wardenbrosca | Open post!

Dealing with golems, particularly with golems who were, well, like this, full of sass and dryness, had not part of Clarimond Cousland's deportment training. As excellent a hostess as her mother had been, not even Eleanor Mac Eanraig had conceived of this situation. And Cousland's eyes are a little wide around the edges.

There's another pause. A heartbeat, as she thinks. Hafter, picking up on his mistress's confusion, stops sniffing Barkspawn curiously to assess the situation.

"We would all be very grateful," Cousland says finally. "And I'm sure, if you found it fitting, we could gather some water to help clean your crystals."

"I suppose its offer is adequate," the golem allows, and Cousland lets out a very shallow breath in relief.

"I'm glad. All right, Warden Brosca, if you'd follow me?"

Quickly, before anything else pops up to spin her tired mind into trying to handle it, Cousland turns on her heel and strides back towards the farm's buildings. Hopefully she handled that correctly. Her father spoke a golem owned by a mage during the Rebellion, but he hadn't mentioned anything about a personality. Or discussion about soft, meaty bodies, which frankly is just disturbing.

Ugh, meat. She's get rather sick of the smell of it.

She leads Brosca to the barn, and then climbs up into the loft. Hafter navigates the slanted ladder with the grudging ease of a wardog who has had to spend a fair amount of time with ladders, but still finds them ridiculous. There are hay bales up in the loft, but also a table, a small chest, and tossed blankets and furs around. Cousland herself just sits down, heavily, on a bale covered with sheepskin and rests her head back against a beam.

"There's really only the two of you left, after Ostagar?"

"Be happy to. Shale, be nice, please, and no pigeon-crushing in front of children. You three, go with her to remind people to say please." Shale goes off with some of the villagers, with Sten, Leliana, and Wynne tagging along as variably helpful go-betweens. Zevran, Morrigan, and Alistair accompany Zoralin to follow their new ally.

The biggest problem is Barkspawn's difficulty with the ladder. Zora helps him up with some coaxing (using his ridiculous-ass name out loud once or twice) and they all settle in relatively comfortably. Hell, hay bales and blankets are a damn sight better than the cold-ass ground under their thin bedrolls and tents.

Once settled, Zoralin considers the teyrna's question solemnly, Alistair bowing his head in grief and anger. "Yep. The king had the rest of the Wardens out on the front lines. We were lighting a beacon when Loghain fucked off."

Only half aware of what she's doing, Cousland strokes Hafter's big head on her thigh and turns over Brosca's words in her head. She's trying to tease out the meaning, the implications. Oh, she'd heard some of this already, from refugees and deserting soldiers who'd either come home or wound up in her territory. But this, this is worse than what she'd imagined.

All the wardens, gone. Except for the two in front of her. All of them. None, none held in reserve in case the others died. It hadn't been a last, desperate battle, it'd been chosen and decided and damn Cailan to oblivion. She'd been infatuated with him when younger, just before and just after he'd been king. He'd been golden and glamorous, slap you on the back and call for another tankard of ale to celebrate whatever little thing you'd done. Then she'd grown, and found that he hadn't. Now, she doesn't really know what to say without running her mouth.

Why had Cailan done that? Why had Duncan allowed it? Why, oh why had Loghain wanted this to happen?

"I'd heard about the beacon," is what she finally manages. "You did well, from what I heard. Did..."

She has to ask. She has to.

"Did any of you hear of Fergus Cousland? My brother? He went with our main forces before-" before Howe killed us all. "We haven't heard from him since."

Alistair, voice still clouded with his grief, briefly lifts his head. "He might have been on patrol. But there were a lot of nobles in camp..."

He didn't need to finish. To them, Fergus would have just been one more noble amongst the rest. Why keep track of him? Unless Duncan had wanted to tell him of what happened, but after how the man had forced her father to give her up, she doesn't think that well of the man.

Cousland presses her lips together and nods. "Thank you. Shit. I'd thought there was more of you out there all this time."

Edited 2018-02-08 02:20 (UTC)

Barkspawn lays his huge head in her lap for Zora to stroke. "So you get why we're desperate."

Morrigan pipes up, voicing the unspoken thought in the room. "This king of yours sounds like a blasted fool, and the calamity may well lay on his detached head as well as this man Loghain's."

Alistair and Zora both shoot her looks at that, but Brosca doesn't disagree. Cailan was a damned fool. Nobody underestimates the darkspawn and lives. "That nug-licker in Denerim sent a sodding Crow after us."

Behind them, Zevran waves helpfully.

"He was my king." This is said to Morrigan, but blandly. A statement of fact. Any stress on the word 'was' is, clearly, entirely the figment of the listener's imagination, and most certainly does not count as agreement to the insult. Clearly.

Cousland looks again at Zevran, and his helpful wave makes her smirk, just a little. "Well, at least he's a pretty Crow. It doesn't do to be assassinated by ugly people. Uh," moving on.

"Like I said, I'm more than happy to help you send a message to the Free Marches. I control most of the northern coastline now, and I do have ships. If we use one of my aunt's crew, I can guarantee that they'll land, and come back with whomever they find." It's always the coming back which is the trick, but the Mac Eanraig's are a stubborn, loyal clan.

"A sentiment we share, my golden-haired teyrna," Zevran smiles, face suddenly radiating like a tiny damned sun. Zora shoots him a small glance of down, boy before they move on.

"How long will it take?" She and Alistair scoot in a little, eager to get down to brass tacks. "We don't have very long before the horde starts closing in on Denerim, and we're still gathering forces for a proper army."

That makes her smirk widen, and for a moment she looks more like the Clarimond of old, the flirtatious young lady who joked about having multiple husbands with her Antivan sister-in-law.

Then it's gone. Back to serious matters, not the charming dance of seduction and fun. Although, Maker, she misses it. Now when she flirts, it's to charm alliances and resources out of her nobles and merchants without ever, actually, promising her hand.

"It depends on where the nearest wardens are," she says, eyes a little distant as she mentally views the map of Waking Sea and its surrounds. "Potentially a month, maybe a little more. Maybe less." Inwardly, she's wishing she'd run into this group earlier. She could have had the wardens here by now.

"I might be able to get send a message to Jader, as well, but if the Orlesian wardens haven't made themselves heard by now... " Well, her first thought is that they were cowards who weren't doing their damn duty. Her second:

"I'm not sure if they want to break the closed border, even if sneaking in a smuggler's way."

Alistair and Cousland talk for a while about Wardens, about logistics, and where to send the message to. Meanwhile, Morrigan, Zevran, and Zora break into some apples they'd picked earlier that day from an abandoned farmhold.

Eventually, once it seems that the people who actually KNOW things are done talking, Zora holds an apple out: shiny-green, ripe, and perfect.

"Everything all figured out?"

Brosca's party weren't the only ones to have gotten bored. Eventually, Hafter slid off his chosen bale to sit before Brosca and stare at her. And at the apple. And at Brosca again. And at the apple. There are giant puppy eyes, conveying just how little he'd been fed in his entire life and how he is wasting away in this dark, cruel, foodless world.

Leaving the all-too-familiar looking Alistair to write the message at the little table, Cousland nods at Brosca and then lifts her hands in a 'catch' position.

"It is. Once Warden Alistair has finished writing, I'll send it off straight away."

Zoralin tossed the apple to Cousland but couldn't help laughing at Hafter's plight- especially with Barkspawn right next to him, mirroring the hound's obvious suffering.

"Alright, you great sodding oafs, alright, fine." Zora pulled a small dagger from her topknot (her last-resort weapon, as it were), just dull enough to not harm her hair, and sliced off a piece for each mabari. "Here. Hey, hey- gentle... good boy." Repeat for Barkspawn.

Before she knew it, the slender dwarf girl had two enormous mabari on top of her, licking her and nosing at her while she sputtered and protested.

Cousland laughs. She can't help it. She's battleweary and frightened, and the big wardogs are acting like wonderful, eager little puppies. She laughs, a true honest laugh, and it's a sound that hasn't been heard in months. Certainly, Hafter is overjoyed to hear it, and immediately leaps off Brosca to launch himself at his mistress, giving her a sloppy lick.

"Ew, thank you, pup," she says in mock-disapproval. "Don't smother the warden, it's impolite."

Impolite it might have been, but it's a moment of niceness. She wonders how old Brosca is: no older than her self, she's sure.

For the record, Brosca is younger than Cousland. She's younger than everyone in the party, and frequently wonders why the hell she's leading a bunch of grown-ass adults older than her. Forgetting, as always, that she is also technically a grown-ass adult.

Right now, she doesn't feel like it. Barkspawn is on top of her, licking at her tattoos as if he could lick them off, and his breath smells like blood and apples. She roughs his ears, scratching at his head almost aggressively, just the way he likes it. Eventually she does have to get up (hoisting herself up on Barkspawn's collar) and return to the conversation at hand.

"So I guess I should ask you if you've seen any knights of Redcliffe around."

A mabari loving you is a mark of character. It doesn't mean you are a good person, but it does mean you're a person with a strength of character and a degree of loyalty. It's a mark. So it is interesting to see this dwarf (and not a Surfacer, judging from her accent) be so loved by her hound. Interesting and telling.

Cousland is going to remember it.

Then Brosca speaks again, and Cousland refocuses. Refocuses in puzzlement, it should be said, but her blue eyes are intent again as she looks at her.

"Redcliffe? I don't, no, wait." She thinks, thinks hard, but the memory is a wisp too fragile to withstand her tiredness. "I'm not sure. I might have a report somewhere, but not on hand.

Why do you ask?"

Zora's heard vaguely about how surfacers are with their dogs, but aside from complaining about how much Ferelden smells like dog, and making occasional jokes with Lel and Zev about Fereldens, she hasn't thought too hard about it. Which is why she doesn't notice Clarimond watching her, nor think twice about having this silly moment with Barkspawn.

Only half of her attention is on the conversation, the other on Barkspawn's left ear. "They're looking for a magic vase."

"-Sacred Urn," Alistair interrupts, looking pained.

There's a lot to take in. Not so much in the bare words, but in all of the meanings and implications behind them. Redcliffe, with Arl Eamon and Arlessa Isolde: one sensible man, one devoutly religious woman. She does not know them particularly, well, personally, but she knows of them.

A magic vase makes no sense. Magic? And the Arlessa? She knows that Redcliffe has gone quiet, but she's had her hands full here and the north and Redcliffe has been just a mental note in her mind to keep track off as part of the general situation. Magic case doesn't play into that.

Then Alistair interrupts. Clarifies. And it all makes even less sense.

Clarimond doesn't know where to begin asking questions, or how to process the casual, unthinking blasphemy of magic vase so she just stares, gawping slightly.

"Maker's breath, what are they doing that for?"

"The Arl's sick," Zora answers. Yes, she's aware that there was some blasphemy she just committed, but isn't really aware of the extent, nor does she give a shit. The actual task at hand is far more important. "Poisoned by an agent of Loghain."

Her mouth draws into a line. Damn, when she thinks about how far his influence has spread, it makes her want to punch his stupid face in. "Stupid sod's got his fingers in shit pies all over Ferelden."

She laughs at that. It's a cynical bark of a sound, and one followed up by a smirk that's just as cynical, just as bitter. Her sense of humour's grown dark since That Night when Howe's men murdered her family and her household and honestly, neither the Lady Isolde nor young Connor, nor any of Redcliffe's vassals are around to be offended.

"Hah! How dreadfully Orlesian of the man."

Well. She finds it funny, anyway. Her parents are probably disappointed at her but they aren't here. They are by the Maker's side, and their problems are over.

"Aye, he does. It's been interesting pulling them out up here. You'll also want to keep out an eye for people wearing Howe's colours. He's tried to claim my family's teynir, and he's taken the arldom of Denerim as well. You'd wonder how he has time to rule them all, busy as he is with his tongue up Loghain's arse."

"Oh, I'm sure he had to turn around and offer up his own ass instead," Zora shoots back easily. Now it's time to break out the flask- a special treat, surely, that she doesn't break out for just anyone.

She uncaps it with her teeth and spits out the cork somewhere she knows Zev will find it, uncaring of her bad manners in front of fancy-ass nobles. Then she knocks back a swig, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and offers it up to Cousland.

"That way, he's got both his hands free."

Once, she'd had have been shocked. This behaviour and this talk was for the barracks and training yard, not a meeting. Certainly, she shouldn't be indulging herself. She was too young, the youngest daughter of a respected, cultured pair of war heroes. But things change, and she's grown adapt at fitting in more with the rougher life and the rougher people she's around. No one would mistake her for anything other than a noble, and she's not hiding it. But she can make crass jokes and filthy insults when the situation warrants it.

For the people who have thrown the country into bloody chaos? Yeah, she's going to be crass about them.

And, yes, she's going to accept the flask with a sharp grin, lift it up in a little toast, and knock back a swig of her own.

She's gotten used to harder liquor, too.

"So," Cousland says, licking the alcohol from her lips with quick little darts of her tongue, "Isolde's sent out a search for an item that may, or may not, exist. And if it does, is probably hidden at the bottom of some forgotten ruin?"

She thinks of all the other uses for trained, loyal knights, and takes another swig of Brosca's flask before handing it back.

"That's about the size of it." Zora takes the flask back and pretends not to notice that Zevran has started to pour out some of his brandy- not the good stuff, mind, but the cheap shit they were able to buy off traders on the road, or steal from camps they passed.

"Thing is?" Brosca pauses for effect, gesturing vaguely with the flask to ensure she has the room's full attention. "It's not even the most fucked-up thing about Redcliffe lately. Doesn't break the top five."

Behind her, Alistair coughs and clears his throat conspicuously. An obvious but silent shut up, Zora.

Cousland ignores Alistair. He isn't the one who potential information, exaggerated or otherwise, from the arling of one of the (formerly, anyway) most powerful men in the country. She doesn't, however, ignore Zevran and his own bottle of drink. To him, she winks.

She can be, on occasion, shameless.

"Doesn't break the top five," Cousland repeats. "All right, do tell. You can't leave me hanging like that."

Brosca can, obviously, and she's careful to make her tone light enough to hopefully convey that she's not trying to order or threaten the girl. But still.

Gossip is gossip.

Zora considers the balance of Alistair's excellent point about shutting up versus what she could get from this new ally, with the unbridled fun of gossiping.

Okay.

She can do this. She can do this without accidentally bringing shitty Chantry wrath down on the Arl of Redcliffe. Right?

"Okay, so, let's just say," she began carefully, with uncharacteristic caution. "That Loghain's choice of assassins is a bit, um- bloody. Redcliffe has become a much more... magical place."

Subtle.

Edited 2018-05-07 12:02 (UTC)

Open post!

no subject

the rest of the party members have appeared from nowhere

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

gratuitous dog tag

dogs are never gratuitous. this is ferelden!

she's going native

join us, zora, we have puppies

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject