Post by Tseecka on Jun 16, 2014 13:59:24 GMT
If Anora knew he was here, he’d never hear the end of it, he thinks bleakly.
"The people are already concerned enough that they will be losing their king before his rule is done," she’d say, her voice calm and cold and absolutely calculating. "The rumours of you having a lover on the side are insufferable enough; we don’t need further dissent by spreading whispers that you were seen at the Deep Roads, or there are going to be suggestions that the King is losing his mind to the Calling!"
It is all true, he thinks, about the rumours—there are rumours that he has a Warden lover, rumours that he is nearer to his death knell than he and the Queen would have the people believe, rumours even that he is half-elvhen and thereby unfit for the throne—always rumours, gossip, and whispers. He is sick of whispers.
Besides—there's no one down here who'ill talk. The only dwarves to venture this far into the Deep Roads are the Legion of the Dead, and the dead don't speak. It's a morbid thought, really, but he finds it oddly comforting. Here, at least, were people who had no interest in spilling his secrets.
He wears only simple plate, of dwarven make; he has left his own, kingly armour with the shopkeep, a dwarf he remembers from his time here years ago, who had sworn to keep it safe, and secret, until Alistair returned. He's kept his sword, though, the same brilliant steel shimmering with the lyrium glow of the runes embedded in its hilt. He fancies that it remembers these tunnels.
He certainly hasn’t forgotten.
He ducks through a side tunnel, rough-hewn and certainly not dwarf-made, and out of the light of the main Road. Here, the walls are closer, the ceiling lower, but he doesn't feel cramped. The buzzing in his head intensifies, and he smiles grimly to feel the Taint responding to its own kind. It's been a very long time since he has killed any darkspawn, and after months of court and politics and diplomacy and drills, he can't help looking forward to the exercise. As he gets closer, he no longer needs to rely on his Taint to lead the way; he can hear them, their coarse grunts and howls, the ring of steel. He shoulders his way through a narrowing in the tunnel to find himself in a high, arched cavern, naturally made by the look of it.
He stares in surprise. Someone is already fighting the darkspawn—and unless he is sorely missing his guess, they aren’t part of the Legion.
"The people are already concerned enough that they will be losing their king before his rule is done," she’d say, her voice calm and cold and absolutely calculating. "The rumours of you having a lover on the side are insufferable enough; we don’t need further dissent by spreading whispers that you were seen at the Deep Roads, or there are going to be suggestions that the King is losing his mind to the Calling!"
It is all true, he thinks, about the rumours—there are rumours that he has a Warden lover, rumours that he is nearer to his death knell than he and the Queen would have the people believe, rumours even that he is half-elvhen and thereby unfit for the throne—always rumours, gossip, and whispers. He is sick of whispers.
Besides—there's no one down here who'ill talk. The only dwarves to venture this far into the Deep Roads are the Legion of the Dead, and the dead don't speak. It's a morbid thought, really, but he finds it oddly comforting. Here, at least, were people who had no interest in spilling his secrets.
He wears only simple plate, of dwarven make; he has left his own, kingly armour with the shopkeep, a dwarf he remembers from his time here years ago, who had sworn to keep it safe, and secret, until Alistair returned. He's kept his sword, though, the same brilliant steel shimmering with the lyrium glow of the runes embedded in its hilt. He fancies that it remembers these tunnels.
He certainly hasn’t forgotten.
He ducks through a side tunnel, rough-hewn and certainly not dwarf-made, and out of the light of the main Road. Here, the walls are closer, the ceiling lower, but he doesn't feel cramped. The buzzing in his head intensifies, and he smiles grimly to feel the Taint responding to its own kind. It's been a very long time since he has killed any darkspawn, and after months of court and politics and diplomacy and drills, he can't help looking forward to the exercise. As he gets closer, he no longer needs to rely on his Taint to lead the way; he can hear them, their coarse grunts and howls, the ring of steel. He shoulders his way through a narrowing in the tunnel to find himself in a high, arched cavern, naturally made by the look of it.
He stares in surprise. Someone is already fighting the darkspawn—and unless he is sorely missing his guess, they aren’t part of the Legion.
