LEX LOCI (14/?)
anonymous
July 22 2011, 22:12:19 UTC
An Ostagar veteran with a dying wife, perhaps; a grandfather desperate to coax life back into the one bright light in all of Kirkwall, a granddaughter taken by chokedamp fever. It could have been anyone, save for the lone detail of armor spiked across narrow shoulders, something Anders picked up on after a great deal of squinting through the rotten wood, with his cheek pressed up against a moldy board, handkerchief acting as barrier between his nose and the stench-and armor meant it was no one nearly so innocent.
It might be the same guard from before, Anders supposed, pulling away from the door to pace the length of the clinic, back aching, from cot to lonely cot. Or it might be some new busy-body-Anders didn’t see that it mattered which. It was someone sniffing around, interested in their business; when Karl returned, with or without Malcolm at his side, there’d be questions asked, noses followed by blades inserted in their private business, and that, as Anders understood it, was a bad thing.
As though everyone didn’t think them peculiar enough, offering something for free in the Free Marches.
Anders wondered, sadly, why it was that most places never lived up to their names-nowhere that sounded nice, at least-while other, meaner places, wretched swamps like the Blackmarsh, always did. Some trick of the Maker’s, no doubt, part of his dark sense of humor.
Ha, ha.
All that was funnier when you were immortal, when there wasn’t anything to fear because nothing ever ended, not for you, and Anders failed to appreciate the punchline as he knelt once again beside the door, squinting and peering into the smoky darkness.
There he was: the clinic’s unwanted company, out of the way of the only lit lantern in close vicinity, shifting his weight from one foot to the next. His armor, not glinting at all-unlike his hair, and something glittering pale and white whenever he shifted just so, a bright flash where his throat should have been-didn’t inspire the same sort of fear as if it had been polished silverite, something a bit more relatable, a bit more like a templar’s regular outfit. But it was spiky, beaten leather, not friendly at all, and Anders took up his pacing once more, wishing Fereldan loyalty also involved a bit of Fereldan omniscience.
If only Lirene had thought to pass by. She’d soon take care of things. There was no staying when Lirene wanted you to go-no going when she wanted you to stay, either, but that was beside the point-and Anders didn’t like being alone at the best of times, much less during crises.
Decision-making was so much more fun when there was someone beside you to confirm or deny the choices you picked. Karl, for example, knew how to exude confidence through that brand of easy certainty.
Anders, on the other hand-cowardly hand and lonely hand both-had only the remnants of his soggy dinner and an empty clinic and a stranger in armor to keep him company, none of which inspired any sort of certainty at all, much less an easy one.
Anders tried to reassure himself with the knowledge that, wherever Karl was now, it was probably less pleasant than Anders’s current situation. Just as volatile, just as uncertain, with a bit more violent templars and weeping Gallows mages and dung-heaped sewers to trawl through. As nice as it was to know he wasn’t the worst off, he also knew he wasn’t better off.
Sometimes, that made all the difference.
More than anything, it was the waiting Anders hated. Waiting for Karl to return, waiting for good news, waiting for templars not to appear and bang the door down with their heavy gauntlets-and now, waiting for this mysterious figure of dutiful vigilance to make the first move, or really, any move at all, beyond the shift of his weight from one side to the other. Anders knew he wasn’t doing anything of real interest inside the clinic, unless one counted eating stale bread and sipping foul tea; perhaps, he concluded, his unannounced visitor might like to see that for himself.
It might be the same guard from before, Anders supposed, pulling away from the door to pace the length of the clinic, back aching, from cot to lonely cot. Or it might be some new busy-body-Anders didn’t see that it mattered which. It was someone sniffing around, interested in their business; when Karl returned, with or without Malcolm at his side, there’d be questions asked, noses followed by blades inserted in their private business, and that, as Anders understood it, was a bad thing.
As though everyone didn’t think them peculiar enough, offering something for free in the Free Marches.
Anders wondered, sadly, why it was that most places never lived up to their names-nowhere that sounded nice, at least-while other, meaner places, wretched swamps like the Blackmarsh, always did. Some trick of the Maker’s, no doubt, part of his dark sense of humor.
Ha, ha.
All that was funnier when you were immortal, when there wasn’t anything to fear because nothing ever ended, not for you, and Anders failed to appreciate the punchline as he knelt once again beside the door, squinting and peering into the smoky darkness.
There he was: the clinic’s unwanted company, out of the way of the only lit lantern in close vicinity, shifting his weight from one foot to the next. His armor, not glinting at all-unlike his hair, and something glittering pale and white whenever he shifted just so, a bright flash where his throat should have been-didn’t inspire the same sort of fear as if it had been polished silverite, something a bit more relatable, a bit more like a templar’s regular outfit. But it was spiky, beaten leather, not friendly at all, and Anders took up his pacing once more, wishing Fereldan loyalty also involved a bit of Fereldan omniscience.
If only Lirene had thought to pass by. She’d soon take care of things. There was no staying when Lirene wanted you to go-no going when she wanted you to stay, either, but that was beside the point-and Anders didn’t like being alone at the best of times, much less during crises.
Decision-making was so much more fun when there was someone beside you to confirm or deny the choices you picked. Karl, for example, knew how to exude confidence through that brand of easy certainty.
Anders, on the other hand-cowardly hand and lonely hand both-had only the remnants of his soggy dinner and an empty clinic and a stranger in armor to keep him company, none of which inspired any sort of certainty at all, much less an easy one.
Anders tried to reassure himself with the knowledge that, wherever Karl was now, it was probably less pleasant than Anders’s current situation. Just as volatile, just as uncertain, with a bit more violent templars and weeping Gallows mages and dung-heaped sewers to trawl through. As nice as it was to know he wasn’t the worst off, he also knew he wasn’t better off.
Sometimes, that made all the difference.
More than anything, it was the waiting Anders hated. Waiting for Karl to return, waiting for good news, waiting for templars not to appear and bang the door down with their heavy gauntlets-and now, waiting for this mysterious figure of dutiful vigilance to make the first move, or really, any move at all, beyond the shift of his weight from one side to the other. Anders knew he wasn’t doing anything of real interest inside the clinic, unless one counted eating stale bread and sipping foul tea; perhaps, he concluded, his unannounced visitor might like to see that for himself.
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