Chapter Text
--True Story. Disregard Dwarves--
“Marian! Marian. Stop.” Mother's mellow voice carried across the mud of Lothering towards the mouldering inn door the same way it had a million times before. The note of anxiety in it was always the same whether I was hurtling around on the back of a pig as a little fool, or, as then, getting ready to go off to war. Must be a mother thing - always being at peak worry.
“I'm not doing anything, Mother.” I barked, lying. I was doing something, I was loitering outside the inn whilst my brother bought extra supplies in case the army, a vast black snake slithering down the Imperial Highway - failed to feed us properly during the march. Guaranteed. Guaranteed they weren't going to feed us properly. I say that with hindsight. Carver and I were, and are, big, and young, and strong. We needed a lot of food.
“That's a lie, Marian, and you know it.” but Mother's lips twitched as she said it. Her ladylike form came to a stop in front of me, and amusement filled its outline despite herself. She was small, like a woman should be, small and fuzzy edged and averse to feats of physicality. I spent my childhood not knowing where Carver and I got it from, because our father wasn't particularly large either. A grandfather must have been a titan. And grandmother, because I didn't mind saying then and don't mind saying now, that I'm a freak.
My mother carried on speaking whilst I went down the same old mental paths. “Darling, you cannot go, not both of you. It will kill me. That warden turned your head with his tales of heroics, but real war isn't like that.”
To be fair, I didn’t want Carver going either, if only because I couldn’t trust Mother alone with only Bethany for help. “With all due respect, how do you know, Mother? War allegedly not being glorious sounds like the coping strats of old men and cowards. Real horror no one talks about-”
“Or they paint a beautiful gloss on the experience in order to live with it.” Mother's lips twisted as she spoke. We'd had this conversation before, because I'd wanted to go off to war since I was a little girl. Never getting anywhere. Not until the army flowed down the old Tevinter highway that cut through our dirt smeared village, that is. A Blight, they said. Ferelden teaming up with Orlais, they said. No chance I was missing that. It was either go to war or get married, and I didn't want to settle for a farmer or innkeeper, and Mother refused to countenance a templar because of Bethany, never mind that an intimidating bitch like myself would be highly unlikely to find another man who wouldn't piss his breaches at the sight of her.
Sister, dear sister, where was she? She'd back up Mother in her worrying, but stepping outside the cottage was something she was supposed to do as little as possible, thanks to the apostate thing. Not too little that it would be suspicious, but not too much either. Thanks to her, the templar I fancied myself in love with thought I was a Wildling, Chasind, or some other Maker denier, because we rarely attended chapel. I'm not sure being considered an atheist in any way harmed my chances with him, but it was still embarrassing. I tried to tell him that I didn't deny the Maker, only Andraste and everything the Chantry said about her, and also I rejected the origin story for all bad things, but he didn't get it, saying that he wished I was a mage so he could lock me up…That's why I like templars, they're so black and white. I hate grey, because not only is it boring and vague, but I grew up in Ferelden.
The inn door opened and a pile of stinking drunks fell out, followed by my dog and my brother. The latter shot me a nasty look, the type common to younger siblings all over Thedas. Probably common in the Fade too. Ten silvers the Maker’s little brother gave him side-eyed looks. But nasty look or not, there were two factions existing back then - The Hawkes, and Everyone Else.
Life is no different as I'm writing, it's just that the definition of ‘Hawke’ has expanded a little.
“I got a hold of some cheese, but the experience was total garbage. Danal attempted to scalp me. Next time you deal with merchants.” barked Carver, at me. He narrowed his eyes, but it didn't convey the intimidation factor he thought it did. Never in my life has anyone been able to intimidate me, and my little brother was last on the list of potential possibilities.
The family mabari, Griffon, whined, cocking his head at his master. He did that a lot. Like templars, he was black and white, his paws clad in white socks. Very cute, for a murder beast. Mother followed suit, opening her mouth to spout the same spiel at Carver as at me.
“Carver! You can't really be intending to join the army, surely? You're only eighteen!”
“What do you mean only? I could have been married four times over by now!”
“But you haven't brought any nice girls home, Carver!”
“...Yeah, w-well, that's because Marian-”
At this point I had to interject and be the mean mean bronco or they'd be going round and round forever. Father used to do that job, but since he died I had to become the man of the house. Even when he was alive, I was the man of the house. I’m the man everywhere I go, and it is so tiring. “Mother, enough, we need to go or they'll execute us for desertion when we finally do show up.”
“We'll be fine, you worry too much.” Carver awkwardly draped his arm around Mother's shoulders and squeezed. To cover for the show of affection, he gazed up at the cloudy sky, which was becoming greyer and gloomier by the second. “Looks like rain.” he said, with all the portent of one of the pompous priests down the street announcing what Andraste had to say about thatched roofs.
With her mouth turned down and her forehead corrugated, Mother didn't seem convinced, but she knew she had to let us go. Execution for desertion is a real thing, and other people witnessed us put our names down to kill darkspawn, complete with signatures and financial compensation. Financial compensation is what I was really interested in, financial compensation that would allow my family to flee dirt and mud drenched Lothering if things got too heated. With Carver and I's incentive money, Mother and Bethany could take a boat if they really had to. I couldn't say I would've been sad to have to follow them somewhere, anywhere but the dirt speck that was that village.
🦅
Once released from the maternal vice grip, and with his feet upon the white stone of the highway, my brother cheered up dramatically, a very important occurrence if I was going to travel with him. We always stuck together so any foul mood would break against me, and I didn't want to make a sour impression on my new companions by beating him up. Then again, I probably should have beaten him up as a show of strength, because being female in the army is a staggeringly bad idea. Being male too, but my templar told me horror stories of the derangement that can occur when people are cooped up in high stress environments and they sense weakness. Just what happens to a bleeding chicken. Not like I needed the lesson though. Who hasn't felt their lip curl when they've sighted prey, whatever it might be?
Griffon's excited bark and Carver's aggressive voice jogged me out of my thoughts and back to the thump thump, heat and smell of thousands of marching people. “I hope we get to see the king. I thought I caught a glimpse of gold earlier.”
“Were nobodies, Carver. We'll be lucky if they even remember we're supposed to be soldiers in his army.”
Ooh. Carver performed a good impression of the Maker’s hypothetical younger brother at this point, looking at me out of the corner of his eye, sly and skeptical. “That warden spoke to you. He told you to meet him at the King's camp. If a warden wants to speak to you, you aren't a nobody.”
True, but with my brother you have to be very careful of his insane envy issue. Say or do the wrong thing and you can lose a ridiculous amount of respect points with him, respect points it is painful to claw back. I would have preferred to speak to Duncan in private, but the man hailed me just inside the chantry walls after I signed up for the fight. ‘Potential’ he said. ‘Wasted in the army’ he said. ‘Become a legend’ he said. Carver, sadly, heard all that, and has been seething internally since.
To answer his unspoken question, I stared over the heads of the men in front of me, heads like the scales of an immense serpent. An endless sea of undulating grey, marching towards death and destruction.
🦅
Ferelden is not very large, it has that going for it, so the march only took a few days of almost non-stop walking, a lot of it done in the rain which had threatened Lothering. Or so it seemed to me. Allegedly it was a leisurely stroll by army standards. Carver got his wish to see the king, the man, in sparkling golden armour, rode up and down the line, leading the men, Chantry folks, and even dogs in patriotic tunes (in which I did not participate). Nice guy, I hoped nothing bad happened to him. I was interested in the contingent of templars accompanying the mages. Oft have I considered joining the Order, but my templar said they lead extremely boring, extremely Chantryfied lives, ninety percent of which involves standing outside one door or another. The fun comes in for the hunters, a job he thought I could qualify for. Apparently you need to be a bit ‘deranged’ and 'bloodthirsty' (his words) for that…Cool. People called me deranged and bloodthirsty all the time.
Ostagar came into view like a titan's molar tooth jutting from the soggy black gums of the land. The Tevinter's must have hated being there, their buildings do not fit with the muck aesthetic.
“Wow, swishy,” said Carver with the maximum of sarcasm once he caught sight of it. “White goes well with red, I gues-argh!” he shifted the position of the blade on his back, trying to reduce the muscle burn generated by it. As a fellow greatsword wielder, I could sympathise. Those beauts weigh. They weigh, but there's nothing better when it comes to chopping off heads, multiple heads at once, if you're really good and strong. A shield would have been a better choice if either I or Carver cared about maintaining a relatively scar free complexion, but we didn't and don't care about that. What I wanted in particular was to end the fight as quickly as possible, but with the most amount of fun and blood expended. A shield is no fun, they're heavy, cumbersome, and they slow the action down. Not going to hate on any shield user though, they're stolid.
“I have to see the Grey Warden. See you later.” I said to Carver as soon as the army washed up against the bulwark of the fortress and began splitting towards different camps. I expected some shit response, and got it. But first he landed a look older than his years. That happens sometimes, when my siblings think I've overlooked something.
The monotonous thunder of footsteps and dogs baying acted as background music for his only-sonish statement. “Marian, the warden's going to keep you, I just know it, and there's going to be a battle. If it doesn't go well, someone has to look after Mother and Bethany.”
“Carver-”
“I would never desert. I don't know where you got that idea. But someone has to look after the family, and it's not going to be you.” and with that he stomped off, taking the plebeian turn left, with most of the army. Cope. Carver. Keep coping.
A soldier at the entrance to the King's Camp was very helpful when it came to filling in my mental map of the place. If I wanted to lurk outside the King's tent I should go here. If I want to snag an audience with the King's advisor, I should go there. If I want to spy on mages doing creepy things, I should go to a third place.
What I wanted first was to score a free biscuit for Griffon.
“Mmmm. Hmmm. Ahhhh.” said the Kennelmaster, while I was strolling up to him at his kennels. I always stroll up to people's backs, if I can help it. Best to get a jump on them. “Aaah!” he said, when he realised I was there.
“Hey. Have a problem?” I asked. Griffon barked, and wagged his stub of a tail, his entire back half wagging with it. I love him.
The Kennelmaster resumed contact with reality, his heavily textured face morphing into a sad smile. “Ah, yes, some of my dogs are sick. Drinking too much darkspawn blood, you know? There's a special flower that can help them, white with a red centre. I'm paying a bounty on it.”
No, I don't know, but I said I'd keep an eye out for his flower. Also: “Do you have a spare biscuit for Grif here?”
He did. After that, I thought I should attend to business. Urine scented business, because that is what the camp smelt of. Urine, faeces, man-sweat, iron, fire.
“Good, you're here. All my other options defaulted in one way or another.” rumbled ‘Duncan’, a rogue, as one could see by the twin blades strapped to his back. And the gold earring in his ear. I have a soft spot for rogues, although I prefer warriors.
“You'll be glad they did.” I said. And he will. Everyone will, because I guarantee I was the smartest, most powerful person in Ferelden, never mind that I was a pseudo peasant who couldn't even attract a single templar away from his post.
“Ah ah. Since you're the first one to arrive, I need you to gather the others. We're waiting for Daveth, a thief from Denerim, Ser Jory, a knight from Redcliffe. And Alistair, he's already a Grey Warden. I'm sure he's bothering a mage around here somewhere.”
Wow, he just laid it all out there for me, didn't he? How did he describe me? ‘Marian, a bully from Lothering’. I immediately thought the Grey Wardens were down on their luck.
So anyway, the thief I found hitting on a female soldier by insinuating she'd be dead soon. I immediately took a liking to him.
“You the new recruit then? Well, well, well. You're a strapping lass, ain't ya?” he said, looking me up and down. I immediately liked him less. I'm only interested in gentlemen, i.e those who refrain from commenting on my body except in acceptable terms. He was around half my height too, and his handsomeness couldn't make up for it.
“I imagine you're going to be dead soon.” I told him.
He reared back, hands up. “Woah! Relax.”
“I'm extremely relaxed. And stating facts.”
Somehow he divined that Duncan wanted him, and off he went.
The Quartermaster jumped into the conversation as soon as Daveth trotted off. “You looking to buy? I have my normal stock, and, uh, special stock.” he raised a hand and whispered on ‘special’.
“Do you have dog biscuits? Griffon here has been a good boy.”
“Woof!”
The man grimaced, mentally going over his stuff. “I have dog biscuits in my normal stock, and dog biscuit recipes in my special stock.”
Cool. He also had a backpack, which I bought. At that stage, I was poor, but the best way to become rich is to collect a lot of crap and sell it. That's one piece of advice my father gave me. Well, he gave my sister that advice, but I overheard it.
🦅
A whole bunch of praying was going on at the top of a ramp to the left of the Quartermaster. Chantry sisters, Chantry brothers. No templars. Ser Jory. He stuttered when speaking to me, exclaiming that he didn't think the Wardens allowed women to join them, as women possess the miraculous yet deadly ability to spawn new creatures. I hated him. Also, scouts who had been injured by darkspawn were lying on stretchers, groaning. Also, a prisoner in a cage. A naked prisoner, much to my chagrin.
He hailed me as soon as I came near. “Hey, you don't happen to have a spare bit of food on you? They locked me up without any and I'm starving!”
“Why did they lock you up? What did you do?” I spoke to him while looking off into the bushes behind a tent, where a Sister was lurking, staring at me, her eyes glinting like a fox's.
“What makes you think I did anything?” he asked, aggressively.
“You're in the cage and I'm not.”
“They thought I was deserting. But I wasn't deserting, I was stealing.”
Shit. I hoped Carver didn't make a cack handed attempt at doing the same. If he did, I was going to kill him, or free him from a cage, whichever worked better.
“So what do you want me to do about it?” I asked, enjoying the rustling of the trees and the birds chirping. You'd never know darkspawn were nearby.
“I told you, I want food and water. The guard has some, ask him.”
“What do I get for this humanitarian act? Not the Maker's approval, because he left our arses on the hook.”
“...Ah, I'll give you the key to the chest I was thieving from. It's no use to me now.”
“Right.” The guard, standing a couple feet in front of the cage with his hands clasped behind his back, turned a little to peep at me out of the corner of his eyes, before turning back to stare at the nurses across the way. People who stand with their hands behind their backs are up to no good. I endeavoured to engage him in conversation. “I was just speaking to the prisoner-”
“Huh! Were you? I don't imagine he had anything enlightening to say.”
“He asked for some food, actually. He says you haven't bothered to sentence him, and are instead torturing him slowly.” He didn't say that, but he probably would have, if he had said a bit more.
“And why should I give him mine?! I'm not the deserter-”
“He wasn't deserting, he was thieving.”
“-it's not fair. Loyal subjects shouldn't have to suffer for the disloyal.”
“Yeah, but you'd want food and water if you ended up in a cage. Come on, you're not even eating it.”
The guard glanced at the Chantryites preaching a few feet away, and slowly pulled a package from under his cloak. Nice. Home made rations. “Fine. Here. He'd best be grateful.”
I was grateful, I can tell you. “I have food for you, give me the key.” I said to the prisoner.
“Here. I told you he-” while the prisoner was reaching over, putting his throat and neck in reach, I pulled my all-purpose knife from my belt, and stabbed him with it. Gurgling, blood, the whole shebang erupted from the cage, drenching my boots.
“Woof!”
“Woah, woah, woah! What in the Maker's name are you doing?! You can't just go around murdering whoever you like!” whined the guard, coming over to observe the mess.
Wiping a knife off is something I learnt from my templar. Apparently blood is corrosive. “I’m speeding up bureaucracy. You were going to execute him anyway, but couldn't be bothered. I saved everyone some trouble.”
“...I suppose. But if anyone asks what happened to him, I'm pointing to you.”
Cool. He didn't demand his lunch back.
Anyway, I was supposed to find someone called Alistair, but I had to explore the rest of the camp first. In doing so, I got a nice but sadly short sword off an elf, rifled through some sacks of elfroot, acquired an Ashlander paint job for my dog, and listened to a lecture, seeing my first ever darkspawn. It was tiny. Like a sheep's bladder on legs.
“This thing, lads, is known as a genlock. Nasty buggers, and common as flies, but they don't like fire." intoned the teacher. Someone, not me, raised a hand.
“Please, sir, I heard they drag people underground. Make them slaves, sir. Rape and eat them, sir.”
“That's a filthy lie! Darkspawn do no such thing. All you have to worry about is a gruesome, terrible death, and post-deceasement defilement.”
Alright, whatever. More cope. I went to see the King's advisor. Loghain, or something.
“Yes, what is it?” When he stepped out of his tent, he stepped out father-shaped. I immediately liked his ratty, pallid face and dark hair. Also, he was a warrior with a shield, and not a salacious midget.
“So you're the King's father-in-law.” I said, attempting a smile. It probably came across as a smirk.
“Yes, Teyrn of Gwaren. What do you want? Oh, you're one of Duncan's Grey Wardens. Here for the glory, are you?” he sighed, like ‘grey warden’ was a synonym for ‘annoying child'. I didn't bother to correct him.
“I want nothing, except to attach a face to the name I keep hearing.”
I'm pretty sure the corner of the teyrn’s traitor’s guy’s lip twitched up at that. That's the thing, I'm incredibly terrifying and no one in their right mind wants to marry me, but I'm also incredibly good looking and charismatic.
Time for Alistair. As Duncan imagined, I found the man bothering a mage, but as he turned out to be a templar recruit once upon a time, it made sense that he'd be harassing a mage. He turned a harmless, cross-eyed, dubiously handsome visage upon me. Back in the day, when I was the twin's age, he would have been the type I’d go for. But I've since grown up, and now I like men, not boys. If you ain't over thirty and wickedly intelligent, or at least wicked, get the hell out of here.
“You don't happen to be a mage, do you?” he asked, as the opener to our conversation and first impression.
“Have you ever seen a mage wearing as much steel as me?” I replied.
“Woof!”
“Aaah, no. Not really. Although there was this one-”
Okay, I was over him already. “Duncan wants to see you.”
“Oh, are we travelling together?” For no reason at all, he began blushing and scratching the back of his neck. We were the same age and I was much taller, so I guess women were few and far between in his life if he could be flustered by me so easily.
I'm taller than everyone except Carver, is what I was thinking, while we strode over to Duncan's bonfire. It's a privilege to see the world from such a height, and it helps with the male-female physical strength disparity. The average man is emasculated by a single inch of vertical superiority, so I was and am thankful to whoever in my ancestry possessed Qunari blood.
🦅
Duncan had an epic assignment for us. “You four will be heading into the Korcari Wilds.” he said, when all his lost lambs were gathered around the fire.
“Oh, no.” groaned the knight. At that point I wanted him gone from my presence. How do you become a knight and somehow not love fighting and adventure? It boggles the mind. I have more respect for the most ignorant peasant than I do for cowardly professional warriors. I detest being the bravest man in the room. Wilds, cannibals, witches, beasts. I was looking forward to it.
The gate guard had advice. “Hail, Wardens, the scouts have reported darkspawn advance guards prowling around. Be careful in the forest, not even a Grey Warden will be safe in there tonight.”
And he wasn't wrong, because the first thing I saw in the forest was a grey squirrel. Father would always tell Bethany that grey squirrels are killing the native Ferelden red squirrels. I regretted not being an archer or mage at that point, as I couldn't one shot it from where I was and instead had to turn my attention to the horde of starving wolves that poured out of the bushes populating a clearing. Time for my plain iron greatsword to sing. A gorgeous slab of metal, one swing chopped off two wolf heads.
“Hah!” I exclaimed, as the heads hit the ground and blood burst from severed arteries, spines and trachea failing about, legs kicking, eyeballs rolling. Deeply satisfying. Jory, who was also using a greatsword, turned his eyes away from the mess. Sad. I would have stopped to skin the creatures, but we didn't have time.
The Korcari Wilds are an even danker and more depressing environment than the area around dear old Lothering. Wet, creepy, the soil was spongy. Moss hung on those sinister trees, which were backlit by a dying sun quickly sinking towards the horizon. Weird birds shrieked from hidden perches, and if you did spot the deliverer of the noise, you'd wish you hadn't. There were also some moments of prettiness, such as when I located the flower the Kennelmaster was after.
Down a left leaning path, we encountered a massacre. Wagons sat around, upended or in fragments. Corpses were strewn through the long grass, gnawed on corpses. A small voice cried for help, a grass patch twitched. A survivor was crawling towards us, panting his words with great difficulty. “Who…are you? Grey…Wardens?”
“Darkspawn must have ambushed them.” said Alistair. Helpfully.
“Darkspawn…came out of the ground.”
The knight laid a hand upon the pommel of his sword where it jutted above his right shoulder. “Hey, I didn't sign up for this. This is too dangerous. I have a wife and child in Highever.” Yet he went with Duncan. Curious.
Daveth rolled his eyes, and I was back to liking him. “It's part of the test, Ser Knight.”
“We don't have time for this.” I said, mostly in response to Jory.
“We should take him back to the gate.”
Oh, no, no, no. “He’s dead already, see?” My knife was in my hand, and the problem was solved before anyone could even think of stopping me. Not that any one of those non entities would, or could. Jory, using up the last shreds of any respect I had for him, stepped away in horror, like he hadn't mercy killed on the field of battle before. Doing something I detest even more, Alistair decided to quip.
“Does the word ‘insane’ mean anything to you?”
“I prefer the term ‘ruthless’.”
“Riiiight. Remind me not to be injured anywhere near you.”
But I wasn't listening, I was too busy pulling off the dead man’s boots.