User:GabrielleduVent/Arian 1

Arian Tabris, age twenty-nine, isn’t used to the finery and the silence. His cousin, Amarina Surana, seems to be, garbed in fine robes and sitting in the cold, stone silence. But he feels far more at home in the bustling activities of the underbelly of the city, where human emotions become raw and exposed, clashing and then retreating like waves. It requires a certain density of the population for the emotions to become exposed like a raw wound, and a certain level of misery all in all. Wealth and comfort can give people abilities to care and mask; it is far easier for a full belly in a warm bed to feel pity for the plight of the starving.

His footing is light, his face with an easy, disarming smile. His blond hair dances in the slight breeze, and he seems as if he’s taking an easy stroll, but a more careful observer would notice that he is alert, and that easy-going, relaxed stance is just a façade to catch people off-guard. He sees people hustling by, elves going about their lives as if nothing had happened; and why should it affect them whether Anders the Apostate has destroyed the Chantry or not? Their lives are still revolving around poverty and making it from day to day. Leave the grander scheme of things to people who actually care.

A pretty elfmaid in an apron is staring at him. He winks mischievously, continuing on his way. The boots kick out against the dirt and the debris that litter the Lowtown; it’s a new town for him, with new smells, and new corners that have new shadows. He sinks in thought as he walks through the hustle and bustle of the morning market, reminiscing about the years; how far he has come, and how different he is from that day when he thought he was going to marry that elfmaid. But then again, being a Grey Warden is not just a career change.

“It changes who you are,” his cousin had said offering him tea. That had been three years ago, on the way to Redcliffe, when he had stopped by the Tower to see his cousin. Arian had been offered to be the Bann of the Alienage, but he had declined. He saw how people viewed him now. He was no longer Arian, son of Cyrion Tabris, but Arian Tabris, the Grey Warden Rogue and Hero of Ferelden. He knew then that these people would never view him as the same again. He had seen places they had never been to, talked with people they’d never see. Suffered through grief they’d never have to go through. He was no longer just an elf of the Alienage.

In a way, they had all lost their homes, he had mused then. Solaryn didn’t really show – she wasn’t really the most expressive person to begin with – but in a way, that irreparable loss had created a common ground for four people who came from different backgrounds. And Amarina had agreed when he had discussed that feeling of loss and un-belonging.

“I know,” she had said, stirring honey into her tea. “I came back, and I don’t really have to talk to people if I don’t want to, but I feel it too. I’m not just a mage of the Tower any more. I’m a Grey Warden. I have freedoms others will never get. And that makes me…” she had paused.

“Different?”

“Yes. And enviable.”

Perhaps that is why he had travelled for the past seven years, because when one is a traveler, one feels no need to belong. One does not belong anyway as a traveler, and he had felt comfortable being alone, without belonging, since it was natural to be excluded. But now that he is back with his comrades – who are all quirky but all more endearing because of it – he feels he finally belongs in this ragtag group of misfits.

It had been some months ago when he had made a visit to the Vigil. He had just meant to drop off reports then set off again, but Solaryn – or Warden-Commander Mahariel, as she is known to those outside her circle of friends – had stopped him. “I need you here,” she had said.

“Huh?”

He had gotten word about Anders the Apostate and his act of desperation. But it had not occurred to him that Solaryn Mahariel might want to do something about it. Either way, he remained at the Vigil while Solaryn made preparations to depart. Then they had travelled to Highever and the Circle Tower, and then had crossed the Channel to arrive to the City-State of Kirkwall.

He makes a small talk with a street vendor in the Alienage, gently adding questions as he makes a purchase of breakfast. Dubious looking baked fish sandwiched between two slices of bread, he notes, but he scarfs it down anyway. No, Anders has not been seen since. Neither have any of his companions. He walks on, looking at the Vhenadahl, remembering the one in Denerim, seeing the elven children play in the streets. Even in here, there is life that goes on, and a new hope every time a child is born, the continuation of the long, long bloodline that disappears into the days of Arlathan. Elves call into the streets to get attention, showing their wares to gain silvers for the day. He sees himself, running through the Alienage as a small child, shouts and cries as he played war with his cousins; he sees himself growing up into an adolescent, a gangly boy with all arms and legs. He had a crush on his neighbour Libora, a girl with long brunette plaits and a giggle that was like tinkling of bells. He saw himself in his wedding finery, about to be married to Nesiara of Highever; Soris had been next to him, with the girl whom Soris had called a “mouse” but just really shy in the end. All that life he had left behind in Denerim, never to return to pick them up. He had forfeited that life when he had driven the blade into the human guard’s belly. One bad luck. A lifetime of service.

He is just about to make his way out from the Alienage when he feels someone following him. He does not turn, but turns into a dark alley with a jaunty gait, his body thrumming with the excitement of the hunt. This is turning very interesting.

Del’nyss of no last name had not expected the elf to act so quickly. He had expected the elf to be caught unawares. An easy job, he had thought. But oh no. When he followed the blond, cerulean-eyed elf into a dark alley by the market, the elf had been ready. More than ready. And he was in big trouble.

The blades had been mere blurs, slashing out, not intended to kill but disarm and disable. The elf was fast, his balance superb, balancing on the balls of his feet, his movements like a graceful dance. Del’nyss had parried and had attempted a thrust, but the blade had glanced off the armour the elf was wearing; a quick pirouette, and then suddenly the elf was behind him, a blade at his throat. A dagger.

“Why are you following me?” the voice is soft, pleasant to the ear. Sibilant, deceptive; the voice is gentle, but Del’nyss knows that the elf can kill, and that he has killed before. And he will do so again without hesitation.

“Wh, what?” he stammers. “I haven’t…”

“Don’t lie to me.” He sees his cerulean eyes. Colder than the deepest waters. Del’nyss trembles. “I didn’t…”

“Maybe you’d like a smile?” The elf whispers again.

“… huh?!”

“I can make a smile for you,” says the elf. “Two quick slices. Maybe you’d be able to fool a lot more people with a perpetual smile on your face, no? Or perhaps you’re feeling generous and would like to feed the fishes. I’m sure they’d welcome you.”

Del’nyss feels as if someone had poured ice water on his head. He’s walking a very fine line, the finest he has ever walked on.

The cold bite of the blade bites into his flesh. One false step, and he’d really be feeding the fishes.

The Coterie, Arian muses, as he walks on. Del’nyss walks ahead of him, fully aware that he’s well within the reach of the dagger thrown at him. Every city has an organization like this, doing all the dirty works of the city so the wealthy don’t have to. That’s just how every city works. Nothing new.

He goes back in thought again, following Del’nyss. Everyone had changed, and he saw that. Solaryn seemed to feel chafed within Amaranthine; there was no longer that burning ire in Ned’s eyes; and there was a hint of resolute… something in Amarina’s countenance. Years had passed, and Arian felt their lives even denser than others, perhaps because of their limited time. But then again, perhaps he had changed too. In more ways than he could realise.

He had met Nesiara again when he had visited Highever, seeing the life he might have had and will never have. Nesiara was older now, with children and a husband, while he was a Grey Warden; he acutely felt that the gaze Nesiara gave him was no longer the adoring look she gave him back in the Denerim Alienage, but one of awe and fear. And of course; they were just regular Alienage elves, but he was a Grey Warden, one of the four who had killed the Archdemon and had defeated the Blight. Savior of Ferelden. Champion of Redcliffe. He had bidden farewell quickly, not wanting to disturb the hard-earned peace he had given them.

In death, Sacrifice. Still he remembered that terrible day in Ostagar. He sometimes wondered what being a Grey Warden meant. It sometimes felt as if he’d drawn the short end of the stick. Soris, Nesiara, and everyone else had been done with the Blight and had moved on with their lives, and he alone dragged the Blight and all its deaths and destructions behind him, like a rat dragging his tail through the mud.

Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be foresworn…

So was that his lot? To fight and fight and fight, never knowing the warm hearth and children laughing in his own home, to be ripped apart into shreds by darkspawn even if he did manage to stay alive until his Calling? What was his life for? To shed blood for others? Was that why his mother had given him a blade when he was four?

He sees Del’nyss knocking on the door twice in a rapid succession, then a rhythmical series of knock again. The door opens, revealing a dark room; he gestures Del’nyss to go in first then quickly follows.

If my life is forfeit, then let it be, he thinks. I have no one.

The man sitting at the table is human; a bottle of wine sits on the surface, untouched, but the seal broken. Antivan, Arian notes, but not of the best vint. Vinted in 9:08 Dragon. That year had sour grapes, he recalls.

He is offered a seat and takes it, sitting calmly as Del’nyss explains the situation – and gets yelled at – and then smiles as the man finally turns toward him. “Whaddya want to know, elf?” The man snarls.

“Knowledge, nothing more.”

“We don’t sell.”

“I think you do.”

The man leans over. “Listen, elf,” he hisses. “Dunno who the hell you think you are, but listen up, runt, we don’t sell to no one we don’t know. We’re the Coterie, and you’d be floating in the harbour if we feel like it. So get los…”

“Will this help?”

The man blinks; Arian is on the table, holding the dagger against his eyeball, its tip only inches away from the surface. He blinks and rolls his eyes upward to see Arian smiling that pleasant smile of his that really doesn’t show anything but just that: a smile.

“You have two choices,” Arian says pleasantly. “You can either tell me the information and get gold. This way I get away with the information I want and you get away with a bag of coins. Or, I can perhaps slip, and then you’d probably lose an eyeball or even your brains, and I won’t get the information I want. I think the choice is obvious.”

“Fine,” the man croaks. “Information for a bag of coins.”

“Good. I’m sure you’d see my way.”

Arian listens as the man blabbers; that there was a regular shipment of supplies out to the Warden Prison in the Vinmark Mountains; that shipment had stopped a few months ago; and that there has been no repeat order since.

“What was the supply list?”

“Basic necessities. Ropes, food, the sort. Nothing special.”

“I see.” He throws a light bag of coins onto the table and stands up. “That’s all I need to know. Thanks for your service.”

“Wait!” the man cries, hearing the tingle of coins hitting the table through the bag. “Don’t you want to know where the prison is?”

Arian smiles. “I know,” he says. “But thanks for the offer, though.”

It’s just a bit past noon, Arian judges, blinking at the faint sunlight. His belly tells him it’s feeding time. Darkness and light, he dwells in both, a difficult balance that he has not quite yet understood.

He cannot understand the mages’ plight; nor does he wish to. Compared to the fate reserved for the Wardens, he finds the mages’ plight trifle and unwarranted of such violence. And if the Maker exists, he ponders, why had He given power to rebel for the mages, but not for the elves? It makes no sense.

But he has seen firsthand just how much destructive power a mage can wield. Amarina, in her slight, small form, can deal out thousand more deaths in the same timespan he can. But then again, so can any power, if used appropriately; mages’ powers are just more evident.

He makes his way through Lowtown, seeing the destitute poverty that fills the area, the raw hatred and jealousy that gives a particular stink in the air. Despair fills the corners and a mean struggle to rise up from that hopelessness gives the winds a sad whine. He walks away, leaving all that behind, into the open air that welcomes him with sunshine and the sky.

He is a Grey Warden, never to belong again but to never be trapped either. And that, he supposes, is the price of freedom; to be a migratory bird, never to find a home but always free to fly to wherever he wishes. He is free from the shackles of class and heritage, but in return, he had lost the very things that had shackled him.