They had been running for nearly a fortnight. Sarein had never been so tired in all her life; and yet, nearly every time her body threatened to quit on her, the familiar humming in her head would begin. Shortly afterwards, darkspawn would crest the horizon, and she would draw deep to find the strength to nock an arrow. And another, then another, another, another.... Their numbers seemed endless; sometimes she suspected that their dead rejoined the battle. There were just so many.
Givrail only grit his teeth when she voiced her theory, thick eyebrows pinching together, and spurred her onwards. They ran through desert and woods alike—a farmer was kind enough to give them mounts in Starkhaven when they gutted the gunlocks swarming his land. Sarein learned to ride on the fly, and went to her bedroll every night aching as she never had before. She had never even touched a horse before, and she suspected her willful stallion knew it.
Every city bore grim news—Antiva had been all but decimated, her monarchs dead and her people ravaged. The Warden Commander had been slayed, and only a handful of Wardens had escaped. Givrail’s hand had clenched into a fist when they’d first heard of Tarub’s death. He’d insisted the man was mistaken, that it was just a rumor. By the time they’d reached Ansburg, he’d stopped insisting. They happened upon another pair of Wardens—a slim mage from Montsimmard and a dwarven woman with a heavy axe and the most magnificent beard Sarein had ever seen.
“Word is we’re needed in Wycome,” she’d told them over the first warm meal they’d eaten since they’d left Nevarra. The dwarf—Jenda—and Givrail had drawn up chairs by the fireplace of the quiet inn, exchanging the news they’d received in their desperate dashes towards the battlefield. Sarein had sat on the floor, as close to the flickering flames as her freshly bathed skin could tolerate. It had been a wonder to be dry and warm and still, if only for a night.
Come morning, they’d swung into their saddles and pushed onwards once more. The closer they got to Wycome, the harder they pushed. Eventually, their quiet mage had spoken up, demanding they rest before their horses drop dead. It was a tense night; Givrail stared moodily into the fire, and Jenda was more intent on sharpening her axe than answering Sarein’s questions.
She’d found herself sat by her stallion, running scarred fingers through his mane and working out tangles. He seemed to appreciate it—she wasn’t sure. Sarein still couldn’t quite believe how big he was. She’d seen horses in Val Royeaux, but only ever from a distance. Even after nearly four years with the Wardens, this massive world seemed surreal. Street rats in Alienages were supposed to die in dark alleyways. Never could she have imagined this life as a girl—and even though the Blight tasted more of nightmares than dreams, it was still better than suffocating in that shithole.
They reached Wycome by midday, thirteen days since they had first heard of the destruction of Antiva City. The Wardens from that battle had arrived only days before them, bloody and broken. The city was a madhouse, refugees from Antiva and the surrounding farmland alike swarming the streets and inns. It had taken her and the mage, Kivar, nearly two hours to find available lodging and a stable for their horses.
Finding the Wardens was several times easier—one couldn’t turn a corner without seeing the familiar blue and grey. Sarein and Kivar found their way to the heart of the city, in the Duke’s sprawling estate. Sarein habitually cased the glittering halls, and couldn’t help but wonder where the Duke had hidden his riches in fear of thieves.
The ballroom had been all but conquered by the Wardens. Tables had been dragged in and covered in maps—men and women sharpened blades and treated their wounded, swapping stories of darkspawn attacks across Thedas and their journeys to Wycome. Kivar was quickly conscripted into putting his healing hands to good use. Sarein searched for Givrail to no avail—she suspected he was locked away with the other Senior Wardens, planning their fortification and defence of Wycome.
There was no shortage of work to be done. Sarein was quickly scooped by a tall, freckled human, and put to work fletching arrows with half a dozen other Wardens. Seated on a trunk, her nimble fingers looped fletch and sinew around prepared arrow shafts, golden eyes focused on her work. It was a simple job, but Sarein took her time—these could very well be the arrows that saved her life in the coming battle.
Sarein lost track of time in the monotony of her assignment. Occasionally she offered a wry remark to the gossip of the Warden Recruits sat around their supplies. They spoke of their homelands, of Rivain and Fereldan, of Kirkwall, and told tales of how they'd found their way into the Wardens. Thievery, murder, and desperation had brought them here, for the most part. Once, Sarein had thought it worrying that the Wardens recruited from prisons and gallows. In time, she'd come to appreciate it. Not only did she belong with these men and women, but they fought with a passion she'd never seen in guards nor armies.
The basket of feathers was dwindling. The recruits glanced nervously to the Warden carving arrow shafts, evidently too nervous to approach him. Sarein rose to her feet, claiming the basket and placing it against her hip.
"We need more fletch," she informed him, an auburn brow rising. The freckled human looked up and snorted dismissively.
"So go get more," his voice was gruff, Southern. Fereldan, probably. Maybe Denerim? Sarein's golden eyes rolled, reflecting slightly in the lantern light as dusk began to transition into night.
"I just got here. Where?" Her voice dripped with irritation. The man snorted, jerking his head towards the northern face of the massive room.
"Out in the courtyard. The griffons are shedding. Just go pick them up. Be mindful, brat, they're proud creatures." He looked back to his work, as if what he said had been bland as 'go milk the cows'.
Sarein couldn't help but gape. Griffons. Griffons here. She'd heard tales of course. She'd asked Givrail about them at length when she'd first donned her armor, scarred fingers tracing the sigil in wonderment. He'd spoken rapturously about their beautiful savagery. His stories had been beyond her wildest dreams and had made the Joining worth it.
She didn't need telling twice, long legs carrying her swiftly through the makeshift war camp. Her red hair bounced behind her as she slipped past men and women at work, eyes bright. Maker, she'd yearned to see Griffons for so long, and they were here. Sarein found the gardens, practically running through the wide halls.
The courtyard was almost as massive as the Alienage she'd grown up in. Flowers and hedges and trees she couldn't possibly name were artfully mantained. A fountain, built from shimmering marble, dominated the center of the sprawling garden. And the griffons... they were everywhere. Men and women lingered here, some crouched by griffons and brushing them out fondly. A small flock of tiny little wonders played in a sprawl of grass, chirping enthusiastically.
Sarein bit her tongue to hold back the little laugh of wonder. For the first time in a fortnight, her lips curved into a grin, freckled nose scrunching. Like water, she slipped through the courtyard, lifting discarded feathers and placing them almost reverently in her basket. This was beyond anything she'd seen in her four short years with the Wardens. No sprawling city, no vast desert nor magical forrest could even compare to being here.
She skirted the griffons carefully, well-acquainted with the stories of their fierce pride, silent footfalls carrying her slowly through the garden. That she dawdled, well... who could blame her?
Givrail only grit his teeth when she voiced her theory, thick eyebrows pinching together, and spurred her onwards. They ran through desert and woods alike—a farmer was kind enough to give them mounts in Starkhaven when they gutted the gunlocks swarming his land. Sarein learned to ride on the fly, and went to her bedroll every night aching as she never had before. She had never even touched a horse before, and she suspected her willful stallion knew it.
Every city bore grim news—Antiva had been all but decimated, her monarchs dead and her people ravaged. The Warden Commander had been slayed, and only a handful of Wardens had escaped. Givrail’s hand had clenched into a fist when they’d first heard of Tarub’s death. He’d insisted the man was mistaken, that it was just a rumor. By the time they’d reached Ansburg, he’d stopped insisting. They happened upon another pair of Wardens—a slim mage from Montsimmard and a dwarven woman with a heavy axe and the most magnificent beard Sarein had ever seen.
“Word is we’re needed in Wycome,” she’d told them over the first warm meal they’d eaten since they’d left Nevarra. The dwarf—Jenda—and Givrail had drawn up chairs by the fireplace of the quiet inn, exchanging the news they’d received in their desperate dashes towards the battlefield. Sarein had sat on the floor, as close to the flickering flames as her freshly bathed skin could tolerate. It had been a wonder to be dry and warm and still, if only for a night.
Come morning, they’d swung into their saddles and pushed onwards once more. The closer they got to Wycome, the harder they pushed. Eventually, their quiet mage had spoken up, demanding they rest before their horses drop dead. It was a tense night; Givrail stared moodily into the fire, and Jenda was more intent on sharpening her axe than answering Sarein’s questions.
She’d found herself sat by her stallion, running scarred fingers through his mane and working out tangles. He seemed to appreciate it—she wasn’t sure. Sarein still couldn’t quite believe how big he was. She’d seen horses in Val Royeaux, but only ever from a distance. Even after nearly four years with the Wardens, this massive world seemed surreal. Street rats in Alienages were supposed to die in dark alleyways. Never could she have imagined this life as a girl—and even though the Blight tasted more of nightmares than dreams, it was still better than suffocating in that shithole.
They reached Wycome by midday, thirteen days since they had first heard of the destruction of Antiva City. The Wardens from that battle had arrived only days before them, bloody and broken. The city was a madhouse, refugees from Antiva and the surrounding farmland alike swarming the streets and inns. It had taken her and the mage, Kivar, nearly two hours to find available lodging and a stable for their horses.
Finding the Wardens was several times easier—one couldn’t turn a corner without seeing the familiar blue and grey. Sarein and Kivar found their way to the heart of the city, in the Duke’s sprawling estate. Sarein habitually cased the glittering halls, and couldn’t help but wonder where the Duke had hidden his riches in fear of thieves.
The ballroom had been all but conquered by the Wardens. Tables had been dragged in and covered in maps—men and women sharpened blades and treated their wounded, swapping stories of darkspawn attacks across Thedas and their journeys to Wycome. Kivar was quickly conscripted into putting his healing hands to good use. Sarein searched for Givrail to no avail—she suspected he was locked away with the other Senior Wardens, planning their fortification and defence of Wycome.
There was no shortage of work to be done. Sarein was quickly scooped by a tall, freckled human, and put to work fletching arrows with half a dozen other Wardens. Seated on a trunk, her nimble fingers looped fletch and sinew around prepared arrow shafts, golden eyes focused on her work. It was a simple job, but Sarein took her time—these could very well be the arrows that saved her life in the coming battle.
Sarein lost track of time in the monotony of her assignment. Occasionally she offered a wry remark to the gossip of the Warden Recruits sat around their supplies. They spoke of their homelands, of Rivain and Fereldan, of Kirkwall, and told tales of how they'd found their way into the Wardens. Thievery, murder, and desperation had brought them here, for the most part. Once, Sarein had thought it worrying that the Wardens recruited from prisons and gallows. In time, she'd come to appreciate it. Not only did she belong with these men and women, but they fought with a passion she'd never seen in guards nor armies.
The basket of feathers was dwindling. The recruits glanced nervously to the Warden carving arrow shafts, evidently too nervous to approach him. Sarein rose to her feet, claiming the basket and placing it against her hip.
"We need more fletch," she informed him, an auburn brow rising. The freckled human looked up and snorted dismissively.
"So go get more," his voice was gruff, Southern. Fereldan, probably. Maybe Denerim? Sarein's golden eyes rolled, reflecting slightly in the lantern light as dusk began to transition into night.
"I just got here. Where?" Her voice dripped with irritation. The man snorted, jerking his head towards the northern face of the massive room.
"Out in the courtyard. The griffons are shedding. Just go pick them up. Be mindful, brat, they're proud creatures." He looked back to his work, as if what he said had been bland as 'go milk the cows'.
Sarein couldn't help but gape. Griffons. Griffons here. She'd heard tales of course. She'd asked Givrail about them at length when she'd first donned her armor, scarred fingers tracing the sigil in wonderment. He'd spoken rapturously about their beautiful savagery. His stories had been beyond her wildest dreams and had made the Joining worth it.
She didn't need telling twice, long legs carrying her swiftly through the makeshift war camp. Her red hair bounced behind her as she slipped past men and women at work, eyes bright. Maker, she'd yearned to see Griffons for so long, and they were here. Sarein found the gardens, practically running through the wide halls.
The courtyard was almost as massive as the Alienage she'd grown up in. Flowers and hedges and trees she couldn't possibly name were artfully mantained. A fountain, built from shimmering marble, dominated the center of the sprawling garden. And the griffons... they were everywhere. Men and women lingered here, some crouched by griffons and brushing them out fondly. A small flock of tiny little wonders played in a sprawl of grass, chirping enthusiastically.
Sarein bit her tongue to hold back the little laugh of wonder. For the first time in a fortnight, her lips curved into a grin, freckled nose scrunching. Like water, she slipped through the courtyard, lifting discarded feathers and placing them almost reverently in her basket. This was beyond anything she'd seen in her four short years with the Wardens. No sprawling city, no vast desert nor magical forrest could even compare to being here.
She skirted the griffons carefully, well-acquainted with the stories of their fierce pride, silent footfalls carrying her slowly through the garden. That she dawdled, well... who could blame her?
