dizzysparrow - Tumblr blog

dizzysparrow · 7 years

Text

Edith Cousland | The Hunt

"He's headed down toward the creek," the one-eyed tracker murmured, kneeling on the ground while seasoned hands wiped blood off the leaves of a small fern. "The beast'll likely have fallen before reachin' it." He smeared the red substance between gloved fingers, his one brown eye widening as it focused on the trail ahead. Edith followed his gaze, "Then let's move."

The day's sunrise had seen them leave Cousland Castle on horseback, with the one-eyed man leading a donkey and cart across its uneven cobblestones. Between the old tracker's mumbling and the nasally whines of his beast, their exit had not been as discreet as Edith had hoped. Mother's going to rip me apart when she finds out, she had warned herself as they crossed under the castle gates.

By her own command, their horses and two guards had remained at the Bridge of Kings, a ways from the castle, leaving four of them to hunt on foot. Edith, her father's daughter in more ways than not, would have seen the world and its adventures alone with nothing but sword and steed, but by the Maker, she was Lady Edith Cousland, and thus privacy was a stranger with whom she would never become acquainted.

Clouds shifted lazily across the afternoon sky, streams of sunlight coming and going beneath the tall canopy of the Greenwood, a misty and silent world of towering oak trees, great trunks swathed in green moss, gnarly and tangled growths that jutted from their gaps and crevices. At their roots grew red, spotted mushrooms, big as any Edith had ever seen, alongside ferns and flowering bushes, wetted and glistening from the morning's rain. The forest floor was covered in small stones and fallen leaves, damp and sticking to their boots as the company of hunters silently tread through the underbrush.

Ahead of her sauntered the tracker, Jon Hornreath, a stunted, frightening looking man with a leather eye patch. Edith knew little of him, save for that he was favored by her father - The Teryn never went on a hunt without him, and thus Edith trusted him to serve her well. Behind her trailed two more, a knight from Highever called Ser Gilmore, and his apprentice, Griffith, a young boy of perhaps ten and five, if Edith had to guess. Edith could picture Ser Gilmore's face behind her. A troubled expression, furrowed brows hanging over green eyes that were likely looking at her. The thought made her nervous and uneasy. She knew the knight was not fond of her spontaneous, often rebellious adventures, but he always insisted on coming along anyway. "Someone has to keep you from finding more trouble," he liked to tell her, but Edith was a woman grown, a respected fighter. She could protect herself.

Ser Gilmore moved to Edith's side, disrupting her thoughts as he motioned toward the dark pools of blood that streaked the forest path ahead. Gnats took to them, hovering, landing and taking off in rapid bursts. The pools rippled, glimmering grotesquely in the light. Jon crouched to examine them closely, pausing their group with the subtle raise of a hand, a glove stained crimson. He murmured to himself indiscernible utterings as the hand raised to his nose, nostrils flaring with a deep inhale. Edith grew impatient behind him.

The summer air sweltered, amplifying the stench of blood and leather and dirt. The wet heat moistened Edith's skin. The pounding of an anxious heart filled her ears.

Jon's hand moved slowly, cautiously, until it rested on the hilt of a dagger. Duckwalking, the one-eyed man moved more nimbly than Edith would have expected for a man of over fifty. She motioned for her group to follow, grabbing a bolt with a quiet hand and readying her crossbow. They moved forward until the sound of running water filled their ears. The tracker picked up his pace.

A hoarse and violent squeal broke out from the ferns not a hundred paces from the path which they emerged. Up the winding creek stood the beast they hunted on three legs, its fourth rendered useless by two bolts that jutted from its hairy hip. He looked smaller now, but the distance was deceiving. His wide eyes were red, angry and desperate, no doubt blinded from the blood that seeped from the blow it had taken by Griffth's sword, a gaping wound at its temple. Scarlet water ran down its tusks and cascaded into the creek in a steady stream. Nobody moved, watching, waiting. The anticipation gnawed at Edith. She raised her crossbow.

The motion sent the boar into a panic, adrenaline giving life back to its disabled leg. It snorted, blood shot from its nose into the water, and then it charged. Edith was ready. "Put 'em between the eyes, m'lady!" yelled Jon, who nimbly jumped back to clear himself of the agitated beast.

Click, snap, shatter.

"Shit!" Edith let out, instinctively looking down at the jammed crossbow. There wasn't time to think, wasn't time to react. Ser Gilmore, without hesitation, shoved Edith to the opposite side of the creek bed, pirouetted, and ran his sword alongside the boar as it rushed past them. Edith fell to the ground, palms scraping on small stones, knees skidding against sticky mud. The crossbow flew a few feet from her. A tumultuous cry came from the beast. "Griffith!" she heard Ser Gilmore's voice behind her as she clumsily tried to find her feet.

She turned to find them standing over the unmoving beast, Griffith's sword stood upright, piercing the boar's skull. Its red eyes remained open, lifeless and sad. Edith wiped uselessly at the mud on her pants before picking up her crossbow. The one-eyed tracker skipped past her, gawking and mumbling to himself, "O'Maker, what a prize, what a prize!"

"Hush man, help us move the beast." Ser Gilmore instructed.

II.

Edith sulked, her gaze trailing the ground pitifully as her group made their way back to Cousland Castle. Jon lead the way with his donkey and cart, its new occupant laying lifeless in the back while flies clung to its mangled and bloodied wounds. Its red eyes had dulled, all signs of life no longer present. Two half broken bolts rested next to its carcass, bouncing with the uneven motion of wheels that spun against dirt and stone.

Dangling buckles, groaning wheels, squeaking boots, cracking leather. The very sounds that filled the air began to agitate Edith as she brooded, replaying the day's events in her mind. Her blood boiled with frustration. She was still just a foolish girl.

"It couldn't be helped, you know." Ser Gilmore's voice was soft and warm, "We are just lucky that no one was harmed, you especially."

Edith's temper bubbled over. "I was fine! You needn't have interf..." She stopped, curbing her tongue. It was worthless to fight Ser Gilmore with words, she knew. He always bested her in the sport of arguing.

"You will have plenty of other chances, if your mother's wrath does not end us all." He frowned, fixing his eyes on the fortress in the distance.

An impending sense of doom swelled within Edith's belly. Robbed of her kill, she had nothing to leverage for her disobedience, nothing to justify her absence, and if her mother were to find out that she was nearly gored, she'd be locked away until married off, or worse, sent to serve the Chantry.

Edith sighed, giving Ser Gilmore a distressing glance, "Maker's balls, she's going to murder me."

#dragon age #dragon age: origins #cousland #edith cousland #bioware #dao #da:o #fanfic #dragon age fic #dragon age fanfic #fiction #writing #excerpt

2 notes · View notes

dizzysparrow · 7 years

Text

Meera | 001

Meera Trevelyan awoke in darkness. A flash of white light and a violent plummet to the floor had turned the world into an eerie green void with no beginning and seemingly no end. The ground was solid beneath her, rocks jutting into her knees and thighs, dirt clinging to the palms of her hands as she made to stand. Her mouth tasted of blood, head spinning as though she’d taken a blow to the back of her skull.

The world was gone.

There was nothing, save for some derelict ruins and miles of dirt and dust filling the air. An empty void that was dimly illuminated by a single brazier perched atop some old, crumbling stairs, its queer green flames licking violently over simmering coals. Meera turned around haphazardly, reaching a hand to her head as if to keep it steady between her shoulders. She spat in the dirt, despising the familiar taste of iron on her tongue. It was quiet, the worst kind of silence made worse by the darkness.

Her body was bruised, resisting her notion to make for the stairs. A brilliant light erupted from the flames on the landing, stopping her in place, both arms instinctively jerking upward to shield her eyes. A woman’s voice followed, calling down to her. Squinting, Meera tried to make sense of the ghost-like figure that had taken the guise of a woman, but a horribly retched sound broke her concentration.

“Run!” cried the enigma. Meera bolted without the risk of cautious thought, fighting the urge to frantically look over her shoulder at the cacophony that was now on her heels. She reached out to the woman, desperate fingers reaching for salvation.

The sound grew louder.

Light engulfed her, an eruption of energy that slung her through space until she firmly collided with the ground, shoulders and hips sliding along loose gravel, dirt filling her lungs as she inhaled with the impact. There were people, soldiers clad in battle-worn armor standing over her, the ends of their steel blades pointing in her direction. Their faces were no friendlier, suspicious eyes peering down at her beneath a looming sky that seemed angry too, darkened by black clouds that swirled in a halo of green light, much like that of the Hell she just returned from. Meera desperately wanted to shut her eyes and awaken from this nightmare, to return to her bed where the early morning sun had snuck in every break of day to wake her, where the smell of pine and last night’s fire set her at ease. Her dog, Jax, keeping her feet warm while snow continued to fall just outside her window.

The sound of swinging chains rang in her ears, her head pounding mercilessly as Meera slowly surveyed the room through hazy, squinting eyes. It was dark, and her knees throbbed beneath the weight of her on an unforgiving stone floor, carpeted by bits of scattered hay. She counted five guards, each standing within ten feet of her. Keeping her head low, she became acquainted with the area around her, eyes lingering until she found the chains, thick and rusted as any you might find in a barn, attached to her wrists. They were heavy, weighing her body down into an uncomfortable hunch.

Her thoughts were interrupted, forcefully replaced by the kind of pain that took one’s breath away, bolting relentlessly from palm to elbow. Again there was a flash of green light, electrifying as it was brilliant. She waited for Hell to follow, but met with only the smell of burning flesh and the sound of energy splitting the air. It hurt, oh how it hurt. She folded over, releasing her pain with a scream.

A few guards went for their swords, nervous but seasoned hands finding gold and silver hilts, but none were fully removed. A door swung open across the room, and with it two shadows strutted in. A woman, with hair as red as daybreak, doned a hooded cloak of expensive purple velvet. The other, a taller and blockier woman with short black hair, approached Meera intently, violently grabbing her by collar and yanking her to an upright position, palm still aglow.

#dai #dragon age inquisition #novelization #dragon age #travelyan #writing #creative writing

2 notes · View notes

dizzysparrow · 7 years

Text

Cullen | 001

Cullen couldn't stop pacing.

"She's fine," he told himself aloud, his voice nearly scornful. His head was in the wrong place, caught up in her scent, in her touch, in her voice. "Maker," he breathed. Her voice. It was all he wanted in that moment, as if it were a tangible thing he could cling to with his own hands.

He stopped pacing. "Pull yourself together," he commanded, picking up a piece of parchment from his desk to divert his thoughts. It was the latest from one of Leliana's ravens, a response to his own inquiry regarding the families of those he lost at Haven, of those he couldn't save in all the commotion that left the city engulfed in flames and smoke and death.

He sank down into this chair, hands trembling as he lay the paper back down hopelessly. A candle danced and hissed, the Commander shut his eyes. The memory of that day was still so fresh in his mind. The screams of those who fought and died next to him, the terror of those who laid eyes on the Archdemon as it flew over them, setting the world ablaze. The screams. He couldn't forget, wouldn't forget, but he wanted to.

And so he saw her. Her eyes, green and glowering beneath brows pinned together with selfless determination as she told him she was willing to give her life to save them all. She never asked for any of this, never had a real choice in joining the Inquisition, unlike him. It was his duty, he accepted his position as Commander of the Inquisition's forces freely, but she - she never once was asked, not even by him.

The faint, lighthearted sound of a lute crept through the door of Cullen's study, followed by the delicate and soft voice of a woman. It had become a nightly ritual at Skyhold, men and women gathering around a fire, pilgrims from far and wide, elves and dwarves and humans alike, to hear the bard sing her ballads. Tales of the Inquisition of old, of the infamous witch, Flemeth, and even stories of the Hero of Ferelden. Cullen had met her once. He could recall her intense glare, a woman weighed down by responsibility and resentment.

His thoughts were interrupted by the intense, ear shattering screech of a door. He lifted his head to find Cassandra walking toward his desk. Where he expected to find an intimidating glare, he found her eyes to be soft, glittering in the moonlight, "Commander," she began, her voice direct but trailed by something he didn't recognize in her. "What is it? Is something wrong?" He stood up, feeling his stomach twist with immediate worry. "Leliana received a raven from scout Harding detailing the Inquisitor's success in the Western Approach..." She looked away, lowering her head, "But she says in a scuffle with some raiders, the Inquisitor took an arrow to the shoulder." Cassandra rested her hands on his desk, submitting to it for support.

She raised her eyes to meet his, "Harding says that Dorian is doing what he can but the arrow was laced with something, so they've requested herbs and a proper surgeon. She can't be transported."

The words washed over Cullen. It was as he feared, as he expected, but what could he do? His guts twisted in agony, thoughts of her suffering rendering him speechless. He couldn't find anything to meet Cassandra's gaze with, so he turned and walked to the slit of a window behind his chair and stared, stared for some time.

"I know that you and Meera...There has been talk, Cullen." The Seeker continued, breaking the silence between them. He remained silent, staring, hands folding together and fiddling uselessly at each other. The night sky held nothing for him, only the cold, howling wind that swept through the Frostbacks outside. "We...I care for her," he whispered, having yet to admit it to himself, let alone out loud to another person.

The bard finished one of her ballads, leaving her audience to cheer blissfully, their laughter and the clapping dully filled the room as the Commander rubbed the side of his head nervously, turning slowly to face Cassandra, "What can we do? We are too far from the Western Approach to send help directly. It's a week's journey at least..."

"Josephine and Leliana are already arranging to send ravens out to the nearest cities with allies willing to help the Inquisition. Finding a surgeon among them that is willing to venture into the deserted Western Approach, however, is something we can only hope for." Cassandra straightened up with her words, her head turning toward the commotion outside. "I don't know what we'll do if we lose her. She is the Herald of Andraste, the people believe in her."

#dragon age inquisition #da:i #cullen rutherford #cullen x inquisitor #creative writing

57 notes · View notes

dizzysparrow · 11 years

Text

The Guardian | 001

The town below sat absorbed in darkness, lit only by a few burning street lamps and the moon that kissed the horizon beyond the Berland river. Evenshire had changed little over the years since the young guardian had been usurped from the life she knew. "She bears the mark of the Solstice! She bears the mark!" they had screamed at her while she fought against the greedy arms that yanked her from her mother's desperate embrace. Aela could no longer remember her mother's face, nor those of the men that restrained her, but the sound of their violent screams and her mother's sobs rang deep within her memory as she watched the silent town below.

Aela was perched upon the cliffside across the river, where the cliff line met the Darkwood. The guardian donned a hooded cloak, black as velvet, clasped together at her breast by a silver fox pendant with emeralds for eyes. Her raven hair floated effortlessly about her, carried by the southern wind coming up the mountain. It howled like the wolves in winter, an eerie sound that had once chilled her to the bone as a young girl. The beast is not your enemy, young Aela, do not be afraid. Listen to what he is telling you.

Although the memories of her short life in Evenshire were tainted by the bitterness of fate, the guardian couldn't deny that it was beautiful at night. Its highest keep was perched upon the steepest part of the cliff, water cascading out from the barred openings on its sides, gracefully meeting the river below. Safely guarded between the Berland on the eastern side, and the Bluestone Mountains in the west, the town had little need for much of a great wall, yet as the years went on, one was erected along the northern entrance, its large portcullis of wood and iron was engraved with the seal of House Gaveston.

Aela perked up at the barking of the gatekeeper's hounds, her silvery blue eyes snapping toward their direction. In the distance she could see a flash of white, a knight's horse moving at a hurried pace. The portcullis ground against its stone frame, opening slowly. As the rider approached, the guardian began to feel it, that burning at her neck where her mark grew up and around both sides of her throat. It burned like fire to the skin, lingering and turning a blue to match that of her eyes. Lurching forward, she doubled over, clutching the ground with her hands, the black cloak flapping against her sides in reaction to the violent movement, the sound was dulled by the pain that crept from deep within her, she moved a hand to clutch her throat, eyes shut in a desperate attempt to control herself. What's happening to me?

#Creative Writing

2 notes · View notes