Of Diplomacy 1/?
Title: Of Diplomacy
Chapter: 1/?
Rating: T
Characters: Cyrion Tabris, Adaia, and random alienage elves
Spoilers: None for game events.
Summary: Cyrion Tabris awaits his bride from Amaranthine. Adaia seethes and broods.
Chapter 2
Cyrion Tabris awaited his wedding day with a mixture of pride and anxiety.
He was proud that his father finally considered him mature enough to start his own family, that his mother finally realized he was no longer a child, was ready to have his own children. These were all known factors he had been anticipating and he welcomed them eagerly. Cyrion liked to believe that he had been brought up well. He understood filial piety and familial duty and was glad to assume his new role.
What filled the pit of his stomach with gnawing anxiety was the unknown. They had only been able to set aside a pittance for his dowry, and he had no idea what to expect from his bride from far Amaranthine. His friends had joked with him, saying that she must be a real terror if they were willing to send her from Amaranthine for such a paltry amount, and Cyrion had laughed in turn. But worry had settled in his gut behind his smile.
As he lay in a single bed for the last time, he prayed to Andraste that his new wife be as sensible and dutiful as himself. All he wanted was a nice respectable family, plain enough to escape the notice of the humans, comfortable enough to raise a well-fed child in peace. The very thought of such a future calmed him, and Cyrion's eternal optimism and faith in the Maker won out against his anxiety, sleep claiming him at last.
-----
Adaia was so furious she could not sleep.
She would have sprung out of bed and done a training exercise if not for her distant cousin snoring in the bed across the room. As it was, she was sorely tempted to knock him upside the head and flee into the night.
The whole affair was humiliating and degrading, and even more so because her own people inflicted it upon her. Shems she could hate with a clear, clean bitterness, but when her fellow elves acted like so many sheep the sodden mixture of disgust, anger, and sad disappointment nearly made her sick.
Even the hahren's daughter, for whom she had given up everything (admittedly, that did not encompass much) to save, had no words or even a friendly eye for her when she was escorted out of the Alienage. Adaia wondered if the stupid wench would rather have been dragged away by that pig of a nobleman if it meant avoiding trouble.
Avoiding trouble. Adaia's blood burned at the hated phrase. They were all sheep, worse than sheep, for they herded themselves. When one sheep's head rose a little too high off the ground, the others quickly butted it back down.
And when there was a goat among them, well, the sheep ousted her of their own accord. No dog required.
Adaia had not been expecting a hero's welcome, but she had at least hoped for some sort of gratitude. She had hoped to inspire them, even if only a little, to stand up for themselves.
Instead she found herself in a mockery of a trial by the alienage elders. The hahren had been at a loss as to what to do. He had at least had the decency to look vaguely thankful, but even that small sentiment was soon overwhelmed by the fear of the sheep, so thick Adaia could smell its stench.
Turn her in, one fearful mother of six had urged. She's nothing but trouble.
We don't want trouble, and the usual mantra started again. We should keep our heads down, we should avoid trouble.
Get rid of her. Let her be the sacrificial lamb for the humans, if she wants to be such a big hero.
Adaia had turned up her nose at them, barely able to contain her shaking. She was not afraid, she had insisted to herself, she was only angry, and the clean hot rage burned away everything else. Go ahead, turn me in, she had growled. I'll take down twenty shem with me.
The hahren had intervened then, citing another tired reason: Adaia was young and presumably fertile, and there were few enough elves left in Thedas. As fate would have it, he had just received a dossier of available and interested bachelors down in Denerim. Let her do at least this minimal duty to her people, and bring new blood to another alienage.
So it was that they sold her to the cheapest bidder, the lowest dossier coming from some family named Tabris. The goat was to be made into another breeding cow that would hopefully birth more stupid sheep.
And here she was now, lying in bed with her fists clenched and her teeth gritted and her only living relative, the dimwitted distant cousin, snoring across the room. He had been sent along as an "escort" (though clearly his role was to stop her from reneging rather than to protect her. She was perfectly capable of defending herself, as the alienage was all-too-aware.) but Adaia suspected that the alienage wanted to weed out as much of her bad blood as possible.
She curled her fingers around the dagger by her pillow, the only weapon she had been allowed to bring. Fang, as she had named it, crackled with the soft lightning of enchantment, her last memento of her parents before they had been slain in a riot five years ago. Those were the days before the alienage had collectively decided to castrate itself, when blood ran freely in the streets but proud and hot in elven veins.
At long last Fang's low thunder lulled her into an uneasy sleep filled with dreams of idiot sheep and bitter rage.
Anyone have a maiden name for Adaia?
Chapter: 1/?
Rating: T
Characters: Cyrion Tabris, Adaia, and random alienage elves
Spoilers: None for game events.
Summary: Cyrion Tabris awaits his bride from Amaranthine. Adaia seethes and broods.
Chapter 2
Cyrion Tabris awaited his wedding day with a mixture of pride and anxiety.
He was proud that his father finally considered him mature enough to start his own family, that his mother finally realized he was no longer a child, was ready to have his own children. These were all known factors he had been anticipating and he welcomed them eagerly. Cyrion liked to believe that he had been brought up well. He understood filial piety and familial duty and was glad to assume his new role.
What filled the pit of his stomach with gnawing anxiety was the unknown. They had only been able to set aside a pittance for his dowry, and he had no idea what to expect from his bride from far Amaranthine. His friends had joked with him, saying that she must be a real terror if they were willing to send her from Amaranthine for such a paltry amount, and Cyrion had laughed in turn. But worry had settled in his gut behind his smile.
As he lay in a single bed for the last time, he prayed to Andraste that his new wife be as sensible and dutiful as himself. All he wanted was a nice respectable family, plain enough to escape the notice of the humans, comfortable enough to raise a well-fed child in peace. The very thought of such a future calmed him, and Cyrion's eternal optimism and faith in the Maker won out against his anxiety, sleep claiming him at last.
-----
Adaia was so furious she could not sleep.
She would have sprung out of bed and done a training exercise if not for her distant cousin snoring in the bed across the room. As it was, she was sorely tempted to knock him upside the head and flee into the night.
The whole affair was humiliating and degrading, and even more so because her own people inflicted it upon her. Shems she could hate with a clear, clean bitterness, but when her fellow elves acted like so many sheep the sodden mixture of disgust, anger, and sad disappointment nearly made her sick.
Even the hahren's daughter, for whom she had given up everything (admittedly, that did not encompass much) to save, had no words or even a friendly eye for her when she was escorted out of the Alienage. Adaia wondered if the stupid wench would rather have been dragged away by that pig of a nobleman if it meant avoiding trouble.
Avoiding trouble. Adaia's blood burned at the hated phrase. They were all sheep, worse than sheep, for they herded themselves. When one sheep's head rose a little too high off the ground, the others quickly butted it back down.
And when there was a goat among them, well, the sheep ousted her of their own accord. No dog required.
Adaia had not been expecting a hero's welcome, but she had at least hoped for some sort of gratitude. She had hoped to inspire them, even if only a little, to stand up for themselves.
Instead she found herself in a mockery of a trial by the alienage elders. The hahren had been at a loss as to what to do. He had at least had the decency to look vaguely thankful, but even that small sentiment was soon overwhelmed by the fear of the sheep, so thick Adaia could smell its stench.
Turn her in, one fearful mother of six had urged. She's nothing but trouble.
We don't want trouble, and the usual mantra started again. We should keep our heads down, we should avoid trouble.
Get rid of her. Let her be the sacrificial lamb for the humans, if she wants to be such a big hero.
Adaia had turned up her nose at them, barely able to contain her shaking. She was not afraid, she had insisted to herself, she was only angry, and the clean hot rage burned away everything else. Go ahead, turn me in, she had growled. I'll take down twenty shem with me.
The hahren had intervened then, citing another tired reason: Adaia was young and presumably fertile, and there were few enough elves left in Thedas. As fate would have it, he had just received a dossier of available and interested bachelors down in Denerim. Let her do at least this minimal duty to her people, and bring new blood to another alienage.
So it was that they sold her to the cheapest bidder, the lowest dossier coming from some family named Tabris. The goat was to be made into another breeding cow that would hopefully birth more stupid sheep.
And here she was now, lying in bed with her fists clenched and her teeth gritted and her only living relative, the dimwitted distant cousin, snoring across the room. He had been sent along as an "escort" (though clearly his role was to stop her from reneging rather than to protect her. She was perfectly capable of defending herself, as the alienage was all-too-aware.) but Adaia suspected that the alienage wanted to weed out as much of her bad blood as possible.
She curled her fingers around the dagger by her pillow, the only weapon she had been allowed to bring. Fang, as she had named it, crackled with the soft lightning of enchantment, her last memento of her parents before they had been slain in a riot five years ago. Those were the days before the alienage had collectively decided to castrate itself, when blood ran freely in the streets but proud and hot in elven veins.
At long last Fang's low thunder lulled her into an uneasy sleep filled with dreams of idiot sheep and bitter rage.
Anyone have a maiden name for Adaia?