The cake is a lie!

Pensive Qunari is Pensive

ainulindale — Wed, 23 Nov 2011 04:05:27 GMT

I found my sketch pad and pencil set. There is only one direction that can take.

Cross-posted to dragon_age

[WIP] Following Fate

ainulindale — Thu, 17 Nov 2011 14:12:58 GMT

Title: Following Fate
Characters: f!Hawke/Taarbas, Isabela, Fenris, Varric, Sebastian, the Qunari people as a whole
Rating: T
Summary: Enraged at a shattered Kirkwall, Marian Hawke flees to join the Qunari. But her search for stability and peace is challenged at every turn. Hunted by princes and pirates, bolstered by friends and faith, she embraces her purpose amidst the chaos. And the world will shake before her.
Author's Note: This is cross-posted to dragon_age, so if you've already seen it, I apologize.

"Abandon struggle and submit to the will of the Qun;
Defend the Qun in the face of adversity;
Embrace all Qunari as one's brothers and sisters, regardless of race or origin;
Spread knowledge of the Qun to those ignorant of its teachings;
Excel in your purpose that you might best serve all Qunari;
Like a relentless wave, we crash upon the shore,
Wearing away the chaos,
Washing away the strife;
Peace, my brothers, for there is nothing to struggle against--
Victory is in the Qun."
--The Demands of the Qun, Tome of Koslun

[link] The Ariqun's Guide to Understanding Qunari (Basra Edition)

madsqueeble — Thu, 17 Nov 2011 00:55:06 GMT

Ainulindale has written a thoughtful guide to the Qun based on Plato's Republic, and we should all be grateful. :D

Mark of the Assassin DLC Discussion Post

skybound2 — Wed, 12 Oct 2011 01:41:40 GMT

Good evening the_sten members! As most of you have probably heard, there is new DLC out today for Dragon Age II. And, word through the grapevine is that there might be some content in it that would be relevant to our Qunari interests. I personally have not had a chance to play it yet, but I thought that it might be nice to get some discussion going on it regardless. Maybe liven things up a bit around here, yes?

So, who's played it? Give us your thoughts, questions, concerns, topics of debate, please. We wants 'em!

(And yes, I fully expect there to be spoilers within here folks, consider yourself warned.)

[Fic] Monuments in Ash

i_notaricon — Mon, 26 Sep 2011 21:49:05 GMT

Title: Monuments in Ash
Fandom: Dragon Age II
Rating: MA, for porn.
Character(s): M!Hawke, the Arishok, Isabela, Varric.
Pairing(s): Arishok/M!Hawke.
Summary: Porn.

Written for the k!meme ages ago.

( SHOW ME YOUR HONOUR. MY HONOUR DEMANDS IT. )

Ficfinder: pimp post (with mod permission)

lucre_noin — Fri, 16 Sep 2011 14:37:29 GMT

Need help finding a story you read some time ago and you can't find anymore? You watched a Dragon Age video but now it disappeared?

find_dragonage is a community about all Dragon Age games: Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins- Awakening, Dragon Age 2 and the DLC. The community was created to help fans find Dragon Age related fanfictions, fanarts or video they lost.

The Guard-Captain || Aveline Vallen

kryztal_ray — Sat, 23 Jul 2011 09:02:58 GMT

Come check out the newest DAII community, dedicated to Aveline - and to a lesser extent, the Kirkwall city guard.

seraveline

We welcome all new recruits, so please consider joining us in the barracks and sharing your love ('friend-fiction') of our red-haired lady!

No offense meant to any mods by posting this - feel free to delete if not allowed, and with sincere appologies included!

x-posted to big_boats, city_of_chains, dat_chest_hair, dragon_age, i_do_not_brood, knickerweasels, likeahawke, muhrduhr, submittojustice, and swooping_is_bad.

[fic] Parting Gifts

madsqueeble — Wed, 29 Jun 2011 00:23:28 GMT

Title: Parting Gifts
Date: 26/06/2011
Fandom: DA:O
Characters: f!Brosca, Sten, Dog, light mentions of others
Genre: Drama
Rating/Warnings: T
Pairings: Sten/Brosca leanings
Summary: The night before the final battle, Warden Theramina Brosca asks her Qunari brother for a final boon.

(crossposted to the_sten and dragonage_fic)

"Sten—kadan? Can I come in?"

"You may."

Theramina Brosca, one of the last Grey Wardens in Ferelden, silently pushed open the great wooden door of her comrade's room—and promptly got an eyeful of him sitting cross-legged below the window, sharpening his beloved Asala in nothing but the moonlight and his smallclothes.

"Sweet Ancestors!" she yelped, averting her eyes. Dwarva, it was said, did not blush, but she was starting to prove an exception to the rule. "Do you always polish your sword in the nude?!" she spluttered, remembering to lower her voice this time.

"I am not nude. No more than I was at your side during the Gauntlet." His eyes narrowed, as if he wished to chop the memories of that excursion into fine bits and feed them to Gelert, currently snoring blissfully on the floor as only a Mabari could.

"And a right blessing that was. Forgive me if I keep my clothes on," she said, tugging on the hem of her nightshirt as she closed the door behind her. As she strode across the cold floors to the window, she couldn't resist a few more appreciative glances at the way the moonlight played over Sten's muscles as he worked. Shale had the right idea, if only on this one matter. But a faint unease soon returned to cloud her features, and Sten noticed.

"You are not as you should be. And you have sought me out for a reason. What troubles you?" he asked, temporarily laying aside his work. The final battle with the archdemon was hours away, and for now Redcliffe Castle lay in uneasy peace. She and Alistair had been summoned by Riordan, the senior grey Warden they had helped free, but beyond that he knew little else. But it was clear his kadan had distress painted over her face like a second brand.

"I—" Theramina opened her mouth as if to speak, then clamped it shut decisively. "It's nothing. I might need you to do something tomorrow for me, after the battle. Payback, y'know, for your sword."

And this from the person who had rebuffed all his thanks when she first retrieved Asala. But whatever doubts he had, Sten merely nodded. "If it is within my ability, it will be done," he replied, and went back to sharpening his blade, murmuring verses of the Qun over it with each pass of the whetstone.

"Are you talking to your sword? I know a few men who do that," she quipped at length.

"The words of the Qun purify our weapons. And they prepare us for battle."

"Could you teach me how it's done?" Theramina turned from the window and sank to the floor, giving him one last appraising glance before settling her gaze firmly on the bridge of his nose. He sighed wearily. This was a subject they had broached two or three times before, yet she kept asking as if she expected his answer to change.

"No. I have already told you. It is not my place to teach others about the Qun."

"Well, whose place would it be, then? In Seheron."

"That of the tamassrans."

She nodded, folding her arms over her chest thoughtfully. "Maybe it would be easier to persuade them to educate me, then."

Sten nearly sliced his finger open when he heard that. "What?"

"What 'what'? Don't tell me that's not allowed, either," she shot back, both indignant and amused by her comrade's surprise. "If we both make it out of here alive, I'm following you back to this homeland of yours. I may not understand the prayers in that book of yours, Sten, but they are beautiful to me. I want to learn about them."

"It is a long journey, kadan."

"I won't mind. I love traveling—or haven't you noticed?"

He had, and rewarded her with a long, dry look as she chuckled. He remembered his original journey to Ferelden: the pitch and roll of the ship upon the waves, the hard trek overland, the horrible damp weather. But also the thin, easy banter of the men of the Beresaad, seven of the best men he'd had the fate to command, even if the karashok couldn't cook for beans. It would be difficult, traveling home without companionship after so long. "If you are willing, kadan, then so am I."

"Thank you, Sten." She rested her head against the wall and sighed. "D'you mind if I stay here a while? I can't sleep."

He shot her a questioning look. "This has something to do with your boon?"

"No," she admitted. "But it has everything to do with you."

He let her stay.

----

The army marched the next morning, with Theramina and her comrades at the front of the line. She had shared out the last and best of their equipment, and checked everyone's packs before they left. Sten swept his gaze through the mob, and realised someone was missing: the young mage, sparkling and treacherous like the carnivorous kasaanda. He felt someone lay a hand upon his arm, and turned to see the Warden shaking her head grimly.

"Morrigan won't be joining us, Sten," she said in a low voice, her face hard and sad.

Denerim's gates, when they reached them, were crawling with darkspawn. Though the creatures fell before their blade like saplings in a storm, the horde was just too large to handle for long. The army would never withstand another wave upon them alone. Theramina and Riordan made a quick decision: she would take a small party to clear the city, he would sneak around to distract the archdemon, and the rest would stay with the army to hold the darkspawn at bay. Her choice was swift and sure: Sten for the power of his sword, Shale for the power of her fists, and Wynne to keep them all healed under fire. She left Alistair in charge of the rest.

Before they left, the Warden talked to all her comrades, spending a little more time with Alistair. Discussing a battle plan, perhaps. She bent down to speak to her blood-spattered mabari, and he covered her face in dog drool as he whined anxiously.

"Goodbye, Gelert," she said, in the crooning tone she kept only for him. "Be good and bite lots of darkspawn in the arse for me." He woofed eagerly and gave her face a final lick.

"Are you ready?" Sten asked as she rose. "The enemy waits. Shall we grant him the death he asks of us?"

"It's only fair, isn't it?" replied Theramina, a ghost of a smile upon her face.

"Then let us take this gift to the archdemon. We will take the field. And stand together to see our enemy fall."

"That we shall." She took a breath and raised her sword high. "Let's go, everybody. The archdemon's waited long enough!"

----

The great dragon shrieked its indignance at the tops of its lungs, batting away the myriad forces that plagued it as dark, poisonous blood dribbled from its jaws. Its injured wing hung at an awkward angle as the other one beat insistently against the air. Riordan's mission had failed, but their allies had rallied around them, and victory grew closer with every second. Sten's blade sang time and time again against its adamantine hide, shearing through scales and flesh. Shale pitched rocks at the meddling darkspawn swarming up Fort Drakon. Wynne had called upon the spirit that possessed her, and blasted the archdemon ceaselessly with bolt after bolt of rock and ice and lightning magic.

A hideous gout of flame billowed out of the beast's cavernous jaws. The Warden, armour splattered with various shades of blood, raised her shield before Sten. The attack flared against its surface as she gritted her teeth against the onslaught. "I will give you an opening," she murmured to him, and charged. She didn't need to see if he was ready. She knew he would follow. Gathering what strength was left within her, Theramina swung her faithful shield and smashed it against the dragon's bruised and bleeding sides.

It was a fatal misstep—for the archdemon. Blinded with rage and pain, the beast whirled to snap her in two, turning its back on everyone else. Sten leapt, Asala raised high, a great shadow against the crimson sky. The qunari went unnoticed up to the last; he drove his feet against his foe's neck, and his blade into its flesh. It roared and bucked and writhed as he hung on grimly, sinking his sword in further with every attempt to shake him off. A final savage twist of the blade snapped something in the dragon, and it crashed onto its side, mortally wounded. Sten pulled Asala free and rolled away, barely escaping being crushed by a scaly head.

"Show-off," muttered the Warden as he got to his feet. "Even against Flemeth and the high dragon."

"It gets the job done."

"In the bloodiest way possible. I will miss that." Inexplicably, the Warden pulled off her bronze, winged helmet, letting it fall with a clang as she shook her dark, short braids free. "Now see our comrades to safety, quick as you can," she said, bloody and grim and calm. "The final blow to the archdemon must fall to me."

"This is the boon you claim?" he asked, incredulous. The Warden shook her head, sheathing her beloved sword.

"It is my duty. And not even you can keep me from it." Suddenly, Sten realised two small tears were sliding down her cheeks, cutting runnels through the grime of battle. Theramina never cried. As she turned and ran, she raised her voice in a kind of joyous yell, loud enough for all her comrades to hear. "Say the Prayers for the Dead at my funeral, kadan!"

There was no turning back. She charged the twitching archdemon. A greatsword poked out from a corpse before her. She seized it, the blade sparking briefly against the stones, and hefted it upwards. Under the beast's jaw she slid, blade high, ripping it open from throat to chest. Its roar turned into an impotent gurgle. As the archdemon crashed prone for the last time, the Grey Warden raised the greatsword and plunged it through its skull.

That was the last normal and non-magical thing Sten remembered of that day. Shafts of brilliant light erupted around the archdemon. And the sword. And the dwarf holding onto the sword. Inexplicably, Sten found a single thought pounding doggedly within his head. She knew. She knew. She knew.

He started forward, his boot catching her fallen helmet. She turned at the sound, and met his gaze. Her eyes were filled with a look of pure trust, almost pleading.

"Kadan!" he yelled—or he would have, if his voice had not stuck in his throat.

Kadan, she mouthed back. And something else he could not decipher.

Sten turned to Wynne, staring beside him, and found his horror mirrored in her eyes. There was a mighty explosion, deafening everyone and hurling them backwards. As Sten's skull thudded against stone, the world turned brilliant white, then inky black.

----

It was the hound that finally woke Sten. Somehow Gelert had left the others, trailed them to the top of the fort and found them amidst the carnage. The Qunari was roused by the rough administrations of a canine tongue and a stream of worried barking.

He rose, his thoughts shattered at first. And then he remembered. He remembered it all. As if reading his mind, the mabari raced forward to where Wynne and some of the Redcliffe soldiers crouched. Some of the soldiers were weeping openly. Shale stood statue-like over them.

He didn't have to kneel; he looked over their heads, instead. The warden lay within their circle, as still as a sleeping child. But there was a hollowness in her face; he could find no other way to describe it. He turned to Wynne, who shook her head sadly.

"I am sorry, Sten. She's gone," she whispered, and Gelert whined mournfully as he pushed his nose into her face.

A great weight seemed to force the breath out of him as the words sank in. Still, he had to accept and understand. Some vessels, once empty, can never be filled again. He ploughed wordlessly through the soldiers, ignoring their protests, and scooped the Warden up, armour, weapons and all. "We must let the others know," he said as he descended the tower. They were the last words he spoke for the rest of that day.

----

The day of the Warden's funeral was ridiculously unblighted: blue skies, light wind, no clouds. It was as if the world was trying to make up for lost time. Sten glared at the bright, mocking sun and ducked into the Redcliffe armory. The guard on charge there started, but recognised his guest.

"I found what you asked for," he said, motioning to an armour stand with a large, dark suit of heavy plate upon it. "S-sorry for the wait." Sten simply nodded and brushed past the man. His scant desire to talk had withered further with Theramina's death, and even with his former comrades, he spoke very little.

It had been difficult for all involved. Leliana had looked to Sten as the battered little party approached, then the Warden's limp form, and promptly burst into tears. She had cried enough for all of them. Alistair had looked as if he wanted to decapitate him, then turned away. Sten realised than that they had both known. Theramina had worked in her own way to keep one Fereldan Grey Warden alive. And in his weakness he had let her. They had. Sten did not find the reason why a Grey Warden must strike the final blow of a Blight until much later.

He appraised the dark plate, and decided it would prove sufficient for now. With some difficulty—he was still wound with bandages—he shed his own bright battle armour for a suit more worthy of a man in mourning.

He heard slow, heavy footsteps approach. "Is the Qunari ready?" Shale asked as she poked her head round the door, her voice more gravelly than usual. He made no reply, but snapped the last buckle closed and followed. If his wounds stung and he perhaps leaned on the golem as they made their way toward Lake Calenhad, she made no mention of it.

The queen, to her credit, gave a passable speech to the crowd as the Warden's corpse lay on a stone plinth before them. Whatever they had done to prepare her for burial, they had done it well. Sten stood in the back of the crowd, and Alistair hid behind his bulk, eyes red and nose even redder. It was all he could do to resist the urge to shove the silly man to the front of all the attendees. She had died in his place. He wasn't sure he would ever forgive that.

The Warden's sister had arrived too, a softer, painted, red-haired version of his kadan, and was called forward by the queen. She and some of her family had arrived to take the Warden back to Orzammar for burial. Theramina was to be made a Paragon, the highest honour any dwarf could imagine. Sten wondered what she would think of the whole thing, when she would not take coin for an item retrieved, or gratitude for a soul reclaimed.

One by one, Theramina's motley band of comrades lined up to pay their respects. Sten hung back until the last possible moment. Ignoring the stares and whispers of much of the crowd, he bowed and recited the Prayers for the Dead before her, very softly indeed. It would be for the ears of none but the kadan who requested it.

The dwarves took the warden's body with them, and the crowd began to clear. Theramina's comrades were left standing awkwardly, together as a group for the first time in days. Finally, Alistair cleared his throat. "So. I guess it's up to me now to say this, since our leader's otherwise occupied." Sten growled. Shale stared. Oghren and Leliana simultaneously choked on laughter. "Thank you, all of you, for seeing this through with us." His voice wavered, but his eyes remained dry through some miracle of willpower. "The Grey Wardens—well, one, at least—won't forget what you've done."

"Will we see each other again, do you think?" said Leliana, staring at the assembled company with red-rimmed eyes.

"I doubt it," Zevran said fliply, but fondly patted her shoulder. "I, for one, am unwilling to give the Crows an easy target."

"I would like to find a way to become flesh again," Shale said, sounding surprised at her own words. "The Warden has shown me there is worth in such things."

"Perhaps I'll help you, then," Wynne mused. If the golem's jaw could have dropped open, it would have.

"To Highever," Alistair said, almost to himself. "And then, well, we'll see."

"I'm stickin' around." Oghren sounded as if he had a dozen nugs stuffed up his nostrils. His breath reeked of alcohol. "There's good ale topside."

"I will stay at court for a time," Leliana volunteered. "There is much I wish to think about. But Sten, what will you do?"

"Go home." Gelert barked and he held out a hand to it. "I leave today. The Arishok will have his answer about the Blight."

"We'll miss having you around," Alistair said, and a few others murmured their agreement. But Sten only nodded shortly, inclined his head in farewell, and took his leave. The Warden's hound followed at his heels, wagging his stump of a tail. It looked like he would have some company after all.

As the ship pulled out of the docks and pointed its bow northwards some hours later, the sun sparkling upon the churning waters, Sten of the Beresaad had only one worry: explaining the Warden to the Arishok, and getting it done without being accused for blasphemy.

----

Halfway between Ferelden and Tevinter, Sten had a dream. He was standing in the royal palace, in the borrowed suit of armour, and a celebratory feast was laid out, or what might pass for one. He expected to see a cake, but did not. Pitiful indeed.

The queen was giving a speech, and standing next to her was his kadan, alive, unharmed, and her eyes bright and calm before them all. "What are your plans?" the queen asked, turning to her. "Will you remain with the Wardens?"

The Warden's eyes wandered around the hall, her gaze lingering thoughtfully on her companions and the family who had come to share in her victory. "I think I will travel...at least for a time," she finally said. For all that it was Sten's dream, he could have sworn she was looking directly at him when she said those words.

When the queen had finished and the festivities had begun, he retreated to a corner of the hall to observe things. The mabari happily took up a post next to him. The Warden wandered down the hall, speaking to everyone in turn. Finally she bounced up to him—bounced, in heavy plate—smiling and proud of a job well done. Even he could not stand solemn before her joy, and he felt a real, wide smile creeping onto his face.

"It is good to see you again, kadan," he finally said.

"And you too, Sten," she grinned. "I can't believe I miss the fighting already."

"No doubt you will have plenty of it when you return to Orzammar." The remark only made the Warden cackle wickedly.

"Return to Orzammar? I told you already. You're going back to your people, I expect. And I'm coming with you."

"You will have much to prove to them, kadan," Sten said in warning. "I have been away for a long time, and my word may only do so much."

"I'll do the rest, then." She looked up at him with a gleam in her eyes. "Just like I did with you, yes?"

"You are certain?" he asked quietly.

She nodded, her smile gentle and her eyes unusually soft. "I'm surprised you have to ask, kadan. Wherever my heart goes, so do I."

Before he could offer any sort of reply, she turned to the others. "Hey! Hey, you lot! They want the Hero of Ferelden out there, but she's sure as stones not going out there alone! We did this together! C'mon!"

The others approached, talking and teasing and cheering, but it was to him that the Warden turned. The green of her eyes reminded him of his forests in distant Seheron. She extended her hand, patient, waiting. After some hesitation, he took it. With a laugh, she closed her fingers tightly around his and pulled him through the castle doors, into a roar of sound and blinding light.

----

Sten awoke with the rush of the ship's wake filling his ears, and the sunlight pouring into his eyes through a porthole. He must have been more tired than he expected. Thanks to Wynne's ministrations, however, the fight would be little more than a collection of scars and memories one day. He did not immediately rise, but stared up at the planks above his head as he listened to the sounds of the ocean below him. It brought him less comfort than he'd expected.

Gelert cracked open one eye, trotted over to lick him a greeting, and pawed at Sten's pack. "Parshaara. There's nothing in there for you, hound," he retorted, but the mabari continued to sniff and paw and whine pointedly. He roused himself, shooed Gelert out of the way and checked his supplies. Dried meat, bread, tent, pegs, poultices, a few interesting amulets and paintings, a bronze, winged helmet just right for a dwarven head on top of all that. But right at the bottom of the pack was an oddly-shaped package, wrapped in white paper and twine. Odd. He didn't remember putting that in there before they...

The Warden. She and her supply 'checks'.

Sten slowly unwrapped the mysterious package. It was a totem, carved with great discipline, and when Gelert sniffed it he whined sadly at a familiar scent. On further inspection, the wrapping had writing on it, in an unfamiliar hand: something to do with flour and eggs and sugar at first glance, and the baking of such a mixture in ovens. Right at the bottom, it read: 'For Sten - a Fereldan recipe. Makes 36. Don't eat them all at once.'

She had not only returned him a soul, he realized as he gripped the message tight and read through it again, slowly this time. She had gifted him a heart.

[fic] Esaam Kadan

madsqueeble — Sat, 04 Jun 2011 00:30:09 GMT

Title: Esaam Kadan
Date: 04/06/2011
Fandom: DA:O
Characters: f!Brosca, Sten, Wynne, Leliana
Genre: General, Drama
Rating/Warnings: PG13.
Pairings: Just a touch of implied Sten/Brosca and Leske/Brosca bromance.
Summary: Slight spoilers for Orzammar. While travelling near Lake Calenhad, the party gets ambushed. Sten gets poisoned. And Natia Brosca gets shaken.

(crossposted to dragonage_fic)

It was meant to be a normal journey to Soldier's Peak—Natia always made it a point to store their extra loot there after every major undertaking. The dwarven Grey Warden led her little group along the far banks of Lake Calenhad, crunching through the frosty grass as mist curled around their feet. Her breath streamed out behind her in pale white wisps, as she was sure it did for Sten, Wynne, and Leliana. Their resident bard had clearly enjoyed her brief and bloody time in Orzammar—though the Warden could scarcely tell her it had been the first time she had entered many buildings in the Diamond Quarter, too.

"I'm glad we managed to put Bhelen on the throne," she said happily. "And Rica will be with him too! It's all so romantic: the two lovers separated by class. A story for the ages!"

"Well, if you want to put it that way," her bold leader called back with a laugh in her voice.

"Don't you think that she loves him?"

"Course I do! But if Bhelen ever messes with my sister, I'll march right back in there and tear the duster's nuts off myself." These last words were strained through a grim, baretoothed smile. None present thought to doubt such a threat.

"If he is indeed most suited to rule, such action would be unwise, kadan." Sten's tone of voice indicated he was simply stating the obvious. With all the politicking he had witnessed, it was a wonder the dwarves got anything done at all.

"But if he doesn't know how to appreciate the woman he loves, how can he rule fairly over the people who depend on him?" Leliana cut in indignantly.

"We do all right."

The statement provoked a sigh from Wynne. "Oh, Sten. Don't the Qunari fall in love? Get married? Have little Qunari?"

"Certainly not the way humans do."

"You mean they don't come out the usual way? Morrigan sure dodged a bullet..."

"Funny, Warden. The tamassran bring men and women together to produce imekari. It is our duty to the Qun. Love does not factor into it."

"How sad. To know nothing of the joys of romance," Leliana said, the picture of disapproval.

"How boring! I bet Qunari unions involve contracts," snickered the Warden, imitating Sten's deadpan baritone with limited success. "I, someone-or-other, do pledge to honour and defend my partner, so-and-so, for as long as I live."

Sten snorted. "You speak nonsense. Such contracts last only as long as the act itself."

"Oh, my," Wynne murmured tactfully.

"Ears of my ancestors. Y'know, forget I asked," groaned the Warden.

Leliana, truly indignant now, refused to let the matter slip, and insisted on arguing the matter with Sten. The other two listened with half an ear as the mist grew thicker and the night turned ever colder. Wynne heard the Warden cough behind her, a throaty rasp of noise.

"Are you well, Warden?" she asked.

"That wasn't me." The hairs on the back of the dwarf's neck stood up as she drew her sword. Sten was already reaching for Asala as Leliana curled her fingers round her bow. "I know that sound. We're under attack!" The mists suddenly exploded all around them with darkspawn, their eyes glittering cold in the meager light and their weapons raised high.

"Ambush!" she spat as their foes surged forward. "Keep them busy, ladies!" Her blade, and Sten's, cut their way forward as Leliana and Wynne strived to keep the rest of their attackers occupied. Blades, arrows, spells and bloody darkspawn parts flew through the air in equal measure.

The fight was hard and dirty, but at last the final darkspawn shattered into a slushy mess, felled by a well-timed mix of Wynne's spells. Natia shook the blood from her blade and scanned the ground for anything salvageable. Corpses whole and not-so-whole littered the once serene landscape. She wasn't looking forward to seeing the full carnage under the harsh light of day.

It was then she heard it: the shuffle of feet, and the click of an armed crossbow. Natia whirled to see a genlock aiming at the largest, easiest target its beady eyes could focus on. "Sten!" she screamed. "MOVE!"

He turned—just as the bolt was loosed. The sharp sound of the missile flying home unlocked a rage the Warden never thought she'd possessed. She charged the genlock. In five long strides she had closed the distance between them. In six she was upon it. Putting the full force of both her arms behind her sword, she lopped its head from its shoulders with a single vicious swing. Damn it. Damn it all! How had they missed this one? How had she?!

"Son of a lyrium-licking nug-buggerin'—"

"Warden!" Leliana's voice rang out through the thickening mist, cutting the vehement curse short.

Nugnuts. "Sten!" Natia raced towards her companions to find Sten crumpled against a tree, face ashen. The end of the bolt protruded insolently from the left side of his chest.

"I am wounded," he managed to grind out.

"Let me see." Wynne reached out with the gentlest of magic at her fingertips, probing the wound. "The bolt's punched clean through your armour. A little further and you would be down one lung."

Leliana plucked a quiver off the nearest darkspawn crossbowman, studying its contents. "Poison bolts. And I recognise this, I think," she said. "In Orlais they call it the 'winding plague'."

"It'll give him the plague?!"

"No, but it'll feel like it. That needs to come out."

"Parshaara," Sten grumbled, closing one large hand around the bolt. Natia was quick to stop him.

"What are you doing?!" the Warden yelped, a high note of anxiety lacing her words. "You'll tear your chest apart!"

"You have...other ideas?" There was a strange, unfocused look in his eyes, and his breaths were hard and short.

Wynne nodded decisively. "Remove that hand, Sten. And unbuckle your breastplate."

"But Wynne, the bolt—!"

"Calm yourself, Natia!" the mage said sharply. The name had the desired effect and the Warden subsided, wary but attentive. She turned to her patient once more, speaking quickly. "Sten, your breastplate. Leliana, hold his arms down. Warden, on my word you will pull out the bolt. We will remove the armor and deal with the wound as best as we can after that."

"I...Yeah. G-Got it." The Warden's hands moved in small, sharp gestures, as they tended to do when she was thinking. Something struck her, and she dived into her pack. "Where is that thing, where...yes, here. Sten! Here, bite on this!"

He regarded her with a look of droll contempt. "The Beresaad are trained to handle pain. I will endure without such things."

"Stop arguing and bite the damn dagger," she growled, green eyes flashing wildly. "Else I'll shove the thing in your mouth myself!" He complied, if only because arguing would take strength he couldn't spare. The blade's touch upon his lips tingled, and the pain that held his chest in a death grip seemed to subside somewhat.

"...What magic is this?" he mumbled as best as he could around a mouthful of dragonbone.

"Master paralyse rune," the Warden replied shortly. "Leliana, sit on his arms anyway. Wynne, would you?"

"I am here. Sten, are you ready?"

"Just get it over with, mage."

Natia braced herself, reaching for the bolt. Wynne focused, and with a nod, hit Sten with the same psychic blast that had stunned darkspawn in their tracks countless times before. "Stone guide my hand," the Warden muttered, and as she locked eyes with Sten he could see the berserker's strength she'd summoned infuse her gaze with a wild gleam. With one swift wrench she pulled the offending article free from his flesh, flinching much as he did, and cast the armour aside. Wynne immediately took over, laying her hands on his wound, fighting the evil placed within him, stanching the tainted blood, mending skin and flesh as fast as it would hold.

True to his word, Sten did not betray the pain that he felt pounding in his veins. His eyebrows knit fiercely as Wynne fought the poison that spread through his blood, but he did not flinch nor cry out. His gaze fell upon the bard and the Warden, standing by as the mage worked, and he noticed something surprising: the Grey Warden, the ridiculous woman who insisted she was a fighter, who fearlessly raced into battle beside them all, who bantered with everyone and yelled curses at her enemies, had fallen completely silent. And he saw in her wide eyes something that he never had before: fear. Fear so strong it made her seem even smaller.

"It is done," Wynne says at length, rising with bloodstained hands. "Hand me those bandages please. Now it's up to his body to deal with what remains of the rest of the poison."

"We have to get out of the cold, though. And we're far from the Spoiled Princess." the Warden grumbled softly. "Leliana? What does winding plague do?"

"It causes high fevers, and much pain."

"Then I'll...t-tend to him, if you two will keep watch tonight."

"Unnecessary," Sten growled, but the catch in his voice diminished the effect somewhat. She glared at him, as witheringly as she could, and squared her shoulders.

"I let this happen," she said hotly. "Just tell me what I must do, both of you. Let me make this right."

----------

Leliana blew into her hands a few times and stamped her feet, trying to chase the numbness out of them as she squinted through the mist-turned-fog. It was hardly an ideal camp: flat, low, and with limited cover. But they were close to fresh water, and the fog was as much camouflage for them as it was for others. When the mist cleared they could send for the rest of their group, and wait for Sten to recover before continuing their journey.

"I'll take over from here, dear. Go get some sleep." Leliana looked up; Wynne had arrived to relieve her from her duties. She gratefully returned to the inviting glow of the firelight and knelt there for a while, basking in the warmth. The Warden had gathered enough branches to last them until first light, but sat turned away from the fire, armour unshed and dabbing the sweat from Sten's broad forehead with a rag. Natia Brosca, lick as a whip and sharp as a tack, didn't look up until Leliana touched her on the shoulder.

"Oh. Hey," she murmured.

"Hey. Has his fever broken?"

"No. He's twitching something bad under all those blankets, too." The Warden had piled her own bedding on top of his in an attempt to keep the cold out. She stared down at the damp cloth in her hand and clenched her fist. Tepid water squelched over her palms. "Sod it all!" she snarled. "Why didn't I see that genlock?!"

"None of us did. You cannot blame yourself alone for this."

"But I'm the one who's supposed to feel them coming." Leliana had heard the Wardens mention this in passing, that they could somehow sense darkspawn, and vice versa. Perhaps that was why they were needed against a Blight. "Alistair wouldn't have let this happen," Natia continued in a quieter tone.

"Alistair wouldn't have thought of the enchanted dagger either, dear Warden." Leliana smiled encouragingly at her companion, but received no such acknowledgement. "Wynne is on watch now, and I can take over from you any time. Do not forget to rest."

"I won't," she lied. Sten shifted restlessly in his sleep, and Natia pulled the blankets up over him a little further. Brilliant, now he was shivering instead. Water. Pretty soon they were going to need more water. She started to rise, but something made her stop and turn. Sten was blinking muzzily up at the trees, as if uncertain where he was.

"Sten!"

"Where are my men?" he muttered, as if to himself, and Natia remembered. The men of the Beresaad had fallen around this lake. They could be lying on top of their bones. But when she touched her rag to his cheek, he turned, and seemed to regain his senses.

"Warden?"

"I'm here." His hand had worked itself free from the many coverings they had piled on top of him, and she laid her own atop it in a soothing gesture. "Wynne is keeping watch. You really should go back to sleep. Water?"

"No. I have had...worse things happen before you met me. The pain is not as bad as it once was." His words were slow, carefully chosen.

"Well, then I'm glad to hear it." She plumped her rag into a dish of water, wrung it out and put it over his forehead. "But you're still not moving from this spot. I just lost one comrade. Like hell I'm going to lose another."

The dwarf from the carta, then, thought Sten. The one who had led her into a trap. "...This dwarf, Leske. What was he to you?"

The Warden's shoulders went rigid. Suddenly, she found she couldn't look Sten in the eye. "What's that thing you call me, 'kadan'? Yeah, what does it mean?"

"It means you are to be respected. That we are allies of one mind."

"Then he...was also kadan," she responded slowly, twining her fingers together.

Sten found it preposterous that she could still entertain such a notion. "He was not your kadan," he shot back. "He could not have been. Kadan do not betray each other."

"He was, all right?!" The Warden whirled on him sharply, eyes ablaze with anger. Abruptly, she turned away again, seeming to shrink in upon herself. "He was. At least he used to be. I had his back and he had mine. We were a team." There was a longing tone in her voice Sten had heard before, in Leliana's songs and Alistair's fumbling words.

"You had feelings for him."

"I don't know." The Warden shook her head and turned the cloth on Sten's forehead over briskly, as if they weren't having a conversation at all. "He was my salroka, as much as—as you are now." Her voice shook, but she held it in masterfully. "He was the only one," she went on. "Until I met Alistair, and you and the rest of 'em..." The Warden let out a short, sad chuckle. "Ah, I'm no good at this. Ain't never had a 'kadan' before. Definitely not one like you."

"Few do." It was an interesting concept, to say the least. A bas who didn't run or flinch at the sight of him, even considering him friend. Interesting, yet not thoroughly unpleasant. "Now, why are you not at rest?"

"I—Broscas don't...we don't run away from what we've done. Not now, not ever."

"Kadan. Look at me." Sten rose onto one elbow, despite the Warden's best and most frantic efforts to dissuade him, and stared her down. To her credit, she didn't try to look away. "What is done, is done. And this—" he touched his bandages. "—is the work of a darkspawn. Your moping will change nothing. I gave you my word that I would aid you against the Blight. Do you now doubt it?"

"Never."

"Then do not start. It is not like you."

The Warden started to smile slowly, as if for the first time. "I believe you. That won't change. And I'll—I'll bloody shank you if you go back on that promise, y'hear?" She shook a fist at him for good measure.

"Not trembling like that, you won't."

"Says the half-naked duster." She placed her hand on his bandaged chest, just above the wound that the bolt had made. The steel of her gloves lay cool against the inflamed flesh, and this time when she pushed him back down, he let her.

"I got this, Sten. Sleep now. We're done talking tonight," she murmured. Odd words from you, he would have replied, but fatigue and warmth insistently staked their claims upon him again. The last thing he remembered was the touch of the Warden's fingers, smoothing stray hair from his forehead with a gentleness he had never expected from her hands.

----------

Morning was welcome consolation after the long, cold night. The sun crept across the horizon, banishing the final traces of a day long dead. Its rays finally touched a crude little camp, where the fire had died, the mists were slowly dissipating, and two figures sat watching two more.

"Pretty as a painting," Leliana sighed, chin in her hands and the glee in her voice barely contained.

"A very strange painting it would be, to be sure," replied Wynne, but there was no concealing the amusement in her own words, either. Sten still slept like the dead, and the Warden had fallen asleep sitting up—with her hand tangled in his braids.

The Qunari awoke quietly, shooting the two women a disquieting look when he found them gazing moon-eyed at him. "What are you staring at?" he growled.

"Well, you seem in good spirits this morning," Wynne said.

"I am not like your soft, untrained men, woman. Contrary to what the bard might say." Leliana giggled to herself. He sat up, and the Warden jerked awake.

"Mist! Fog! Darkspawn! Nuggets!" she bawled, scrabbling for her sword. "Oh. Uh, Good morning. What? Why are you smiling like that?"

"You must have done an impressive job last night," Leliana said, without irony. "I've never seen anyone recover from winding plague so quickly."

"No, I think we all had a hand in that. Thank you, Wynne; Leliana." Natia discreetly untangled her hand from Sten's hair, and he busied himself with tying it all back again. "How you feeling, Sten?" she asked when he was done.

"Adequate. Surprisingly." The fever had broken and his wounds felt sore, but nowhere near what the poison had first wrought.

The Grey Warden sighed, her shoulders sagging with relief and a strange look coming into her eyes. "I'm glad you made it, kadan," she said warmly, and buried her head in the uninjured side of his chest, throwing her arms around his bare midriff as far as they would reach. Sten froze, stunned—and was even more stunned to find he had raised his arm over her, to accomodate her sudden embrace. Leliana still grinned unabashedly at both of them, but her eyes were filled with the same relief and concern that radiated from Wynne's, and those of the Warden.

"Perhaps we shall move on after the mist clears, yes?" the bard said, starting to throw earth over their campfire. "That will give you—er, us an hour or so's reprieve." Thankfully, she pursued the matter no further and started her packing. Sten turned to the Warden, about to ask her to cease her ridiculous display, and found her sound asleep, face pressed to his side and clinging to him still. If she had not rested during the night, surely she was doing so now.

'Kadan,' she had called him, of her own volition; the word bore a new warmth coming from her lips. Suddenly, he felt that much less alone. It was not in Sten to love as the others did, to submit himself to their very foreign weaknesses, but there were different types of affection in the world. And he knew what he felt about this Warden: his small and unusual kadan, who fought fierce and strong and loudly for comrades she had never before dreamed of meeting. He slowly lowered his arm to rest across her shoulder, and when he was absolutely sure the others were not looking, Sten allowed himself to smile.

[fic] The Twenty-Eighth Day

madsqueeble — Fri, 29 Apr 2011 07:42:54 GMT

Hi all. Thanks to the machinations(?) of artists like Aimo and Coelasquid, and the curiosity of a late fandom bloomer, I am currently head over heels for DA:O. It took some hours to get the hang out of pausing every round to select moves and such, but I'm having great fun even as the game crushes my little party over and over again.

And of course, there is Sten. Big, snarky, deadpan Sten. Both his banter and conversations make me grin like a wee child. Jumping through all those hoops to earn his truth was worth it. (And there is the Qunari prayerbook. It's helping me with my poultice habit. *cough*)

With that said, I look forward to mooning over our favourite Qunari together with everyone—and I bring offerings of fanfic!

Title: The Twenty-Eighth Day
Date: 29/04/2011
Fandom: DA:O
Characters: Unspecified!Warden, a dash of Alistair, Morrigan, and Leliana, and lots of Sten.
Genre: Drama
Rating/Warnings: T for the violent way things tend to die in Ferelden.
Summary: An imagining of what might happen if Sten is left unrecruited, and the Qunari's last days as Lothering falls to the Blight.

It is the twenty-first day Sten has spent in the cage. He may have lost count by now. He has spent his store of Fereldan words, many lacking the sharp snap and decisive vowels of his tongue. He has counted in binary on his hands, in Qunari and Common. He has counted in binary on his toes. The floor of the cage is strewn with straw, but it has long since degraded into a thin, musty mat unsuitable for sitting on. His tailbone doesn't like him any more. And so, the Qunari stands and stands and stares out at the world. Preparing for what must inevitably come, he recites a snatch of a prayer.

"Shok ebasit hissra. Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun. Maraas shokra. Anaam esaam Qun."

As he finishes, Sten raises his head—and finds someone staring right back at him. Before him stands a weedy-looking stranger, clad in armour that seems awkward upon his frame. A fighter, then, newly-minted in some way. With him is another man, clad in similar armour, and only vaguely less awkward-looking; beside him, a vaguely familiar woman in the hissra Chantry's clothing. Rounding out the group is a mage in some of the scantiest, most frivolous garments he has seen yet. He glares at her. So much skin and so little armour. One well-aimed blow with a sword, and he...

...Well, best not talk about swords. His palms still feel hollow and naked, his fingers yearning still for the weapon stripped from them.

"Hello," says the stranger, snapping him from his reverie. Vashedan! The idiot is still staring, like a child seeing a plant or an insect for the first time.

"You aren't one of my captors," Sten rumbles out in a voice long made hoarse by battle, hunger and thirst. "I have nothing to say that would amuse your kind. Leave me in peace." Unsurprisingly, the stranger does no such thing.

"What are you?" he is asked, kindly enough, but it makes him bristle. He is a who, not a what. Well, two can play at that.

"I am a prisoner," he snaps. "I'm in a cage, am I not? I was placed here by the Chantry."

"The revered mother said he slaughtered an entire family. Even the children," the Chantry woman interjects. Ah, he remembers now—she's the one with the strange, lilting accent. The one who walks around humming songs to herself. Insane. If she travels with them, they are surely doomed.

"It is as she says. I am Sten of the Beresaad—" he checks himself, they cannot understand. "—The vanguard of the Qunari peoples."

"Qunari?"

"If you haven't heard of us, that is your own shortcoming." The incense-tinged air of Seheron, and its salt and its tea, will never reach him again, and he suddenly feels a great loneliness in the core of his body. Or perhaps it is his empty belly. "It matters little, now. I will die soon enough. I suggest you leave me to my fate."

The mage muses about a proud, powerful creature being trapped as Darkspawn fodder—why does it still have its tongue?!—and promptly gets into a mild argument with the other fighter. The conversation is too quick and barbed to process right away. All the while the stranger appears thoughtful, and asks questions of him, one after the other. Well, it would not hurt at this point to answer them. Even if he were to be turned into some illusory parable to scare children into behaving.

"Aren't you interested in seeking atonement?" the stranger asks.

"Death will be my atonement." He will die, after all, through darkspawn or the sundering of his body from thirst and starvation.

"There are other ways to redeem yourself," the stranger says with more conviction than he's shown yet, and more kindness than Sten has received in twenty days. He explains that he is a Grey Warden, and that he and his companions are questing to end the Blight—the same that brought Sten to these distant shores.

A Grey Warden? This one?! He does not look strong. He does not look particularly old or wise, either. He just looks like a youngster in armour that's not his. Surprising. Perhaps the legends were just legends, after all. But he is a soldier himself, after all, every hair on his head, every scar on his body. Perhaps fighting alongside them would hasten an honorable death in battle. Much would be better than this glorified chicken coop.

"I'll ask the Reverend Mother to free you. I'll leave you for now." The Warden says this with such conviction Sten feels sorry for him. No words can erase what he has done. One person cannot change the fate of another with simple talk. Can they?

"Thank you," he says, and realises that he means the words, even aimed at one of the unenlightened.

"I will be back," the Warden says, and is off with his three companions. He does not come back.

It is the twenty-first night, and a long one. Sten has to spend most of it quashing the tiny spark of hope that had leapt within him, and submitting himself to fate once more.

----------

It is the twenty-second day, bitter and changeless. Sten's stomach has long since ceased its grumbling. It is beyond grumbling. In the evening it rains, a squall worthy of any in Seheron, and he is drenched to the skin. He does not allow more than a few drops of water to pass his lips; those that do taste of blood and rust.

It is the twenty-fourth day. His hair smells of wet dog. His clothes smell of straw.

By the twenty-seventh day his vision has started to blur. He hears snatches of gossip as the refugees come and go. Grey Wardens fought werewolves in Dalish forests. Grey Wardens fought the undead in Redcliffe. They are dead. They are alive. They betrayed the King. The Grey Wardens seem to be doing everything short of stopping the Blight. Perhaps it is best that they did not come back for him. Yet Sten finds himself wondering about the motley group and its ill-suited leader. And the determination in that leader's eyes, and the conviction in his words.

_There are other ways to redeem yourself._

Sten remains standing, but closes his eyes and leans against the bars of his cage. He is going to ache all over when he awakes. If he awakes.

He is just very, very tired.

----------

Sten is on a battlefield with his own bright armor weighing heavily upon him. A steely shriek betrays the darkspawn that has risen up behind him, claws raised to puncture his skull. Instinct takes over and he swings, chopping the beast in two.

He looks to his hands. They grasp Asala tightly, as one lover cleaves to another, and his blade shines bright with blood. His heart soars; he had almost forgotten this wholeness, this sense of completion. It is almost painful in its purity, even as his blood pounds dizzily in his ears. He is not well. He still feels the hunger and thirst of his imprisonment. But his soul is found, back in his hands where it is meant to be; steel lies snug across his shoulders; his foes are falling before him. If it is illusion, it is a very good illusion.

"Sten!" a voice rings out. "Sten, to me!" It is a voice that seems like many voices layered on top of one another, male and female. And he recognises it, somehow. It is the Grey Warden, bow on his back, sword and shield in his hands, eyes shining bright with concentration. How is it that he knows they are as a group, that all here are comrades, that he and this Warden are inexplicably kadan? Quashing the needless thoughts, Sten runs to his aid, cursing his enemies in thunderous Qunari as he cuts them down. Their brittle bones crumble and crunch beneath his feet. Somewhere in the distance he hears the mage shout in triumph as a cone of ice erupts through a cluster of genlock, and a familiar male voice yells "For the Grey Wardens!" before blood sprays through the air. The ichor spatters his braids and runs down his face.

"Why are you here?" Sten asks the Warden as a Hurlock runs toward them. He smashes Asala's pommel into its rotting nose. The Warden thrusts twin daggers into its ribs. Daggers? Those weren't there before, surely?

"I do my duty," she says. The voice is unmistakably feminine. Sten's dizziness reasserts itself. As he looks, the Warden's face seems to shift and change at every moment. Dwarven rogue. Elven mage. Templar. Berserker. Male. Female. He is all of this at once.

"Who are you?" Sten growls at this abomination. The Genlock and Hurlock appear to see nothing out of the ordinary. Is he the one going insane?

"I am a Grey Warden," the Warden says in that multitudinous voice, looking him in the eyes with undeniable affection. "And you are Sten. As you were, and always will be. Surely the cage does not change who you are?"

Another Shriek rises up out of the ground, teeth bared, eyes hungry. The Warden swings his weapon, the blade singing across the creature's eyes. Sten rams Asala through the creature's chest. It disintegrates, and his face is filled with black dust.

The Warden's laugh rings out triumphantly as the battleground fades away.

----------

Sten awakes with the taste of death in his mouth, his pupils dark points in the violet of his eyes. The darkspawn have reached Lothering.

The air is filled with flames, smoke and screaming. Imekari cry for their guardians. The guardians cry for the imekari. A handful of templars flail uselessly against the whole abominable horde. Such chaos. Any Qunari settlement would fight, tooth and nail and even more teeth, down to the last drop of blood. A pity they aren't of the Qun.

A piercing scream splits the air nearby, and a woman's body flies through the air to thud against his cage. She slumps to the ground, head at a physically impossible angle across her shoulder, blood draining from her ears. A hurlock advances, chuckling to itself. Sten thinks it is chuckling—the noise reminds him of rutting dathrasi. One of the imekari runs up, screaming wordlessly ('Mothermothermother') and throws itself down beside the dead woman, wailing. The hurlock's head jerks to one side, as if in curiosity, but it advances nevertheless, murderous glee kindling in the backs of its dead eyes.

_Surely the cage does not change who you are?_ The Warden's aggravating words echo in his mind. Funny how something so soft can be such a sharp goad. The hurlock is no coward to Sten. Any antaam might cut down the weak before concentrating on the strong. But it is one thing to fight a foe that will not retaliate, and quite another to fight a foe that cannot retaliate. The choice seems clear.

Struggle is an illusion, something whispers within him.

No cage in Lothering can really hold a Qunari. Not even a starved one that smells of straw and smoke and wet dog, once he has turned his back on surrender. Bracing himself, Sten wrenches one bar free from its moorings with a sickening groan of tortured metal, and pounds it into the lock on his cage, over and over. The effort sets stars in front of his eyes momentarily, and even the long, ugly bar feels like stone in his hands. But he shifts it, and suddenly it feels good enough to fight with. He brings it down again. The bolts break. The door swings open. He is weak. But he will be strong enough for this last fight.

Sten roars a long and ringing battle cry. The boy turns. More importantly, the hurlock turns, and shambles toward the Qunari instead. He will turn what remains of his life into redemption. Even in the service of blithering, weak simpletons.

The tide, rises, the tide falls.

With a mighty sweep, Sten crashes the bar into the hurlock's skull. As it staggers he tears the monster's weapon from its hands and lops its head off with it. He looks up to find several more pairs of beady eyes staring at him with bloodlust—genlock and hurlock and a Shriek that seems bent on avenging the insult to its dreamkin. He's not worried. Not now. Now he's just trying to survive a little longer.

"Come at me," he yells, giving tongue in his native language. How triumphant he sounds, now he is in his element. "I am Sten of the Beresaad! Now face your opponent!"

The horde rushes him, and he embraces them with the solemnity befitting any of his rank and kind. The plundered greatsword sings through bones and rotting flesh, air and poisoned magic. His blood sings against his dizziness even as it flows across his skin. Hunger weighs him down more than any armour. And as the darkspawn surge at him, pull the weapon from his once-strong fingers and swing at his throat, the words of his prayer thunder unbidden in his ears.

The sea does not change.

----------

It is the twenty-eighth day. Morning finds Sten lying torn amongst the corpses of Lothering, finally free of his many cages. His eyes stare, defiant and unseeing, at the bruise-coloured sky far away from home. Yet his face is somehow utterly at peace. He fell in battle, as he was made. It was not a death to be ashamed of.

Victory is in the Qun.

More Manly Guys Doing Manly Things

skybound2 — Wed, 20 Apr 2011 19:17:32 GMT

Okay, following up on popehippo's post from yesterday, I'm linking to another (earlier) comic from Manly Guys Doing Manly Things featuring Sten...wearing only his smallclothes.

ENJOY!

And, NO, I have NOT spent a large chunk of my day reading through ALL of the comics posted over there. Honest. *shifty eyes*

Comic: I Still Don't Like The Retcon

popehippo — Mon, 18 Apr 2011 21:34:05 GMT

Over at Manly Guys Doing Manly Things.

nehraa kadan [ ashaad/saemus. PORN PORN PORN ]

elendraug — Sat, 02 Apr 2011 04:09:00 GMT

\o/

totally nsfw, and takes place IN MEDIA RES during nehraa asala. ohhohohohoho.

A violent storm on the shore forces them into a cave, and the secluded darkness brings out a desire that he's been suppressing for what seems like forever. Saemus can smell the sea, can smell the lingering scent of bakhoor on his friend's skin, and he can't hold back any longer.

"You're amazing," he breathes, and impulsively grabs Ashaad's horns to hold him still. He kisses him again and again, trailing his hands down along pointed, gold-tipped ears, and threads his fingers into his hair.

Ashaad does not encourage, but does not resist.

Saemus takes this as an open invitation, and shifts into Ashaad's lap, straddling his waist. The qunari are massive, and it's not so much like embracing a lover as mounting a horse. He laughs a bit darkly at that - how many back home would see them as simply beasts? - but nothing could shake his resolve now.

"I've wanted this so much," he sighs, and Ashaad says nothing. It's unnerving, as if he's talking to himself, or to a brick wall, but the resigned acceptance in the qunari's eyes is all he needs for encouragement.

Ashaad permits Saemus to climb atop him, clutching at his broad shoulders, stained red with dye that could be blood. Vallaslin, he thinks, recalling the what little he knows of the Dalish. Perhaps he should mark himself, too, and forever give himself to the Qun, in body as well as soul.

For far too long, the affection is one-sided, with Saemus greedily touching so much painted skin and powerful muscle. When Ashaad at last lifts his hands to run along the human's back, it's as if everything is in its right place.

Saemus is all energy and arousal, and Ashaad grips his shoulders as the boy grinds against his leg. He wants this, all of this, and does not possess the same disciplined patience.

"Please," he begs, his lips on Ashaad's neck, lost in the scent of his sweat.

In time, Ashaad will teach him to wait, but not today.

He is quickly sheathed in the qunari's massive grip, stroked by the same hand that so often wields a sword into battle, strikes down kabethari by the dozen. It is all he can do to stifle his cries, to bite his lip until it draws blood. He will not show weakness, no more than he already has.

With his breeches bunched around his thighs, it's difficult to get the right leverage. Ashaad moves just enough to free himself, and keeps a firm hand on his partner's lower back, urging him to stay still. Saemus' breath catches in his throat, the hard press of Ashaad's erection unexpected against his, larger and thicker than his own.

"Shit," he gasps, and he immediately wants to correct himself to vashedan. He wonders what language Ashaad shouts in, if at all.

He supposes he'll find out.

Saemus' hips move of their own accord, aching for release, to somehow meld impossibly closer. Ashaad accommodates him, his hand curled deliciously around the both of them, jacking them off gradually. The lethargic pace is maddening, and Saemus distracts himself by kissing him again, seeking the flat of the soldier's tongue against his own. He stares at him with half-lidded eyes, clouded with lust.

Ashaad pushes against the small of his back, forcing him against his chest, against his hips. It's not quite enough to hurt, but the sheer strength behind that muscled arm is intimidating in of itself. The qunari speeds up, the increase imperceptible if not for Saemus' sole focus on every slight variation, every measured movement.

Saemus lets out an involuntary whimper, his forehead resting on Ashaad's chest. He can hardly breathe, hardly think, and cries out in pain when Ashaad sinks his teeth into his shoulder, spilling rivulets of blood into the embroidered fabric of his clothing.

The qunari's grip tightens almost viciously, and with a strangled shout Saemus reaches orgasm, torn between collapsing against Ashaad or flinching away from the assault. He looks up, wide-eyed and honestly afraid, all too aware that his life is at this creature's mercy.

Ashaad is utterly unconcerned about his own release, and stares back at him in a way that borders on studious.

"This is not the way of the Qun," he says, his voice low but remarkably calm, as always.

Saemus glances away, ashamed of himself. "I know."

The next few minutes are spent in utter silence, awkward and uncomfortable. He cleans up as best as he can, perturbed by the damage to his shoulder -- how is he supposed to explain this away? -- and sits near the entrance to the cave, watching as the storm rages just a short distance away.

To his surprise, he feels Ashaad lay a ridiculously oversized hand on his uninjured shoulder, and lets out a sigh of genuine relief. The qunari briefly pets his hair, as one would reward a dog, and then pulls away entirely.

"You will learn," he adds, the words barely audible above the pounding rain. "I will teach you."

Saemus smiles out at the grey sea, and knows he's made the right decision.

crossposted to dragonage_slash

ART THIS TIME

elendraug — Tue, 29 Mar 2011 07:04:12 GMT

I think I've found my new OTP for this game you guys

they're eating my brain by *elendraug on deviant ART

I feel it in my bones by *elendraug on deviant ART

PORN IS FORTHCOMING IF ANYONE'S INTERESTED 8V

crossposted to dragonage_slash

nehraa asala [ ashaad/saemus, SPOILERS ]

elendraug — Mon, 28 Mar 2011 09:18:04 GMT

nehraa asala

If I am lost to the Maker for refusing to hate someone, for finding beauty in the "other..." Well, perhaps the Maker is the one who is not worthy of me.

There are other ways to see the world. The Qunari have shown me that.

-

Saemus storms away from Kirkwall, his fine leather boots and delicate clothing no match for the windswept terrain of the Wounded Coast. The rocky beaches are always desolate, abandoned save for a handful of gangs and raiders that occasionally plague the shore.

It's getting worse these days, and his father shouts at him when he ventures out here like this. He calls him a foolish boy, reprimands him loud enough for Seneschal Bran to hear. What doesn't the public know about their personal lives?

Saemus kicks at the beach and sends sand flying, the harsh ocean breeze blasting it back into his face. He curses and rubs at his eyes, furious with himself, with everyone.

"Unwise."

He looks up, surprised to see a lone Qunari quietly surveying the coastline. The giant sketches quickly, accurately, and pays the human no mind.

Almost.

"W-What are you doing here?" Saemus asks, confused. He's spent a lifetime speaking with diplomats, choosing his words carefully, but this has him completely out of his element.

"I am here to meet a demand of the Qun," he answers, simply. Saemus waits patiently for more of an explanation, but nothing comes.

"You're a cartographer, then?" he persists. He dares to take a step forward, and another, pleased when the giant makes no move to attack or send him away. "We saw your shipwreck, you know. I'm sorry that--"

"Do not be."

Saemus blinks. He's not used to having an offer of condolences rebuffed. "You... intended to crash, then?"

"Hardly. We stay now for a purpose."

But the giant reveals no more, and Saemus has a sneaking suspicion that his questions may not yield any further information. Instead, he steels his nerves and extends a hand in greeting.

"I'm Saemus Dumar," he says, nodding confidently. "And I'd like to welcome you to Kirkwall, even if my father won't."

The Qunari regards him calmly, scrutinizing him before taking his hand and shaking it. "You may call me Ashaad."

Without another word, he returns to his work, busily mapping the terrain, while Saemus watches from a distance.

-

As the weeks turn into months, Saemus finds himself spending extended amounts of time on the coast, seizing every opportunity he can to avoid city life. The wind stings his cheeks with sand and salt, but it's worth it to walk alongside Ashaad, discussing anything and everything.

Ashaad boils water over a small fire, and steeps fragrant tea leaves to accompany their meal. Saemus thinks he'd like Seheron, for the food alone if not the warmer weather. He's sick of the Free Marches. He wants to be elsewhere. Ashaad has told him time and again that he must accept his role in life, to be what he was born to be, but it's a difficult notion to accept.

They eat a light lunch in near silence. Saemus pulls his cloak tighter around his shoulders, shivering, and when he shifts closer to Ashaad for warmth, he is met with no objection.

"I like spending time with you," he says, his voice so soft it's almost drowned by the crackling fire.

"You are worthy of it."

-

The Qunari have occupied the compound near the docks for nearly a year now, and Saemus has no choice but to cover his face when he ventures near it. It would not do for his father to catch word of how frequently he's there.

He is viddathari, welcomed by the people of the Qun despite his race, despite his status. Inside the walls of their temporary town within a city, he samples exotic spices and burns incense, his afternoons passing in a daze as he studies their foreign books and language.

Within this segregated space of Kirkwall, he's found what he was meant to be.

-

A violent storm on the shore forces them into a cave, and the secluded darkness brings out a desire that he's been suppressing for what seems like forever. Saemus can smell the sea, can smell the lingering scent of bakhoor on his friend's skin, and he can't hold back any longer.

"You're amazing," he breathes, and impulsively grabs Ashaad's horns to hold him still. He kisses him again and again, trailing his hands down along pointed, gold-tipped ears, and threads his fingers into his hair.

Ashaad does not encourage, but does not resist.

-

A peaceful walk along the coastline turns devastating as Ginnis brings her knife across Ashaad's throat. Saemus screams at her, at the injustice of it all, and sinks to his knees in defeat.

With a heavy heart, he allows Hawke to escort him back to the Keep and the accusations of his father. There will be no vengeance for his friend's death, no concern over his body lying abandoned on the sand. The Arishok will acknowledge him, perhaps, in their own way, but he could not bear to venture back to the compound again. Not after this.

-

After three more years of reading the Qun, his life ends in the Chantry.

Dragon Age II Qunari Discussion Post

skybound2 — Fri, 18 Mar 2011 18:07:06 GMT

Shanedan, folks!

I figure that everyone has had some time now to really play the game and digest some (if not all) of the new information that we've been given on the Qunari. (I know I've been lapping up every little bit of Qunari lore that the game has feed me. I seriously can't get enough. Every new Qunari word that pops up makes me smile like a loon!) And I was wondering what everyone's thoughts are on the Qunari in this game versus the last, so I though we could have a discussion post!!

A few jumping off points:

How are you feeling about the character redesign, now that you've had some time to really observe it in action?
Have any new bits of lore really stood out to you? (Good or bad?)
Do you have a favorite in-game Qunari or a favorite Qunari related quest?
Have you noticed any glaring ret-cons (aside form the character redesign) that leave you going O_O?
What are your thoughts on the Arishok?

Feel free to talk about whatever, though, I'm interested in hearing it all! (Gonna assume that the comments to this one will have spoilers for the whole game, so, please be forewarned folks.)

popehippo — Sat, 05 Mar 2011 02:45:01 GMT

Qunari now have a page up on the official DAII page here!

For those unable to see:

The people of the Qun are, perhaps, the least-understood group in Thedas. Nature has given them fierce horns and strange eyes, and the ignorant look on these formidable warriors and see monsters. The qunari most outsiders meet however, belong to their army. Only In Seheron and Par Vollen may one truly see the qunari in their entirety. There, the idea of their society as a single entity with each individual only a small part of the greater whole is most evident. Everyone and everything has its place, decided by their philosophy and not to be questioned. It is a life of certainty and equality, if not individuality, and unique among all cultures of Thedas.

Qunari Mages:

The qunari call their mages 'saarebas', meaning "dangerous thing," and treat them with the utmost caution. Saarebas must be carefully controlled by someone else, an 'arvaarad', "one who holds back evil," because they cannot truly control themselves. The qunari pity and honor the saarebas, for striving while under constant threat from within is truly selfless, the highest virtue of the Qun.

A bound and masked saarebas.

Lineup of qunari, seems to range from a soldier, a arvaarad, a saarebas, and the arishok.

An arishok and saarebas.

Cross-posted to the_sten and dragon_age.

Qunari-related acheesements!

popehippo — Thu, 17 Feb 2011 17:54:39 GMT

In Dragon Age II a possible achievement is to earn the respect of a rival, the Arishok who leads the Qunari that are stranded in Kirkwall.

Source.

Oooooh, this looks exciting. My big hope was that we'd engage with qunari in ways other than 'RAWR I KEEL U' and it seems we will get that!

Mod Decree!

skybound2 — Tue, 25 Jan 2011 01:25:00 GMT

*ahem*

Hear ye, hear ye, by order of the mods (as voted on by our lovely followers), this community is now open to all things Qunari!

What's this mean?

Well, in a nutshell it means that if it's related to Sten or the Qunari as a whole, then please feel free to post it here! This includes: fanart, fanfiction, icons, fanmixes, fan videos, challenges/contests, meta, questions, and/or discussions related to Sten or the Qunari. And anything else you creative folks can think up!

Thoughts about the Qun? Post 'em here! A Qunari character (other than Sten) catch your eye in one of the games, and you want to discuss? Or got fic to share? Post away! Basically, if it's related to the Qunari people/culture as a whole, it is welcome here.

That is all!

T-minus 43 days until Dragon Age 2 is released!

A poll for the masses!

skybound2 — Mon, 10 Jan 2011 14:57:52 GMT

With the release of 'Dragon Age 2' on the horizon, and the fact that this community hasn't seen a whole lot of action as of late, I was wondering how everyone would feel about opening this community up to all Qunari related postings? I figure, a lot of us who love/adore/are-really-quite-fond-of Sten, might also find areas of similar interest in the upcoming game (which, is most probably going to be sadly lacking in the Sten we all know and love/adore/are-really-quite-fond-of *sigh*).

So, because I can, and because I like them, I present you with: a poll! A super-simple, crazy-easy poll at that! Just pick one!

View Poll: Seheron or Bust?

Icons~

honorableshadow — Mon, 20 Sep 2010 10:48:34 GMT

Sten icons that I have edited from my old ones (along with Morrigan and Oghren)!

61 icons

21 Morrigan
19 Oghren
21 Sten

(Two icons off from triple 21's!)

Did they send me daughters, when I asked for soooons~?

Fanfic: Strangers With Cookies (EPILOGUE)

twist_shimmy — Sat, 28 Aug 2010 07:01:32 GMT

If you missed the final chapter, which was posted on Tuesday, it's [here]. You will be painfully confused if you read this one without having read that one.

Thanks everyone, for all the encouragement here, in my personal journal, and in IRC. I honestly believed when I began writing this that no one would like it, and it was gratifying to be proven wrong. If you liked this story and its lovely update schedule, be sure and give a nod of thanks at the screen for my betas, estaratshirai and lennanightrun , without whom this would be typo-ridden and not nearly as interesting. They helped me weed out the bad ideas, rearrange event orders, and encouraged me to roll with ideas that didn't suck, so it's as much their work as mine at this point. XD

Epilogue

"I'm not saying it again."

Sten lifts his head from the mass of pillows and blankets that became their bed on the first night of the voyage after the bunks proved too small for him to sleep in. "Your accent is embarrassing, kadan."

Adhara scowls and presses closer into his chest. "I'm tired. And don't we have three more weeks of being stuck on this boat?"

"It will take more than three weeks to learn my tongue," he says into her hair.

"Exactly. So let me sleep." She licks a slow trail along his neck, and he sighs.

"You do not seem particularly tired."

"Well, you're the one who told me I won't be able to stay with you in Seheron after I got on the sodding ship." When he scowls, she laughs at him. "It's fine, lethallin. I don't want the Ben-Hessrath taking you away."

"Ben-Hassrath," he corrects.

Adhara yawns. "Benhes-Rith."

"You are doing this intentionally."

"Ben-Hassrath," she replies, and proves him right.

"That will suffice."

She closes her eyes again, and he rolls over and pulls her to his chest. His language has never sounded so interesting.

...Vashedan, now he is no longer tired. He runs his hands down her back, brushing his fingertips against her skin with deliberate slowness until it is her turn to sigh.

“Souver'inan isala hamin.” Her tone is scolding, but her eyes are merry.

“You are a terrible teacher. I don't know those words.”

“Try harder to learn. Knowing elvish could come in handy in your lands.”

“Or create cause for suspicion,” he replies, pulling her upward and nipping at her neck. “Tell me what you said.”

“'Weary eyes need rest.'” Her voice contains the faintest hint of groan, and he smiles against her neck as he hears it.

“You hardly sound weary, kadan.”

“Ma nuvenin,” she replies, and covers her mouth with his.

He will miss this. Sten knows this, and he knows that she will, as well, but he has yet to doubt her decision to travel with him. Adhara is learning his language quickly, and his fellow qunari will be as confused by her body language as Sten was when they first met.

They will be safe. Sten will show her his homeland, and the foods he has missed, and hear her learn the language and smell her scent in a land that will do it justice. She will not be alone.

...But she still will not be with her people. And no matter how much elvish he learns, he will remain a qunari. He remembers how she looked among her people in the Brecilian Forest and asks a question that makes her muscles tense.

"Why did you not go home?"

"I've told you," she mutters. "It's my duty."

Sten scowls. "Grey Warden duty is in your blood, kadan. That is why you are on this ship with me."

Adhara giggles, which he did not expect. "Not my duty as a Grey Warden, but as a Dalish."

Her duty as a Dalish is preventing her from returning to her people? "Parshaara, you are not making sense."

She sits up on the blankets beside him, shivering slightly as the sheet covering her slides around her waist. In the gloom, her tattoo appears grey rather than purple. "Darkspawn can sense Grey Wardens, and they often seek them out. Remember the shriek attack?"

Sten nods. Neither of them mention her hunting partner.

"Without the archdemon's call to follow, I'm worried that will happen more often." She sighs and brushes a loose strand of hair from her eyes. "If I went home, I would be endangering my people."

"And so you endanger mine instead?"

She grins at him. "I'm a Grey Warden, Sten. It's about time you qunari took a vested interest in protecting your lands from darkspawn, wouldn't you say?"

...Vashedan. "What are you planning, kadan?"

"You'll see," she murmurs, pressing into his chest. "You'll see."

Sten resists the urge to rub at his temples and worry about the arishok. "You are going to get us both killed."

"Don't tempt the trickster," she retorts, and pulls him upward by his braids for a kiss.

Fanfic: Strangers With Cookies

twist_shimmy — Tue, 24 Aug 2010 08:08:47 GMT

It's Tuesday, and here's the final chapter of SWC. Epilogue to follow on Saturday, but then that's it for Adhara and Sten. *collapses*

Title: Strangers with Cookies
Chapter Eighteen: “We will do better next time.”
Rating: T
Word Count: 3,200
Characters: Sten/f!Mahariel
Summary: The hedgehog's dilemma resurfaces, and our story comes to a close.

[Previous Chapter]

They are told that the Blight has ended. Just when Sten does not particularly wish to think, he finds that he has ample time to do so. And, now that Adhara is refusing to speak to him, he has little to distract himself from thoughts of her. His mind gnaws on a single memory like it is starving, and Sten is left compelled to dissect it in the days that follow the battle.

Leaving the clan of Dalish behind in the Brecilian Forest was painful for Adhara. Sten watched her say goodbye and shoulder her pack, and walked behind her as she forced herself not to look back.

“They aren't my people anymore,” she told him later. “I can't be a Dalish and a Warden. The Dalish are too near-sighted. It serves its purpose keeping our culture alive, but it's not fair to Alistair.” At this, she looked over her shoulder to where the Templar was walking behind them, running his fingers over a small carved figure and grinning.

“Being a Dalish is in your blood,” he replied.

She smiled and ran her hands against her tattoo. “Yes, of course, but so is being a Warden, remember? You said so yourself. So I'll just make the Wardens my new clan.” She finished her sentence by tossing a rock at her brother-in-arms and laughing when he started in surprise.

When Sten first joined them, Alistair would have been hurt. This time, he laughed and hit her with a stick, causing her armor to ring like a small bell. They had become friends at last, and would be better fighters for it.

He had never considered that they would be more likely to hurt one another, as well.

Sten thinks of this conversation with Adhara every time he sees her in the days that follow the battle atop Fort Drakon. He understands why she wanted to be the one to make the final blow. He even understands why she refused to tell him what would happen ahead of time.

When he woke in the farmhouse near Lothering, he had been alone. His brothers were dead, his sword missing. Everything that defined him was gone. The same thing happened to Adhara when she became a Grey Warden, but she moved on and found a new clan.

But now all the Wardens in Ferelden are dead, and she has lost her people yet again. He wants to tell her that he understands this, but she refuses to speak to him. Each time they meet in a hallway, she drops her eyes to the floor until he passes by. When he tries letting herself into her room the night they move back into the arl's estate, she hurls a vase at his head.

After that, he ceases attempting to speak with her.

Sten books passage to Seheron three days after Denerim has recovered from the battle. The queen is planning some sort of ceremony to honor Adhara and the others. Sten decides to leave once it is finished so the arishok will know the outcome of the Blight. He no longer has a legitimate reason to remain away from qunari lands, and deciding to stay any longer would likely cause his people to brand him a fiend. He has his answer. He has Asala. And he can go home, even if the woman responsible for his success no longer intends to come with him.

The thought of leaving Ferelden is the only thing that makes staying at the arl's estate bearable. Normally he would practice with Asala to pass the time, but the damage Adhara's teeth did to his thumb makes gripping the hilt impossible. The overbearing mage attempts to heal it more than once, and each time he refuses to allow her. He has many other scars, and it is fitting that he have something to remember the events on top of the Fort, as well. Each time Sten looks down at it, he thinks of Adhara and her wolves, and how certain he was that Alistair would never betray her.

He did it to save her life, but Sten agrees with Adhara that Alistair made the coward's decision. He did not like to lead. He did not like to be alone. But neither does Adhara, and now the assassin and Alistair are dead and the witch is gone. The dwarf and priestess plan on leaving shortly after the ceremony, as does Sten. In a matter of days, Adhara will be alone. Alistair has condemned her to the fate he was afraid to meet for himself.

At dinner the night before the ceremony, Sten cannot hold his fork because of how sore and stiff his thumb has become. The instant he feels the overbearing mage's eyes on him, he rises and leaves the table before she can scold him yet again for not letting her heal him. He is convinced that if he were not quite so imposing, she would do it without his permission.

Adhara lets herself into the room he has been sharing with the dwarf while he is struggling to take his shirt off with one hand. She sets down a bowl of water and an injury kit before taking his hand in both of hers and running her fingers gently over the wound. He tenses in surprise and pain as she takes his wrist in one hand and a wash rag in the other.

“You sodding stubborn qunari,” she sighs. “This is infected.”

When he shrugs, she scowls and shoves at his chest, silently ordering him to sit on the bed. He obeys, and she begins cleaning and bandaging his thumb in silence. She refuses to look at his face, instead focusing intently on the bite marks. Sten alternates between watching her work and closing his eyes and breathing in the smell of her hair.

This feels familiar. Her fingers are careful and precise, cleaning the bite with a minimal amount of pain just like she would have done if they were still at camp. When she begins crushing leaves and packing them against the wound, he feels suddenly unprepared to leave for Seheron.

“Kadan,” he says at last. “I am—”

She refuses to look up. “Don't.”

And so he does not tell her that he is leaving in four days. When she finishes mending his hand, she lets herself out without another word. He sits on the edge of the bed and runs a thumb over the bandages, wondering what it meant that she had treated him and still refused to speak.

Sten is about to sleep when his door opens again. He looks up, expecting to see Adhara, and meets eyes with the priestess. Until recently he could always tell when she was entering a room because of her incessant humming, but she has been silent since Fort Drakon.

“Do you have clothes for tomorrow?”

Sten pauses his attempts to remove his shirt one-handed. “I am wearing clothes, am I not?”

She scowls at his trousers. “I was worried about that. Come here, the seamstress that was fitting Adhara's dress is still here.”

Adhara's dress? Sten must have made a face, because the priestess laughs at him. “Don't worry, we took her weapons away. She'll look wonderful tomorrow.”

That is not the best news he has heard, but he lets her lead him into a room with a tired-looking human all the same. She takes one look at him and pinches the bridge of her nose. “And now a qunari. As if the dwarf and homicidal elf weren't bad enough.”

“He will be good, Yfreth.” the priestess insists. And so Sten stands still and lets himself be measured, though he has to kneel for her to get to his shoulders and neck.

“What colors would you like to wear, ser?”

Vashedan. He has no idea how to answer that sort of question. Sten stares helplessly at the priestess, who begins listing off shades and suggesting ones that would go with his eyes.

"Parshaara," he interrupts at last, standing and looming over them both. "I am not an upholstered chair."

"And I can work with that, oddly enough," the seamstress replies, and shows him a bolt of simple, well-woven cloth. "This more to your liking, ser?"

"Yes." It is not brocaded, or threaded with gold, or covered in jewels, or any other horrible thing the priestess had been threatening. It is a sturdy cloth the color of an abused blade and would not make him feel like a decoration for the queen.

"Military types," she sighs. "I'd complain, but you saved my city, so I'll make your bleeding boring trousers."

Sten scowls and leaves the room without another word, intent on sleeping and forgetting about seamstresses and complementary colors and how he would have looked had the priestess had her way.

But when he wakes up in the morning, his new clothes are ready, and the priestess goads into them before he has a chance to find breakfast.

"Why are you bothering me?" he demands, snatching the trousers out of her hands and pulling them on over his smallclothes.

"You need to look nice today!" Sten does not like the way she gazes at his hair as she says those words. There is nothing wrong with his hair.

"I am a soldier. The nobles will hardly be surprised if I do not fit in."

"But Adhara looks so pretty. You need to be able to match her!"

He had forgotten about Adhara and the dress, but finds himself still unable to picture the combination. She was meant for armor. It was cruel of them to put her in a dress. Sten decides that it must have been the queen's idea; she would have refused otherwise.

Sten pulls the tunic over his head and adjusts the collar as best he can with his sore hand. "Do you see my thumb?" When she glances at it, he continues. "Adhara did that. I suspect we will be doing very little standing beside one another today."

The priestess' face falls. "She's just upset about Alistair. She'll calm down. She always calms down."

She pulls him to his knees and begins fixing the collar herself. Sten scowls at her and considers what she said about Adhara. He thought the same thing on top of the tower, before he understood what he had been tricked into doing. Sten nearly asks the priestess if she is really convinced that Adhara always calms down, but decides that it does not matter.

Once she has finished fussing with his shirt, Sten stands and stares down at her. "I am leaving for Seheron in three days."

"No!" She crosses her arms and blocks him from leaving the room. "You can't do that! She'll be alone!"

"I am aware." That is part of why he asked her to come with him.

Her lip curls. "Have you told her?"

He fixes his eyes on the door. "...She will not let me."

"Oh, blood and damnation!” He stares down at her in surprise, and she puts her hands on her hips. “Stop sulking and talk to her, Sten."

The priestess bothers him until the ceremony begins, but falls silent when Adhara appears on the dais and listens to Anora's long speech. The seamstress has stitched vines into her gown that match her tattoo, and Sten thinks that she looks appealing, but the nobles in the room appear to be staring at her ears rather than her gown.

“Bloody knife-ear. Wonder why they bothered dressing her up?” mutters a noble in front of Sten, and he grits his teeth.

“Did you forget she saved your holding?” a woman hisses back at him. “She's a hero.”

“We all know those Dalish can use weapons. So she chose to kill darkspawn this time. Doesn't mean she's one of us, Alfstanna.”

...She will very alone. Sten closes his eyes until the urge to speak has passed.

"I admit I'm not sure how to honor our new Hero of Ferelden," the queen says at last, silencing all the voices in the crowd. "What do you wish?"

Adhara doesn't even pause to think. "A new home for the Dalish. We fought to save your land, so it seems only fair to give us back ours."

There is a murmur through the crowd, but the queen agrees instantly. "Additionally, I am giving the Arling of Amaranthine to the Wardens, and naming you Arlessa Adhara Mahariel."

"...What?" Adhara sounds more outraged than the noble near Sten, who has begun muttering under his breath.

"It is the least I can do to reward your service to the crown."

Adhara's hands clench at her sides. Many notice, and disapprove, but Sten is impressed by her restraint. "Do you always reward service with imprisonment, then?"

The queen's lips press together briefly before she replies. "I am giving the Grey Wardens a place to rebuild."

"But it's not your place to decree who does the rebuilding. When the Wardens have decided who will lead the order here, you'll be told, but I can guarantee I won't be your arlessa. You'll thank me for that later, human lord."

The atmosphere in the room is chilly when the ceremony's formalities grind to a halt. Sten stands near the wall, watching Adhara exchange terse words with the arl who helped them, but when it becomes clear that she is not going to seek him out he leaves for the estate and begins packing. He is walking for the docks before any of the others have returned.

Home. Hope, happiness, heighten.

He stays at a small inn for the three days before the ship arrives, and is surprised at how good it feels to spend time alone. On the day he is meant to leave, Ferelden outdoes itself by making the docks of Denerim smell like wet, salty dog. Sten seeks the ship and tries not to breathe too deeply as the crowd parts around him. It used to make him feel out of place how people would slow down and stare, but now it is soothing. He is still a qunari. When he goes home, he will fit in.

Somewhat. He knows a woman that is also a soldier. That is bound to have affected his outlook in other ways

Sten locates the vessel bound for his home and stands on the dock, closing his eyes and enjoying the sound of the waves. He will not miss Ferelden, or its Fereldans, though he suspects that he will miss the country's confections. He will not miss the politics, or the darkspawn, or trying to make sense of customs and words. He will not miss the language.

But he will miss his kadan. He looks down at his bandaged thumb, now finally healing, and frowns. Had she been anyone else but a Grey Warden, he never would have asked her to return with him. Being a Warden might keep her safe. They would not take her, would not keep her. She would be allowed to work with the military. She would be allowed to come and go, because they would respect her as a warrior.

And she was an elf, so they would probably mistake her for a man. She never smelled strongly like women of other races often did during his journey across Thedas because in the months that he has known her, she has never bled. Sten never asked, but assumed that this was part of suffering from darkspawn corruption. A tainted woman should not breed, he is sure, and her body appeared to agree.

She was strong. She would have been safe in his lands.

He would have still been able to see her.

Bringing her back, if anything, would have endangered him. It seemed worth the risk after the Landsmeet. But perhaps it is better that she stays here. She is a Warden, after all, and there are many darkspawn left to kill. Other Wardens will come. She will not be alone for long.

"You a statue, or a passenger?" growls a voice beside him, and Sten looks down to see a sailor staring up at him.

A senseless query. "Do you often ask questions of statues?"

"Oh, good. We've got a funny qunari this voyage." The man snorts and walks up the plank to board the ship.

He will not miss Fereldans and their insistence that he is funny.

Sten is just about to walk after the sailor when another voice cuts through the sound of the waves and the crowd and stops him in his tracks.

"I have a question."

He turns to face Adhara, and she gives him a calculating stare. His mouth opens, then closes it, and waits for her to speak.

"Aren't I a little short for you?"

She asked him that in the tavern in Denerim, after he kissed her and before she ordered him to do it again. Familiar words, but his answer has changed. "No."

Adhara adjusts the pack on her back. Sten sees dark rings under her eyes. "But I'm too short for Seheron, right?"

"Yes."

She gives up and drops the pack at her feet. "And I am a woman, and a soldier. That would be intolerable for your arishok, I think."

"Yes," he admits.

She steps close, and the breeze sends her scent toward him. "Sounds like fun. Can I come?"

Sten stares down at her, inspecting her face under its tattoo. "It will not be easy for you, especially if you speak to qunari as you have human nobles."

She snorts. "Shems. I'll be on my best behavior."

"That is difficult to imagine." She laughs, but he was being truthful. "What about the Wardens?"

Adhara rolls her eyes. "Some Orlesian Wardens arrived today, and their leader took one look at me and started ranting about 'ze elf zat helped ze great Alistair build his army,' so I excused myself and started packing."

Sten smiles at this, and she laughs again. "I'm glad Alistair will be so well-remembered, don't get me wrong. But the bastard made me do most of the work, and if he gets the credit, too, I'm jumping ship and fighting darkspawn somewhere else. I'm sick of politics."

"You will not be able to be a woman and a soldier in my homeland."

She shrugs. "So I'll be a man and a soldier. Convincing you was hard enough." At these words, she steps closer and throws her arms around his waist.

Odd, that the sensation should still feel so normal after so many days without feeling it. Sten runs a hand over her hair, and she leans against him more fully. "I don't have anywhere else to go, anyway."

"I know." He rests his hands on her shoulders and enjoys how her smell mingles with the salt air. They need to get out of Ferelden so he can surround her with incense instead of mud and trash.

She turns her head to stare at his bandaged hand for a moment, and appears to be about to speak, then changes her mind and simply smiles up at him instead.

"So," she says, taking her pack back into her hand, "where's the captain? I should chat with him about booking passage."

“The ship is full,” he replies.

“I don't care.”

Sten points up the plank, and follows after her as she walks, watching the sway of her hips within her trousers. Much better than the dress.

Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, Adhara aqun. The tide rises, the tide falls, but Adhara is changeless.

Mildly disturbing celebratory screenshot! Yay!

Fanfic: Strangers With Cookies

twist_shimmy — Sat, 21 Aug 2010 20:04:31 GMT

The next chapter marks the end of SWC, but there is a full-size epilogue that will go up on Saturday.

Title: Strangers with Cookies
Chapter Seventeen: “You have carried us this far, do not doubt that."
Rating: T
Word Count: 1,500
Characters: Sten/f!Mahariel, Alistair, Wynne, Urthemiel
Summary: The Wardens make their choices, and Sten is left in the dark until it is too late.

[Previous Chapter]

Adhara knocks the hurlock from the top of the fort with an exceptionally violent shield bash. Sten expects her to cheer or say something as she normally does, but instead she simply turns grimly to the next opponent. She has been like this since the witch left them in Redcliffe. She will not laugh, or smile, or rest against him when she is tired. Instead, she sets her jaw and kills. Today the two of them have dropped darkspawn by the hundreds within Denerim, but her motions are mechanical. She will not tell him what is wrong, but he also does not ask; he is not the one who speaks, and based on Alistair's concerned glances, he already knows.

She has told someone. She is talking. That is all that matters. Sten's job is to keep her alive.

More shrieks signal an impending wave of darkspawn. Sten glances from Alistair to the overbearing mage, wondering who to aid next. The archdemon solves that problem for him by leaping into the air and lunging at the Templar. He and Adhara surge forward with a shout, and he sends Asala home between two massive scales.

As he withdraws his blade, the ominous sound of stone on armor causes him to glance over his shoulder. The overbearing mage is surrounded by darkspawn and casting defensive spells. Vashedan. If she dies, there will be nobody to heal the Wardens during the fight. He breaks away from the archdemon and sprints for her, bellowing to draw their attention away.

More cuts. Daggers land, claws scrape, and Sten bleeds, but his party stands. The archdemon takes to the sky again, limping away, and he protects the mage as Adhara and Alistair sprint for it, determined to give it no respite. When more darkspawn surge to the top of the fort, Adhara blows the horn she strapped to her waist, and Sten waits for reinforcements and keeps their mage alive in the interim.

More mages arrive, and soon he is too busy dodging fireballs and frigid gusts of icy air to focus properly on the darkspawn. Parshaara, they are as likely to die from magic as the archdemon at this point.

Adhara is knocked back by a buffet from the demon, sending her directly into the line of a stone spike, and she goes down with a shout. He wants to run to her, but instead he frees the overbearing mage from battle so she can heal Adhara.

The stones around them begin to crumble as mortar melts under heat and the sheer weight of their foe, and Sten is soon too busy avoiding mages and rubble to focus on the Wardens. When a bone-shaking shriek fills the air, causing his teeth to ache and his hands to nearly drop Asala, he turns to see Alistair atop the beast's head, dealing a massive blow while Adhara screams something at him. The archdemon thrashes, Alistair is knocked loose, but the Wardens do not surge forward to deal the final blow.

Instead, they begin to argue. Adhara seizes Alistair by the shoulder as he prepares to close the distance and end the fight, spinning him and shaking her head angrily. When he pushes her aside, she places herself squarely between the Templar and his goal, practically shrieking in rage.

Sten runs for them, utterly confused. “Now is not the time to fight,” he tells them.

Adhara's face turns pale when she sees him approach, but Alistair snarls at him. “Good! Help her see reason!”

She narrows her eyes. “Alistair, I can't let you kill the archdemon!”

He ignores Adhara and gazes up at Sten. “Look, I dealt most of the damage. I should get the credit for the kill. It's how we play when we compete for points, right?”

Sten nods. That seems correct, as far as he pays attention to the game the Templar, Adhara, and the priestess play, though also completely irrelevant. “But you should not be competing. We are not killing genlocks on the road.”

Alistair throws his hands into the air. “That's not all of it! Riordan's dead. I outrank Adhara, and I'll need the credit for this kill to get the Wardens working again.”

A more sensible point. Sten nods again, and Adhara crosses her arms.

“Alistair, don't you dare manipulate him like this!” Her voice is hoarse from shouting.

“Maybe you should have told him, 'Dhara.”

“Told me what?”

She turns to him, face still pale, and eyes glassy, but remains silent. Alistair chooses that moment to bolt for the archdemon breathing its last nearby, sword drawn. When he screams and begins running, Adhara tries to go after him, but Sten wraps his arms around her.

“He has decided, kadan. Let him do it.” Strange, that she should be so stubborn about this.

“Let me go, Sten!” She struggles, pushing her fingers into his gauntlet and trying to slip away when it comes loose, but he simply lets it fall and tightens his grip, pinning her to him with his forearm.

“You idiot! You martyr! You coward!” she shrieks after Alistair. “I'll never forgive you for this!”

“Kadan.” He is about to continue, but she sinks her teeth into his thumb.

Qunari teeth are strong. He told her that the day he took the mace to the face in the forest. They can cut through skin, and bone, and metal if need be. The only thing that prevented him from chewing his way out of his cage in Lothering was a perverse desire to preserve what little honor he had left after murdering those humans.

Elven teeth should not be strong. Her jaw is small, and her teeth smaller, but they still relentlessly split through his skin. She does not stop when he begins to bleed, but he does not let go. She does not stop when she damages tendons, causing pain to sear up and down his arm, but he does not release her. His blood pools around her mouth and runs down them both as she tries to work free to stop Alistair.

Her teeth halt at the bone, catching and grinding, but going no further. Sten's eyes are watering, and he realizes through his pain that she is sobbing, but he still does not let go. He looks to Alistair, who is raising his blade for the killing blow, and braces himself for Adhara's anger when the claim becomes his. She will calm down. She always calms down. Alistair will talk to her and make her see sense.

Except that it is unlike her to be so adamant about such a little thing. Something is wrong.

White light bursts from the archdemon, and Adhara releases his thumb and falls to her knees as Sten stands and stares. He is blinded, and surrounded by wailing sound as brightness spreads from its epicenter. Beneath it, he can hear the Templar screaming and Adhara sobbing at his feet.

Sten understands almost instantly that he has made a mistake. When the sky clears and his ears are ringing, two corpses fall, the blade of the first buried into the neck of the second.

The city goes silent. Minutes pass, and eventually Adhara rises, head bowed, gauntlets clenched at her sides, her tattoo stained with Sten's blood. He looks down at his thumb, then over to where Alistair lies crumpled.

Maybe you should have told him.

She had known that killing the archdemon would end her life. They both had.

Alistair died with his eyes open. Sten brings his thumb to his mouth and sucks at the wound, willing it to cease burning as he stares down at the last person he ever expected would be the wolf to strike Adhara from the side. She would not be this angry at him unless they had reached a decision before the battle. She had agreed to die, and he had broken his word and done it instead. Sten wants to know why.

But the question he wants to ask Adhara proves both more painful and more distracting. He spits his blood onto the stone and turns his eyes on her.

Why didn't she tell him?

She stands between him and Alistair, tears cutting lines through the blood coating the lower half of her face. He takes a step closer, but she refuses to look at him. Her eyes are fixed on the ground, and her fists are still clenched.

He knows this emotion. He felt it when he stood in the middle of the farmhouse, covered in the blood of the humans who had tended his wounds. It is not rage that is making her clench her fists, but despair.

“Kadan,” he ventures.

She keeps her eyes locked on the stone below her feet. “Leave.”

When he takes a step closer, her eyes narrow and fix on his. “I said go, Sten! I don't want to talk to you.”

For the first time, his title sounds terrible when she says it, and so Sten obeys.

Fanfic: Strangers With Cookies

twist_shimmy — Tue, 17 Aug 2010 07:47:06 GMT

Posting early so I can go help one of my betas move several states away. *sobs* The good news is that SWC is drafted to completion. Two more chapters until the end!

Title: Strangers with Cookies
Chapter Sixteen: “Draw your sword. I want to see what you can do.”
Rating: T
Word Count: 1.940
Characters: Sten/f!Mahariel, Alistair, Wynne, bits and pieces of Loghain. (Mostly pieces.)
Summary: The fate of Ferelden's throne is inexplicably left to the only elf in the room at the Landsmeet.

[Previous Chapter]

Drapery. Desperate, desolate, deconstruction. Devoid. Dalish, delicious.

Sten is bored.

The human nobles are grousing, and their voices are echoing throughout the chamber. But the room is too large, and improperly shaped, and so voices dissipate and nobody listens to the words being spoken. He is left wondering yet again how it is possible that his people failed in conquering the southern lands.

Adhara stands beside him, arms crossed, periodically sighing and yelling at the old soldier that is their enemy. He paces and places blame and mentions Orlesians, and Adhara grows increasingly annoyed and shouts about enslaved elves and assassins and poison.

Deflection. Desire, dangerous, dark, daring.

Sten sneezes. Dusty. Several nobles stare at him, but when the old soldier begins shouting outright, all eyes return to him instead. His hand is on his blade, and he is standing threateningly close to Adhara.

Duel. Sten is about to protest and insist that he fight the massive man for her when Alistair steps forward, hand upon his blade, and takes a strong stance between Adhara and the old soldier.

Alistair is the senior Warden of the two of them. Sten keeps forgetting that. This is the first time he has taken initiative in all their months of travel. Had it been anyone else attempting to defend her, Adhara would have battled the old soldier herself, Sten is sure. But for him, Adhara merely smiles and steps out of the way.

Interesting. So Alistair does have a spine, after all. Sten crosses his arms again and waits to see what he will do with it.

“Thanks, 'Dhara,” the Templar smiles, and draws his blade as the terms are called by the outspoken female noble.

The crowd forms a nervous circle around the fighters, but he and Adhara stand still at the edge, watching the warriors before them intently. He can tell by the small crease above her eyebrows that she is worried for her brother-in-arms. After the old soldier's first swing, Sten is, as well. His thrusts are violent, but precise in their execution, meant to cause the most damage with the least exertion. He is powerful, and experienced, and practiced, and Alistair is soon nicked and bleeding at the cheek.

Alistair is knocked back several times as he parries the old soldier's blows, but at last remembers his footwork through his anger and settles into the same intent frame of mind as his opponent.

Now the fight is even. Sten's eyes dart between them, watching the play of their emotions and the pace of their breathing, attempting to decide if Adhara's fellow Warden will survive. Alistair is too angry; the emotion is exhausting him and draining his accuracy. Allowing himself to be ruled by emotions in the heat of battle is a mistake. But the old soldier does not take the Templar seriously, which is also a mistake. Perhaps months ago this would have been the proper course of action, but a man who cannot see change in his enemy is doomed to failure.

Alistair gives a sudden shout and surges forward in a rush, knocking into his opponent with his shield and sending him staggering backward. The old soldier stumbles, loses his grip on his sword, and looks to Adhara with wide eyes. The Templar freezes, sacrificing the momentum needed for a killing blow to glance at his leader for approval.

The room freezes and everyone holds their breath, except for the blonde queen, who begins to insist that her father's life be spared. But all eyes in the room turn to Adhara and wait for her decision yet again.

Adhara ignores the screaming and silent nobles alike. Instead, she fixes her gaze on the two combatants before her, and gives a slight nod when Alistair positions for the killing stroke. The queen shrieks again, ordering them all to stop, but Sten can tell by the way the nobles exhale at once that they wish for Alistair to obey Adhara.

Only in Ferelden would he see an elf become more powerful than one born to rule. It seems to confuse Adhara as much as it does him, but she still gives Alistair the last bit of goading that he needs to exact his revenge.

“Do it, you sod. What are you waiting for?”

The Templar's sword falls, and another of their opponents falls with it, spine severed at the neck. Blood sprays into the air, and as it coats Alistair's face Sten notices that he appears to be happy.

The civil war has been stopped. Revenge has been taken. Perhaps now they will be able to focus properly on the Blight and kill darkspawn for once. The arishok will not understand.

None of the nobles appear to be willing to break the silence. Adhara gazes around the room, frowns, and then leaps at Alistair, throwing her arms around his neck. “Well done!”

“'Dhara, ow, ow, that's—no, stop, I pulled that muscle, please, for the love of the Maker!” She lets go, and he rubs at his neck. “You're a menace!”

“Whiner,” she retorts.

“Well, Warden,” the arl calls from his vantage point above them, “your champion has won the duel, and the Landsmeet will honor your decision regarding the throne.”

Vashedan. This country makes no sense.

“...What?” Adhara stares up at the arl and crosses her arms. “Are all of you shemlen insane?”

There is a long pause, and Sten notices that most of the humans are staring at her tattoo. She grumbles and points to the queen, who is kneeling beside the bloody corpse of her father. “Don't you people already have a ruler?”

The arl frowns. “Yes, but Ferelden deserves a Theirin on the throne.”

No. Ferelden deserves a Theirin raised to be a noble. Blood's potential will not be tapped through improper upbringing. Alistair would not think properly for the job. He is a Warden, and a mage-killer, and once the Blight is over those skills will prove useless to the country.

Adhara seems to agree with Sten's silent assessment. “Then all of you should have thought about that before you let Cailan die,” she retorts, glaring at the assembled nobles. “Honestly. I shouldn't have to rearrange your sodding political system just so I can do my duty as a Grey Warden and save your hides from a Blight. Anora is your queen. Keep her, and let us Wardens do our job!”

With that, she turns and strides toward the exit. The crowd parts around his chest as Sten follows, and he can hear Alistair and the overbearing mage following behind them both.

“Well, that was tactful,” she says to Adhara through pursed lips, and crosses her arms as she is rounded on.

“I'm sick of this!” Adhara shouts. “There's an archdemon singing in my blood, and darkspawn eating half their country, but those idiots are worried about bloodlines.”

The overbearing mage shakes her head. “Alienating the nobles isn't going to help your cause.”

“I have my army,” she replies. “They have their queen, Alistair has his life back, and everyone wins.”

“Thank you for that, by the way,” Alistair murmurs. “I owe you one, 'Dhara.”

She shakes her head and shoves at his shoulder. “No, you don't. Now let's get back to the estate and pack in case the arl decides to throw us out for ruining his plans.”

The arl does not throw them out. His country is unified, and now he turns his gaze on the enemy gnawing away at the land. The Warden they saved when rescuing the queen outranks Adhara and Alistair both, and so takes control of the battle plans. Months of fighting, and planning, and walking grind to a halt as the army is assembled and they prepare to mass and march for the horde. Sten spends a day pacing listlessly before he reaches the limits of his boredom and asks Alistair to spar with him.

Adhara, who so thoroughly resented being placed in charge when he joined them at Lothering, now seems equally adrift without plans to be made. Her senior Warden keeps her updated and asks for specifics on the armies she has gathered, but Adhara is not a general. She is a soldier. Until there is fighting, both she and Sten are reduced to uselessness.

When it is announced that they are leaving to meet the troops massing at Redcliffe, she looks as relieved has he feels. They spend a final night in her bed, and he is just beginning to drift when Adhara's voice sounds at his chest.

“You're lucky, you know.” Her voice sounds choked, and his fingers find their way into her hair of their own volition.

“Why?”

“You get to go home soon.” She speaks the words lightly, but her muscles are tense against his skin.

Home. Sten wraps his arms around her and breathes in her hair. “I will not miss Ferelden.”

A long pause. “What's Seheron like?”

Memories and scents stir in his mind from where he has been trying not to recall them. “Incense, tea. The smell of the sea. The language isn't grating to the ears like the common tongue.”

“The little I know sounds lovely, it's true.”

An unexpected compliment. Sten feels the sudden urge to hear her speaking fluent qunari. “Come back with me.” Only after he has spoken the words does he begin to wonder if it would be possible for her to do so. Adhara is a woman, and a soldier. She fights, and leads, and there is no place for her within the Qun.

Adhara pulls her face away from his chest and stares up at his face. When she speaks, she sounds as confused as he feels. “...What?”

“I have to go home. I must complete my duty to the arishok. But your duty is in your blood. You can be a Warden wherever you go.” Her status as a Warden will be enough to keep her safe in his homeland. The Antaam hold them in high enough regard to tolerate her eccentricities....

Perhaps he should not have suggested this.

She closes her eyes. “What about the Fereldan order?”

Sten finds himself wanting to convince her despite his reservations. She has grown close to Alistair, but if he leaves her she will be trapped in a country that makes no sense with people who are desperate to pretend that it does. He thinks of how she looked among the Dalish, and how she acted at the Landsmeet, and concludes that it would be better for everyone if she came home with him.

“You are not the senior Warden,” he replies, “and Alistair has shown that he can take charge if needed. It is not your responsibility.”

Adhara relaxes back into his chest, apparently deep in thought. “Would I get to meet the arishok?”

...A frightening thought. But if he returns with a Grey Warden, there will be many who will wish to meet her. Who better to speak to for an improved understanding of the nature of a Blight?

“Yes,” he replies, and she laughs quietly into his chest.

“Then how can I say no?”

Tension that Sten had not even been aware he was feeling eases from his shoulders, and he sighs into her hair. He will not have to choose between his home and his kadan. At least not immediately.

Delay. Sten forces his breathing to deepen, and soon he is tired again.