SANCTUM AND HEALING (3/?)
anonymous
November 26 2011, 22:00:38 UTC
The familiar length of his staff was pressed uncomfortably against his thigh, half-pinned by his body, and when Anders struggled to sit up, his hands found splintered wood instead of the hewn rock-face and squishy flesh of Kal’Hirol proper.
The ground was moving beneath him the same way it had when the broodmothers woke to the scent of Grey Wardens, when the taint in both of them called out to each other. Anders struggled to fit the pieces together, watching long shadows slither over his surroundings. Dim circles of light dappled the floor and his legs, like a pile of good coin shaped by sunbeams.
Anders brushed the stray wisps of hair from his forehead, drawing in a deep breath of clean air, untainted by broodmother breeding pits.
There was no reason to panic yet-or every reason, but either way, the effect was the same. Anders reminded himself of the wide array of experience he had when it came to falling unconscious in one place, then waking with no memory of where he was the next morning-especially these days, now that he was drinking alongside Oghren.
He brought his index finger to his mouth, the cut still tacky with blood, and sucked until the hurt faded, even if it didn’t fade away.
If he had to venture his best guess, it seemed he was riding in the back of a covered wagon, wedged between a few round barrels and something else, something painfully solid, hidden beneath a careful swath of thick, stained canvas. The Warden Commander was practical sometimes, funny others, never the same man twice; he might have ordered Anders back to Vigil’s Keep at last, to share in the drinking and celebrating, sparing him the long trek across the Amaranthine countryside.
A mage was better suited to those tasks than hauling dense darkspawn corpses through a dwarven thaig. Honestly, Anders didn’t know what the man had been thinking when he sent him in the first place. It was more of a job made for men like Nathaniel-men who didn’t allow the bulk and weight of their noses to interfere with their ability to stride into all sorts of malodorous places.
One of the shadows shifted in back of the caravan. Anders squinted at it, hard enough to focus between the shafts of sunlight; he made out a tall, buckled boot and a pair of legs, attached to someone who’d folded himself into a nap up in the front. Bright eyes pierced the gloom, and Anders realized he was being watched.
It’d been a long time since anyone had gotten the drop on him. Darkspawn he heard coming from a mile away, and even dwarven ghosts couldn’t keep their tongues from wagging long enough to mount an ambush. Templars were taking a break, for however long it lasted, and again-‘surprise’ was on holiday somewhere else, in fancy Orlais or sunny Antiva, visiting other people.
‘Hello,’ Anders said, with more good cheer than he felt. A joint in his lower back was throbbing from his rough slumber in the cart, a day of picking through rubble and blighted guts followed by an awkward period of apparent unconsciousness. He was going to have a word with the Warden Commander about their driver and his methods when they made it back to Vigil’s Keep. For now, he could only rub his back warily, untangling his limbs, nursing a cramp in his thigh. ‘Lovely day for a ride through the Coastlands, isn’t it? Pity we don’t have a view.’
‘Hawke,’ the man with the boots said, reaching up to tug at the loosened ties that separated the driver’s seat from the back of their wagon.
‘Something in your throat?’ Anders asked. ‘Maker’s blessing on you, then. …And your throat too, I suppose.’
‘Hawke,’ the man repeated, ignoring Anders to deal ignobly with his affliction. The afternoon light spilled over his features as he leaned forward, revealing ruddy cheeks and a narrow chin-the sort of face that was too gentle for a soldier’s, but too open and straightforward for anything else. He was wearing a simple cotton shirt with a stitched leather vest-not a look Anders had seen worn around Ferelden much, but unfamiliar fashion was a secondary concern, just below an unfamiliar face. ‘He’s awake now.’
The ground was moving beneath him the same way it had when the broodmothers woke to the scent of Grey Wardens, when the taint in both of them called out to each other. Anders struggled to fit the pieces together, watching long shadows slither over his surroundings. Dim circles of light dappled the floor and his legs, like a pile of good coin shaped by sunbeams.
Anders brushed the stray wisps of hair from his forehead, drawing in a deep breath of clean air, untainted by broodmother breeding pits.
There was no reason to panic yet-or every reason, but either way, the effect was the same. Anders reminded himself of the wide array of experience he had when it came to falling unconscious in one place, then waking with no memory of where he was the next morning-especially these days, now that he was drinking alongside Oghren.
He brought his index finger to his mouth, the cut still tacky with blood, and sucked until the hurt faded, even if it didn’t fade away.
If he had to venture his best guess, it seemed he was riding in the back of a covered wagon, wedged between a few round barrels and something else, something painfully solid, hidden beneath a careful swath of thick, stained canvas. The Warden Commander was practical sometimes, funny others, never the same man twice; he might have ordered Anders back to Vigil’s Keep at last, to share in the drinking and celebrating, sparing him the long trek across the Amaranthine countryside.
A mage was better suited to those tasks than hauling dense darkspawn corpses through a dwarven thaig. Honestly, Anders didn’t know what the man had been thinking when he sent him in the first place. It was more of a job made for men like Nathaniel-men who didn’t allow the bulk and weight of their noses to interfere with their ability to stride into all sorts of malodorous places.
One of the shadows shifted in back of the caravan. Anders squinted at it, hard enough to focus between the shafts of sunlight; he made out a tall, buckled boot and a pair of legs, attached to someone who’d folded himself into a nap up in the front. Bright eyes pierced the gloom, and Anders realized he was being watched.
It’d been a long time since anyone had gotten the drop on him. Darkspawn he heard coming from a mile away, and even dwarven ghosts couldn’t keep their tongues from wagging long enough to mount an ambush. Templars were taking a break, for however long it lasted, and again-‘surprise’ was on holiday somewhere else, in fancy Orlais or sunny Antiva, visiting other people.
‘Hello,’ Anders said, with more good cheer than he felt. A joint in his lower back was throbbing from his rough slumber in the cart, a day of picking through rubble and blighted guts followed by an awkward period of apparent unconsciousness. He was going to have a word with the Warden Commander about their driver and his methods when they made it back to Vigil’s Keep. For now, he could only rub his back warily, untangling his limbs, nursing a cramp in his thigh. ‘Lovely day for a ride through the Coastlands, isn’t it? Pity we don’t have a view.’
‘Hawke,’ the man with the boots said, reaching up to tug at the loosened ties that separated the driver’s seat from the back of their wagon.
‘Something in your throat?’ Anders asked. ‘Maker’s blessing on you, then. …And your throat too, I suppose.’
‘Hawke,’ the man repeated, ignoring Anders to deal ignobly with his affliction. The afternoon light spilled over his features as he leaned forward, revealing ruddy cheeks and a narrow chin-the sort of face that was too gentle for a soldier’s, but too open and straightforward for anything else. He was wearing a simple cotton shirt with a stitched leather vest-not a look Anders had seen worn around Ferelden much, but unfamiliar fashion was a secondary concern, just below an unfamiliar face. ‘He’s awake now.’
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