SANCTUM AND HEALING (26/?)
anonymous
November 30 2011, 22:06:31 UTC
If Anders squinted, he could make out a few lonely soldiers on their patrols high above, like little toys in the distance, set up by a child to keep watch. What he’d imagined at first to be pikes looked more like staves as they came nearer, wrapped in leather with glinting metal tips or a gnarled ball of old root at the end, like the spell-bound off-shoot of a long-dead tree.
No two staffs were ever exactly the same.
They were mages-mage-guards patrolling their mage-city. The breadth of the wall and its outposts were manned by apostates, mages who didn’t have to worry about maintaining their proper place somewhere within the confines of a circle tower. The hints of distant metal were dim and scarce; there were no templars in equal measure to guard their wards, to tell them where and how to stay, to keep them safe from themselves and the outside safe from their power.
Wildervale was a free city for magic, or so Varric had claimed. But Anders hadn’t imagined there might be numbers enough to enforce that freedom rather than simply enjoying it while it lasted.
‘Enough gawking,’ Hawke said. He was in front of Anders like a sudden cloud passing over the sun, hands reaching up to pull the hood more carefully over Anders’s face. His fingers brushed the scruff at Anders’s chin, leaving a flicker of warmth and the sharp scent of elfroot in their wake. Under the light of day and with no cowl to hide behind, the lines around Hawke’s eyes were more pronounced than ever. Anders felt the silly urge to smooth them for him, or at least counsel him against rubbing the fragile skin so hard. ‘If anyone here sees you, there’ll be trouble, understand? And not the fun sort of trouble where you wake up under Corff’s bar wearing someone else’s trousers.’
‘Why, Hawke,’ Anders said. ‘Is there a sordid past behind that bad back you aren’t telling me about?’
‘Blondie, you’ve got no idea,’ Varric said.
‘Is that-Hawke?’ someone asked from behind them, in a voice as nervous as vellum fluttering on the wind.
Hawke turned away, leaving Anders alone with the others. The mage who’d approached them looked to be about Keran’s age, wearing purple robes that flattered his burnished Rivaini complexion. He was accompanied by a man in leathers-one who bore the questionable distinction of having the largest and most robust mustache that Anders had ever seen on a living, breathing creature.
That included the broodmothers-and Oghren, whose braids didn’t count because they were part of a beard, or at least the idea of one, confused as it might have been.
‘Alain,’ Hawke said, a hand raised in greeting for the mage.
‘Paxley,’ Keran said, brightening at the sight of the walking mustache.
‘Do you ever feel like you’re setting up the punchline of a very bad joke?’ Anders asked Varric.
‘Stop right there,’ Varric replied, ‘because I’ve heard them all before, too many times to count.’
‘An elf, a dwarf, and too many mages walk into the taproom,’ Fenris concluded, with a finality and a disgust that made Anders shift in place like a naughty apprentice. ‘Do not speak further. Do as Hawke dictates, and there will be no need to treat you with less care than we do now.’
‘What he means is, keep your mouth shut and play along.’ Varric pitched his voice low, somewhere into Anders’s side so he had to strain to hear it. ‘We’ll pretend you’re mute or something. Trussed up like a qunari saarebas. They won’t believe it, but for some reason everybody likes this Hawke fellow, so they’ll do what they can to pretend-for his sake.’
His advice concluded-Anders was grateful for it, a small port in a larger storm-he tipped his head at the others, taking his place by Hawke’s side.
It did look like a joke, just not one of the funny ones, or Anders wasn’t inebriated enough to appreciate it.
‘Everything’s all right?’ Paxley the Mustache asked. He glanced toward Keran for confirmation, but Keran’s expression neither confirmed nor betrayed any information, flushed cheeks pure and simple in the dying sunlight. He had a perfect face for the business of tricking other people; Anders asked himself if he wasn’t secretly the baby-soft ringleader, hardened men like Hawke just a front for his hidden designs.
No two staffs were ever exactly the same.
They were mages-mage-guards patrolling their mage-city. The breadth of the wall and its outposts were manned by apostates, mages who didn’t have to worry about maintaining their proper place somewhere within the confines of a circle tower. The hints of distant metal were dim and scarce; there were no templars in equal measure to guard their wards, to tell them where and how to stay, to keep them safe from themselves and the outside safe from their power.
Wildervale was a free city for magic, or so Varric had claimed. But Anders hadn’t imagined there might be numbers enough to enforce that freedom rather than simply enjoying it while it lasted.
‘Enough gawking,’ Hawke said. He was in front of Anders like a sudden cloud passing over the sun, hands reaching up to pull the hood more carefully over Anders’s face. His fingers brushed the scruff at Anders’s chin, leaving a flicker of warmth and the sharp scent of elfroot in their wake. Under the light of day and with no cowl to hide behind, the lines around Hawke’s eyes were more pronounced than ever. Anders felt the silly urge to smooth them for him, or at least counsel him against rubbing the fragile skin so hard. ‘If anyone here sees you, there’ll be trouble, understand? And not the fun sort of trouble where you wake up under Corff’s bar wearing someone else’s trousers.’
‘Why, Hawke,’ Anders said. ‘Is there a sordid past behind that bad back you aren’t telling me about?’
‘Blondie, you’ve got no idea,’ Varric said.
‘Is that-Hawke?’ someone asked from behind them, in a voice as nervous as vellum fluttering on the wind.
Hawke turned away, leaving Anders alone with the others. The mage who’d approached them looked to be about Keran’s age, wearing purple robes that flattered his burnished Rivaini complexion. He was accompanied by a man in leathers-one who bore the questionable distinction of having the largest and most robust mustache that Anders had ever seen on a living, breathing creature.
That included the broodmothers-and Oghren, whose braids didn’t count because they were part of a beard, or at least the idea of one, confused as it might have been.
‘Alain,’ Hawke said, a hand raised in greeting for the mage.
‘Paxley,’ Keran said, brightening at the sight of the walking mustache.
‘Do you ever feel like you’re setting up the punchline of a very bad joke?’ Anders asked Varric.
‘Stop right there,’ Varric replied, ‘because I’ve heard them all before, too many times to count.’
‘An elf, a dwarf, and too many mages walk into the taproom,’ Fenris concluded, with a finality and a disgust that made Anders shift in place like a naughty apprentice. ‘Do not speak further. Do as Hawke dictates, and there will be no need to treat you with less care than we do now.’
‘What he means is, keep your mouth shut and play along.’ Varric pitched his voice low, somewhere into Anders’s side so he had to strain to hear it. ‘We’ll pretend you’re mute or something. Trussed up like a qunari saarebas. They won’t believe it, but for some reason everybody likes this Hawke fellow, so they’ll do what they can to pretend-for his sake.’
His advice concluded-Anders was grateful for it, a small port in a larger storm-he tipped his head at the others, taking his place by Hawke’s side.
It did look like a joke, just not one of the funny ones, or Anders wasn’t inebriated enough to appreciate it.
‘Everything’s all right?’ Paxley the Mustache asked. He glanced toward Keran for confirmation, but Keran’s expression neither confirmed nor betrayed any information, flushed cheeks pure and simple in the dying sunlight. He had a perfect face for the business of tricking other people; Anders asked himself if he wasn’t secretly the baby-soft ringleader, hardened men like Hawke just a front for his hidden designs.
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