. Nothing controls Shale but Shale." The remaining members of the company all showed Loghain their empty hands.
His frown deepened. "It has a name?" he asked.
"A name," answered the Mage, "and a personality, and complete independence –and, I might add, a pretty vicious temper." Shale straightened and fixed a greedy eye on Loghain's uncovered, crushable head.
"Huh." He stepped back a pace and extended an arm along the way ahead. "After you," he said. Shale swept past him with her nose in the air, Sten following suit beside her.
Oghren favored Loghain with a sympathetic look and a shrug as the company moved out. "I've been trying to find the 'off' switch on that sarcastic slag heap for weeks," he muttered.
They ran afoul of bandits the following day in the blighted lands north of Lothering. The company had nearly passed a low, overgrown hill when men armed with clubs and axes swarmed out from behind it and from a clump of trees on the other side of the path. Loghain, still at the rear of the company, was surrounded immediately. He barely had time to unsheath the Starfang before they set upon him. After stunning the bandits nearest to her with a mind-numbing blast, the Mage turned to see the ice-blue blade flash twice, back and forth, through the midsections of two bandits; they crumpled, each to a side, revealing Loghain's snarling face for one split second before he whirled, cursing, caught the skull of another bandit with the side of his shield and ran a fourth through the heart. As the Mage casually sent a fork of lightning through one of the stunned bandits near her, the Champion flicked the head off his final assailant with a satisfied yell. It was over in a blur. The rest of the company mopped up; afterwards they methodically searched their attackers' remains for anything of value. They did not find much –these men were most likely former residents of Lothering or the surrounding farmlands, clothed in rags and wolf pelts, refusing to be driven away and robbing travelers as much for food as for profit—but the looting was as much a part of their routine as anything else. Only Shale did not participate; her sole inducement to touch flesh was the opportunity to crush it.
That night, in camp, the Mage looked across the campfire to see Loghain sitting outside his tent on a stump, cleaning and sharpening the Starfang. His expression told her that the sword had indeed passed the test, and would be kept. Satisfied, she retrieved the nearly-invisible item from the cache at Soldier's Peak that she had stowed in her pack the day before, and went to fetch Sandal. As she and the young Dwarf approached the Warrior, he looked up from his work and addressed them amiably.
"You want something?" he asked.
"Enchantment!" said Sandal.
". . .I'm sorry?" spluttered Loghain.
"This is Sandal, Bodahn's assistant," said the Mage. "I'd like you to give him your sword, please."
Loghain exploded. "Blazing Andraste: what now?" he fumed. "You've already made me give up my own sword; now I've just gotten used to this –moonbeam—you forced on me; can't you leave it alone? What supernatural sword-making material have you found this time? A piece of petrified dragon's breath?"
"No, but funny you should say that. . ."
She held up the object from her pack. It was a design, a tracing, temporarily captured in a tile of stone: sinuous curves that somehow resembled a bloom, or a conflagration. Looking at it more closely, the Mage could see tiny, fiery rivulets running along the lines.
"Your new sword has the capacity to accept runes such as this one to enhance its powers," she explained to him. "Some runes offer extra protection, while some add offensive properties such as the ability to stun –or, in this case, a lash of fire to each blow you strike."
Loghain's expression grew chilly. "I'm aware of the use that some people make of such things, Mage," he said testily. "Perhaps you haven't noticed, but I require little aid in the offensive department."
"Indeed," agreed the Mage. "But as we found this along the way and spent no coin on it, and as you finally have a sword capable of such improvements, I don't see why we shouldn't do all we can to make you as offensive as possible to the Darkspawn."
One corner of Loghain's mouth hiked grudgingly upwards, though he continued to glower at her. With a deep sigh in which could be heard the sound of limited patience unraveling, he handed over the Starfang.
"Enchantment," breathed Sandal. He took the sword and the rune from the Mage and carried them dreamily back to his place by the merchant's cart. The Mage remained standing by Loghain's tent, waiting. "It only takes a few minutes," she assured him. "Sandal's very good at this sort of thing."
"Is that all he can say?"
"It's all he can do, as far as I know; but he's been very handy to have around. Everyone in this camp who carries a weapon has at least one that has been enchanted by Sandal –except us Mages, of course."
"Of course," said Loghain drily. "Both of you are quite enchanting enough as it is."
The Mage chuckled as they both glanced across the campsite at Morrigan, who was beating off the dog's attempts to get her to throw a stick for him. Loghain whistled softly through his teeth to get the Mabari's attention, then patted the side of the stump on which he was sitting. The war dog gamboled over and presented the dripping stick to his new friend, who immediately tossed it in Shale's direction. The Mage sat cross-legged on the ground by Loghain's tent as Dog bounded away.
"Would you like to know how much Levi Dryden gave me for that old mule's tooth you called a sword?" offered the Mage, after a brief pause in which Shale's curses and threats carried over the still evening air.
"An old mule can still kill you, you know, if you poke him once too often."
A wicked grin simmered on the Mage's face. Loghain aimed to pierce it with a sidelong look from underneath his lowered brow. Dissolving into silent laughter, she turned away from his glare; in doing so, she spotted Sandal returning with the sword laid across his outstretched palms. Loghain, following her gaze, put a forefinger to his mouth and regarded Sandal speculatively, as though working out the answer to a riddle. As the Dwarf reached them, beaming, Loghain cocked the finger and an eyebrow at him before he could speak.
"'Enchantment': yes?" asked Mac Tir sagely.
"Hello," said Sandal.
Loghain let out a whoof of surprise and amusement. Taking the sword, the Mage thanked the young Dwarf politely, then turned and presented it once again to Loghain, hilt first.
"There you are: petrified dragon's breath," she said.
As he grasped the sword-hilt, their eyes met. Suddenly the Mage became conscious of the fact that her erstwhile nemesis was holding a very powerful weapon which she had just calmly handed to him, and that the point was aimed more or less directly at her collarbone. Moreover, she was still sitting with her legs crossed and her staff at an awkward angle against her back. A stirring in Loghain's eyes and a flicker of eyebrows suggested that the same thoughts had occurred to him. His mouth curled in a smirk, much as it had as he stalked her across the Landsmeet chamber floor, before the duel. You wanted this, Warden. . .
The Mage deliberately released the sword and placed her hand on the ground at her side. Slowly, she cocked her head as she continued to stare coolly into those thundery eyes. She could have been asking him a question, or offering him her neck to strike at, if he wished. The muscles in Loghain's jaw twitched as he swallowed once, quickly. He blinked, and then snatched the Starfang up, turning the blade against a ray of moonlight and peering at it for any sign of the change it had undergone. The Mage rose and stepped to his side so that she could look as well. To her, the Starfang now looked a bit like a lamp of blue crystal that contained a restless fire. As with a lamp, too, the buffeting flames seemed to smoke and dull the crystal's brilliance somewhat.
"It actually makes it a bit less fancy, somehow, doesn't it?" she mused over his shoulder.
"If nothing else," agreed the Warrior, "there is that."
After supper, she sat by the fire to mend a tear in the short white cloak that she wore over her vestments in cooler weather. Suddenly a shadow fell over her work, and the Mage felt a massive, silent presence at her side, as though a giant sycamore had suddenly sprung out of the ground.
"Kadan. I wish to speak with you," it said.
The Mage shut her eyes briefly, and sighed. This was Sten's new way of expressing his displeasure at something she'd done; and while she preferred it to overt insubordination or outright mutiny, she still found these conversations a bit trying. She had an idea about what had incurred his displeasure this time. She had seen him watching Mac Tir clean and examine his new weapon.
"What is it, Sten?" she asked innocently.
"That is not his sword," answered Sten, pointing at Loghain.
The Mage grimaced. She knew that this might be a sticking point with Sten. To the Qunari, a sword was like an extension of the body, as dear to them as any kadan; and she had sold Loghain's to Levi Dryden. "I know: I made him give it up," she admitted helplessly, "but honestly, did you see it? It was a disgrace for a warrior like him to be carrying such a weapon." Her voice gathered heat. "Someone should have made sure he had a proper sword a long time ago, even if he couldn't be bothered. I would have thought that Anora at least—"
"No. That is not what I meant."
This was another irritating aspect of these conversations with Sten, thought the Mage. There was nearly always a lesson; and as reluctant as Sten often was to attempt to teach anything to a useless human, the lesson was nearly always worth shutting up and listening to.
"That-" said Sten, indicating the Starfang, whose tracings on its leaflike blade shone softly back at the moon, "-is not his sword."
Deflated, the Mage sighed again. "You're right, Sten," she said resignedly. "It isn't. But it's a good sword, and it'll have to do for now."
The Qunari -her lieutenant, her reluctant guardian and guide- relented. His dour expression indicated that the matter was closed only temporarily, however.
"Don't worry, Sten," the Mage assured him. "We'll keep looking."
"I am not worried."
They arrived at Orzammar two days later at sunset. There had been no further bandit attacks and, strangely, no sighting of Darkspawn. The Mage felt a little uneasy at this; it seemed to confirm that the Archdemon was indeed gathering its forces for a major -perhaps a final- assault on Ferelden. She still had seen nothing of its movements in her dreams, however; nor had Loghain since his first night as a Grey Warden. And so they continued with their plan.
Predictably, the lack of enemies to kill made things dull for the company as they traveled; as usual, they diverted themselves with rounds of conversation that swirled amongst the various party members like eddies in a pool. At first, Loghain would only offer speech to the dog; then Leliana –touched, the Mage imagined, by the obvious mutual affection that had sprung up between the Warrior and the Mabari—attempted to draw him in to a discussion. This Loghain promptly rebuffed, no doubt because of Leliana's Orlesian upbringing and accent; his reaction immediately piqued the interests of the others, who thereupon all felt the need to question or tease or provoke the new recruit in their turn. The tone of their conversation, however, was no more vicious or antagonistic than it ever got between any of the others. Some of them seemed almost relieved to have some fresh blood in the mix. For his part –though the Mage did have to tell him off once for barking a little too harshly at the Bard—Loghain also behaved himself; and so there was no trouble of a serious nature.
They were greeted warmly by the Orzammar guards as they entered the city. Before they had travelled far across the Commons, they were accosted by a breathless Dwarf with an invitation for the Warden and her companions to dine at the Royal Palace that evening. Though none of the company seemed excited by this prospect, the Mage did not feel able to refuse. She sent the messenger back with as gracious an acceptance as she could muster, and changed their course for the Diamond Quarter.
As they entered the Palace, they were met by a squadron of the King's servants, each of whom latched onto a company member and led him or her away to a private room to freshen up before dinner. Trying to decide whether it would be better to cover her head on such an occasion or leave her scalp exposed to the inevitable polite stares of the nobility, the Mage reflected that she knew as much about operating in high society as she did about running a full-scale military campaign. Judging by their faces at the King's table as they were seated, nearly all of her companions harbored their own sources of discomfort, like inconveniently placed blisters. Of the lot of them, the one who looked the most at ease was Loghain; which was natural, thought the Mage, as he had had more experience than any of them at this sort of thing. Willing herself to look as if she had not spent most of her life either shut up in a tower under guard, away from "normal" society, or living out of a tent in between bouts of wholesale slaughter, the Warden straightened her back, composed her hands Anora-style and waited for the King to make his entrance.
Though she did not regret her decision to back him as Orzammar's next King, the Mage had to confess that she liked Bhelen Aeducan less every time she met him. His face had the smooth, fleshy, unhardened features of someone accustomed to privilege and easy living, while his attitude and bearing were those of a spoiled and pampered princeling who felt entitled to every manner of deference -whether he had actually earned it or not. Yet he also obviously fancied himself a hard, ruthless, dangerous man; and while it was this that had decided the Mage –who needed her chosen Dwarf King to send every available soldier to the surface immediately upon his ascension, even if he had to force them—in his favor, she secretly feared that she had placed a bully on Orzammar's throne. Bhelen clearly enjoyed having the notorious Death Mask on his side, and regaled her during dinner with stories of how he had used her name and reputation to threaten the last of Pyral Harrowmont's followers into giving up any claims of wrongdoing or calls for retribution. The Mage suspected that Bhelen had invited the Grey Wardens to the Palace that evening at least as much to perpetuate their association in the minds of his people as to extend a grateful offer of hospitality.
Indeed, any betrayal by the Wardens' company of discomfort or unfamiliarity with the trappings of high society seemed actually to please King Bhelen rather than earn his contempt. The Mage imagined that if word were to get out in Orzammar that the Wardens were barely-domesticated savages, the level of fear that Bhelen could engender in his followers through his boasts of an alliance with such ferocious beasts could only increase. From her companions' behavior and the reactions of Bhelen and the other nobles present, it seemed likely that word would get out.
Morrigan, the Mage knew, was even more uncomfortable in such a formal setting than she herself, alternately fumbling with her tableware and snapping at her neighbors at table for staring at her or sitting too close. Leliana had the most experience of any of them with courtly manners, but she was accustomed to the exaggerated politeness of Orlesian nobles. The earthiness of the Dwarves stymied her as much as it clearly disgusted Sten (who was further discomfited by his enormous size in relation to their furniture, dinnerware and utensils). On the other hand, Oghren –who, as a Dwarf of the Warrior caste elevated to the nobility when his wife became a Paragon, should have felt right at home—was as awkward as any of them because of his disgraced status as a jilted husband, a drunkard, and a deserter of the Stone. His peers made snide remarks that he countered with increasingly obscene replies and gestures as he plied his jug of ale. Zevran, sitting to Oghren's right, had long since given up trying to charm the noble ladies, none of whom seemed the least bit interested in slumming with a common Elf surfacer. Instead, he concentrated on keeping Oghren well-lubricated with ale and spurred to fresh depths of lewdness with a stream of licentious whisperings that only the Dwarf could hear, but at which he would cackle loudly and answer in a voice audible from the far end of the table.
And so it was that the Mage found herself thanking the Maker for Loghain Mac Tir. As "the other Grey Warden", he had been seated opposite her near the head of the table (the Mage on Bhelen's right hand, Loghain on his left); somehow, however, his long human legs managed never to bump those of his neighbors, nor did he upset their drinks or jog their elbows with his massive armored limbs as Sten did. In addition, his conversation was, if not courtly, then at least natural, confident and well-mannered. He seemed to know quite a bit about Dwarven culture in general and even about the Aeducan family in particular, which the Mage knew carried a lot of weight amongst these people. He questioned the Dwarves directly but politely about the state of affairs in Orzammar, accepted whatever answers they chose to give, and did not turn up his nose at their food or their lichen ale. Watching him, the Mage felt herself relax somewhat.
Perversely, however, the King seemed least pleased with Loghain's behavior of all the Wardens' company. He obviously found Loghain's familiar tone (which, though respectful, lacked any hint of deference or awe) inappropriate; and he positively bristled when, towards the end of the meal, Loghain produced his map from a pouch at his belt and attempted to discuss possible strategies for the Dwarven army in the surface campaign. Looking askance at the Mage, Bhelen wondered with a snigger how advisable it would be for him to take strategic advice from a general whose last campaign had resulted in the death of his King -at which point he confessed, as an aside, to considerable surprise in finding that said general still lived.
Loghain did not quite flush at this, but the purple shadows under his eyes and along his cheeks deepened, and the Mage saw that flicker of fire in his countenance for an instant before it was damped. He grew very still in his chair, facing forward without expression or any indication that he had heard the King's remark. His commanding officer, however, suddenly found herself on her feet, leveling Bhelen Aeducan with a gaze as icy and sharp as the Starfang. If, as was evident, she said to him, his Majesty recognized who this man was, then he should also recognize immediately why the Grey Warden could not deprive herself or Ferelden of his services, once offered. She then begged that she and her companions be excused from the table, claiming a long journey and an early start in the morning. The King granted her request immediately and unabashedly, insisting that they stop the night in the rooms to which they had been shown when they first arrived at the Palace. He would not hear, he said, of the Grey Warden being forced to lodge anywhere else in Orzammar. The Mage, concluding the dance of manners with a bow, accepted the King's favor and allowed herself to be led away by yet another servant. Though his complexion calmed somewhat, Loghain's expression did not alter throughout the exchange. The Mage could not tell if he was grateful for her outburst, or amused, or resentful at her presumption that he needed her to defend him, or disapproving of her breach of composure (a breach his daughter would never have committed). His eyes did not meet hers.
As they separated in the halls, Dog gave his mistress a glance and then padded after Loghain, no doubt seeking some post-prandial head-scratches as had already become his habit. Elsewhere in the corridor, the Mage heard Oghren mutter something about having his own sodding house to sleep in. He and Zevran brushed off their attendants and headed for the exit, most likely bound for Tapster's Tavern in the Commons. It was possible that neither Oghren nor Zevran would return to the Palace that night, though in whose house the Elf would end up sleeping was anyone's guess. Leliana hesitated for a moment before following them. She would be back, the Mage knew. Though she could never resist the opportunity to hear or perform a song or tale, she also would not be apart from the Warden for long. By that time, however, the Mabari would have returned to his mistress's side and she would be sleeping, or trying to, alone in a stone room on a maddeningly soft bed.
Naturally, the golem had not been invited to the Palace; just as naturally, Shale noted her exclusion but was more than content to be left outside. Next morning, they went to collect her from one of her usual Orzammar haunts, which were anywhere she could reasonably blend in with the stone and then suddenly pop out at random Dwarves as they passed. However, she could not be found in any of them. Finally the Mage sent the Mabari –always the best of anyone at finding and fetching things, even in the most unlikely places—to locate her. She did not expect Dog to "fetch" the golem, but he soon found where she lurked and, bouncing and wagging his rump, led the company there. It turned out that Shale was standing quite conspicuously just outside the entrance to the Deep Roads. She had been waiting for them.
"I should have known," said the Mage wryly.
"It should have," observed Shale.
And with that, they trooped through the hole in the rock, and were back in the Deep Roads once again.