LEX LOCI (4/?)
anonymous
July 20 2011, 20:51:05 UTC
Danarius had never imparted his plans, only his lyrium. Presumably, there hadn’t been time. And before any of it was made clear, before the fresh wounds had chance enough to heal, the attack on the mansion had come-white-hot flames and arcane horrors rising from the streets, a magister looking to duel where he thought he’d take the advantage. For the first time in his very long life, Danarius had been caught unawares-and it was Varania, not Leto, who’d used the commotion to their advantage, Varania who’d slipped into the house undetected, retrieving her brother from the dungeons, dragging him with her into the dirty side-streets. It was a bravery Leto still did not understand, no matter his own sacrifices-what Varania, despite the obvious hypocrisy, called foolishness.
As though she was not equally foolish.
In the end, Leto’s new master had only been his for a bare handful of days. In that short amount of time, he’d still managed to leave his mark-beyond what Leto bore on his skin, he also carried the memory of a new name: Fenris, the little wolf.
Of course, he remembered that.
It served Leto well as a false front, a title made for intimidation, born to sow fear in the hearts of his enemies.
At least, that was what Athenril said. She had no reason to see the name for what it was-something granted to a pet by its former master. But Leto was not so lofty-minded that he would discard something of use simply because he found it distasteful.
He couldn’t afford that selfishness. Not when he had his sister to think of.
In truth, it was Athenril’s mention of templars that had firmed Leto’s resolve to visit this clinic in the first place. When they’d first arrived in Kirkwall, he’d never imagined it would prove to be nearly as dangerous for Varania as the Imperium itself. Some days, it seemed that hiding in the alienage was never enough-an elf named Huon had been dragged out of his home just shortly after Leto and Varania’s arrival, and such an event was not uncommon in the time since.
Varania had watched it happen from the window, knuckles white against the sill. When Leto covered her hand with his own, he marveled at the difference-that she did not recoil at the raised markings burnt into his dark flesh. There was some reaction between them, for magic and lyrium were bound together just the same as lyrium and Fenris’s blood were bound, but it did not hurt when it was her.
What did sting was the accompanying flash-how noticeable it was-which was why the curtains were always drawn over their windows, why Varania’s flowers on the windowsill always died.
But whoever manned the seat of power with the templars did not ignore elves the way most humans saw fit to. That made them dangerous. As with all dangers, Leto needed to monitor them as closely as he could.
Understanding an enemy gave him a tactical advantage. And he needed to understand why this run-down clinic in the middle of nowhere-worse than nowhere; it was Darktown, after all-was so important to so many different factions. That there was no coin involved only meant there was some deeper reason, and Athenril’s instincts, like her knives, were always keen.
II. After years of living in Ferelden, Anders knew that the loyalty of the natives was often strongest-for whatever reason-when it was put to the test. That wasn’t to say Fereldans were ever complacent; no one so fond of dogs and ale and cheese could ever count complacency amongst their strong suits. They were a rowdy people at the best of times, often injuring themselves in bar fights or street brawls or even in the comfort of their own homes.
When they had their own homes.
In Darktown, they had only shanties, tents propped up on makeshift poles, broken crates and empty barrels to store their dwindling effects. They injured themselves just as much, though, with more gusto than ever-as though injury itself, pain itself, would remind them they were still actually alive.
As though she was not equally foolish.
In the end, Leto’s new master had only been his for a bare handful of days. In that short amount of time, he’d still managed to leave his mark-beyond what Leto bore on his skin, he also carried the memory of a new name: Fenris, the little wolf.
Of course, he remembered that.
It served Leto well as a false front, a title made for intimidation, born to sow fear in the hearts of his enemies.
At least, that was what Athenril said. She had no reason to see the name for what it was-something granted to a pet by its former master. But Leto was not so lofty-minded that he would discard something of use simply because he found it distasteful.
He couldn’t afford that selfishness. Not when he had his sister to think of.
In truth, it was Athenril’s mention of templars that had firmed Leto’s resolve to visit this clinic in the first place. When they’d first arrived in Kirkwall, he’d never imagined it would prove to be nearly as dangerous for Varania as the Imperium itself. Some days, it seemed that hiding in the alienage was never enough-an elf named Huon had been dragged out of his home just shortly after Leto and Varania’s arrival, and such an event was not uncommon in the time since.
Varania had watched it happen from the window, knuckles white against the sill. When Leto covered her hand with his own, he marveled at the difference-that she did not recoil at the raised markings burnt into his dark flesh. There was some reaction between them, for magic and lyrium were bound together just the same as lyrium and Fenris’s blood were bound, but it did not hurt when it was her.
What did sting was the accompanying flash-how noticeable it was-which was why the curtains were always drawn over their windows, why Varania’s flowers on the windowsill always died.
But whoever manned the seat of power with the templars did not ignore elves the way most humans saw fit to. That made them dangerous. As with all dangers, Leto needed to monitor them as closely as he could.
Understanding an enemy gave him a tactical advantage. And he needed to understand why this run-down clinic in the middle of nowhere-worse than nowhere; it was Darktown, after all-was so important to so many different factions. That there was no coin involved only meant there was some deeper reason, and Athenril’s instincts, like her knives, were always keen.
II.
After years of living in Ferelden, Anders knew that the loyalty of the natives was often strongest-for whatever reason-when it was put to the test. That wasn’t to say Fereldans were ever complacent; no one so fond of dogs and ale and cheese could ever count complacency amongst their strong suits. They were a rowdy people at the best of times, often injuring themselves in bar fights or street brawls or even in the comfort of their own homes.
When they had their own homes.
In Darktown, they had only shanties, tents propped up on makeshift poles, broken crates and empty barrels to store their dwindling effects. They injured themselves just as much, though, with more gusto than ever-as though injury itself, pain itself, would remind them they were still actually alive.
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