[Session 9] Dragon Age - Sunday 28th March 2010

The Lady of Restenford and her retinue arrive on the outskirts of a settlement just as the sun is setting itself into the horizon, visible beneath the clouds that have dogged their travel all day. Within the town, though it is a bit small to be called that and definitely too large to be a village, they find at its centre a walled off stone manor house with a large sturdy gate. Ser Edmund's residence. Still visible in the half light, across the large wide river that skirts the town, is a large imposing castle. Ser Lothryn advises this is the home to one of Malegaunt's vassals.

Lothryn also notes with worry the absence of any other stone walls in Lastford. Not even a palisade for protection. He muses over this as Ser Fossett dismounts and knocks firmly on the door set into the gate. His thuds echo into the silence. The place seems strangely deserted; no smoke visible from the kitchen or hearth fires; the ground looks undisturbed; no voices, no dogs, all is quiet.

“Oo is eet?” Comes a voice from behind the door. 

Fossett starts a little then draws himself up to his full height in importance, he is the representative of his Lady. “It is your Lady.”

“Me laydee? Aye ‘av no laydee!” The voice resolves itself into the face of a wizened old man; old brown eyes screwed up to squint into focus. His chin is grizzled, cheeks drawn and hair a long, grey and unsightly thin mop from a balding crown. Fossett coughs and perseveres.

"This is the Lady of this Land." He flourishes a hand at the disguised Laria. 

“Theese are Sur Edmund’s lands an’ ee ‘as no laydee! Come boy make sense!” The old face squints in a new fashion as if trying to make out the faces of the others accompanying this young nuisance of a lad. What a time to be calling at anyway.

“An’ oo Sur, be you?” He looks pointedly up at Lothryn who dismounts and steps forward. Nodding agreeably at Fossett as he walks past, Lothryn quickly explains that Lady Iah is now heir to the Bann of Restenford and therefore Lady of Restenford and all its vassals and their fiefdoms. He finishes by saying that as such they are here to speak with Sir Edmund for an official introduction.

“Aaaah well ee’s not eer is ee? Ee’s off at that ‘untin lodge ee ‘as. Taken em all ee as, an left me ‘ere to look after the place ee ‘as. Aye don’t know when ee’ll be back but ye can come in an wait. Ahm Willam, the warden of this ere manor. Come in! Come in!”

They are led through the courtyard to the stables were the knights Fossett and Shelby house and tend to the mounts. Inside they are offered all that Willam can - bread, cheese and board for the night. He apologises but his master, Ser Edmund, has taken the whole household to the hunting lodge in the South in the Korcari Wilds. Laria asks if he would be so good as to arrange a guide to the hunting lodge for them in the morning for it is important that they meet with Ser Edmund soon. Willam grumbles and thinks, rubbing his stubbly chin.

“Yees me son could av taken you.”

“Ah, that would be most welcome.” Smiles Laria.

“Eh? But ee’s dead now.” Willam grimaces and shakes his head. “I’ll ‘av me grandson show you. Ee knows the way awright.”

Once the young knights enter from their duties, Ser Lothryn asks if there is an inn nearby for some refreshment. The old servant nods and explains that there is a traveler’s inn just back along the road, not far. Willam excuses himself and skulks off, back to his cramped quarters by the gate. Lothryn asks Shelby along with him and they quickly change from their knight’s garb into something more comfortable and less conspicuous. Fossett stays behind, happy to attend his duty as protector of Lady Iah and her companion Laria. He is not one for drinking strong ales.

They find the inn safely and swiftly enough, keeping to the middle of the road in the growing dark. They find it to be quite quiet, though there are lights on and there is convivial chatter but no signs of any caravans or horses.  A quiet inn for one meant for travelers coming to such a large town, late autumn though it is. 

Entering, the conversation goes quiet for a moment as the regulars take in the new comers, but picks up where it left off as Lothryn and Shelby head for the bar- four kegs on the far wall tended by the inn keeper. They order a container of whatever is popular and seat themselves at an unpopulated table hoping to hear any passing news through the chatter.

What comes to them is what would be expected - the normal chatter of the every-day man; about work, home and life. Nothing relative to Ser Edmund or the land or the town. Shelby finds the brew to be a pleasant dark ale of chestnut hue and not-too bitter taste, at least the journey is not all wasted. Soon the atmosphere is broken again by the entry of a party of armed men, not knights and not peasants. The silence is different this time; the regulars keep their eyes fixed in their drinks and the air tenses. Once the talking begins to start uneasily again the knights decide it best to leave. Outside they find the newcomers mounts - large fairly well kitted horses. Walking past them in the direction of the manor they notice the beasts move to keep them in their sight. “Interesting.” comments Lothryn. They are trained Warhorses.

Back in the safety of the stale and cold manor they find only an hour has passed since their leaving. The ladies are still awake and much refreshed. There is talk of what was found and what should be done on the morrow. It is decided best they leave at dawn and hold back to observe the hunting lodge once they arrive before approaching. Lothryn says he shall have Ser Shelby hang back at the manor and if they are not back within two days he shall gather men at arms from Lastford and mount a rescue mission.

Another cold and wet day awaits as the sun rises behind the grey mask of clouds. Laria and Iah are awake and ready after rising with the start of the creeping false dawn. They have dressed in very simple traveling garb. Lothryn checks on the young knights and the women before going to the gate hut to wake the warden.

He finds the hut in the dark of the gate by the sound of Willam’s deep snoring. Closer he is met by the thick unwashed sour smell of an old unkempt man left to his own devices. Filthy midden he thinks to himself.

“Willam!” His voice booms into the small space of the hut to not even a break in the snoring. He tries another bellow. Nothing.

Holding his nose he gives the man’s sleeping quarters a strong boot. This gets the required response. Willam scrabbles out of his bed, rubbing his eyes and squinting at the shadow in his door.

“Ooo is it naow?”

It seems that Willam hasn’t yet told his grandson what he is to do today, yet alone roused him.

An hour and a half after sun-up Willam's grandson finally leads them from the manor on foot. This is after a discussion over horses versus travel on foot and other disagreements, as well as payment. Willam the elder is paid for his troubles of taking care of the groups’ possessions, while Willam the younger is paid for his services as guide.

The town is now quite busy as the townspeople go about their morning chores and duties. Lothryn and Fossett regard those they pass. It occurs to them there seems to be a lot of civilian-dressed men walking with tell-tale signs- the walk of a man used to wearing heavy armour, hands sitting ready where the hilt of a sword would normally rest. These men seem to be possible sell-swords and mercenaries. This would explain the arrivals at the inn the night before.

As they reach the fields the rain turns from smearing drizzle to the steady sheets of a determined downpour. Soon they are as water logged as the ground around them, more perhaps, and just as cold. Their feet begin squelching into the lands of the Korcari Wilds, a boggy marsh strewn wasteland enveloped in cold mists and strange shadows. Trees are mossy and stunted, plants are of a different nature to those found in the comparably lush Brecilian forest.

At about what would have been midday, if the sun had graced the sky with a show, young Willam points out a patch of slightly less wet, slightly higher ground so they can break for a meagre sodden lunch. The young lad speaks with Lothryn, describing the lodge to him. The knight wonders why they would be waging war with the winter fast approaching- the weather is going from bad to worse and provisions are low enough for the commoners, let alone an incoming army.

By the time the grey sky darkens and the ground becomes even more indecipherable in the twilight they begin to see lights off in the distance of the boggy scrub. Ser Lothryn gives Willam some more silver to convince the lad to lead them closer to what is turning into a dangerous number of camp fires. Some more silver gains a safer, less conspicuous, route. 

Nearing the lodge the camp fires are found to be surrounded by various mercenary companies; men, fires, tents of arms, lots of weapons. There appears to be two distinct groups with between a score or more each; brigands and barbarians. 

Turning round to speak Lothryn finds that Willam is gone. He searches the scene in front and behind them desperately to find the youth. Not even a minute passes before the doors to the lodge open. All flatten against the ground into hiding. This is not a welcome place to be. 

The first figure visible from the open door is a man in black; long black curled hair and beard with black expensive clothing; wearing a white bandage over his shoulder. Laria cringes and spits a slurred insult from between clenched teeth into the ground. Iah dares not raise her head, but looks to her with brow raised. “What?” is the silent question.

“He is that brigand that wanted you as his captured wife!” returns the hiss. Iah’s eyes widen then sour as she remembers Garrett’s lot from that meeting. 

Behind the brigand steps a well dressed young man with ashen grey blonde hair; Malegaunt. Behind him a frightened looking boy of no more than fourteen is shoved by a man-at-arms. The black brigand slaps him full force across the face and demands something they cannot make out, gesturing angrily. The boy looks off in a different direction from their hiding place and points, visibly explaining something but the brigand grabs the boy’s hair and slices his throat in one move, the explanation and young life, cut short. Willam’s body crumples to the muddy ground as orders are yelled at men-at-arms who run in the directions instructed.

Lothryn motions for all to follow and they slither to a safe distance before desperately running in another direction in the hope it is the one they came in. The splashing retreat is fortunately covered by the furor of the disturbed camp.

As they run they are haunted by the images of the boy with the slit throat. 

[next] session ten

[previous] session eight

[first] session one

[background] life of lady nimue 

[Session 8] Dragon Age - Monday 8th March 2010

Sad days have passed since Vintiver’s victory over the darkspawn horde. A sad victory in light of the loss of so much in its winning. Three days have spent their course since that dark night and many tears have fallen. The Bannorn of Restenford grieves.

The fires that tore through Vintiver have given way to ash and charred remains; homes picked over by their once residents to retrieve what little belongings remain for collection. New homes have begun in earnest. The broken villagers have come together in a heartening community spirit to help each other as one family, spurred on by the heartfelt sermons of Sister Arda, supported by words from Ser Lothryn. The priestess works on tirelessly though she has barely slept since that night with so many of her parishioners requiring her pastoral and practical care. Mothers are now without sons, wives without husbands, children have lost their families and homes; much work to be done. The shock and carnage of that night has been put behind them as best it could now that the dead have been buried and prayed for by their loved ones, but the path to healing will be taken slowly but surely. Raw wounds will heal eventually if the Maker is willing. In Andraste they trust.  

West is Oakenfield, a town coming to terms with its own grief. They are deep in mourning at the shock of Ser Giles’s valiant passing. The veteran knight was much loved; well respected for his ruling as well as his prowess on the field. He had cared for and protected his family and people for many years in the names of Restenford and Ferelden.

After the battle Lady Iah and her retinue were escorted to her new home - the castle at Restenford, where they are now. There is much to-ing and fro-ing as the sun rises above  the turning leaves of the Brecilian forest. Greens are turning to gold and amber now that it is mid harvest. 

Somewhere in the castle a man just passing his prime has sat in drawn silence for the better part of three days and nights by the bedside of his daughter. He has barely ate or drank during his helpless vigil, for it was all he could do while womenfolk tended her fevered brow. He has protected her for nineteen years of her short life. He has fought in many a raging battle, not to mention Vintiver, in his time as a Knight Templar, but he could not save her from this - poison from a blighted thornbush. 

Now as the fourth dawn greets the room’s shutters he notices her fever has broken and she stirs restlessly in her sleep. The worst has passed. Good news indeed. He rises and flings open the shutters in thanks. 

Laria’s first feelings upon drifting towards waking are that she has never felt pain in her head so intense before. Her brain feels sore, her neck and even her hair seem to ache, made worse when the shock of searing light turns the world to blood red, her eyes hurt too.

“Father?” she moans, shielding her eyes from the bright light streaming in through the window. All she can see is the painful light and a shadowy figure. Ser Farradin smiles and walks over to sit and pat her hand, he sighs and looks suddenly sombre. She can read the sadness in his eyes, dark circles foretell his worry. “Daughter, I have bad news to tell.”

Elsewhere, at the Abbey arrangements are being made for the interment today. Ogden is to be laid to rest beside his uncle. Many worthies and people of Restenford are readying to attend. Back at the castle a cask has been delivered from Denerim with many breathtaking  gowns and outfits for the Lady from Lyza, a small note is included of the sum that is required. 

Iah sits in her sleeping chamber, it still feels as though she is in someone else’s home. Such a grand room of expensive furnishings and draperies cannot be for her surely? She almost misses the small stone room from the chantry where she grew up, misses the sounds of the sisters going about their daily work. It may have been small and spartan but she liked its uncluttered feel and it had all she needed there, this place has many different sounds. She feels lost in such overwhelming luxury with its foreign sounds and smells.

Betts, realising her Lady is awake, fusses over Iah. Too many questions on such a day as this. Iah makes her apologies and dismisses the castellan’s wife. Thoughts and worries pick at her mind as she begins pacing back and forth, thinking of her dear brave friend Ogden. Her heart pains and her throat aches at the thought of this day. Only moments pass before Ser Florin’s wife comes slamming through the doors back into the chamber. Shocking her from her reverie. 

“I am so sorry ma’am... your little friend, the woman who thinks she is a man, she is awake!” 

Iah rushes past Betts, straight through to Laria’s room across the corridor, and through the open door. “Laria!” She throws herself with arms open wide against her friend, hugging her tight. Laria hugs her close and continues to sob, wet faced into her friend’s hair. No need for words.

Riding through the main bailey Ser Lothryn finds he is just in time as the main funeral cortege will be leaving shortly. He quietly appraises Restenford’s castle and it’s half built state. Much will need to be done, but such thoughts will keep for now.

A normally dignified and matronly woman is startled awake in a new room, so different from the one she found the night before in the candle-lit dark when she arrived from the town of Brigton. Wiping the sleep from her eyes she realises it is a knock at the door that has awoken her. Blinking around the room for a moment she sees it is far from grand. She is still dressed as she arrived, in her traveling clothes which are now crumpled and unsightly. She asks the person at the door if they could come back in quarter of an hour when she will be ready to make their acquaintance. They agree and she quietly opens the door but a crack as the footsteps move away. It was a tall, broad-shouldered man with the clothing of a knight and long blonde hair who woke her. She does not recognise him. 

Back in the room she assesses the room, and where everything is. She has a quick look out of the window to find a very grand and expensive looking funeral cortege. Myrtle sees this as a bad omen to have found this on her first day of service but decides to keep quiet and observe what happens today. She dresses herself in simple black as a show of respect. 

Ser Farradin has excused himself from the room of his fatherly duties to allow the girls privacy to grieve. The tears of women have always made him uncomfortable. Iah and Laria ready themselves for the funeral in between bouts of sobbing and hugs. Even with the arrival of Lyza’s cask of creations they cannot find pleasure on this day in such wonders. They dress with little words, Iah helping Laria who is still shaky from so long convalescing. 

Out in the courtyard Fossett finds his brothers Garrett and Shelby shouldering Ogden’s coffin to the carriage. Lothryn passes the boys with a quiet grim nod on his way to prepare for the funeral.

“Is madam ready or should I return in another quarter?” Myrtle opens the door and makes her apologies to the knight and introduces herself. “I am Myrtle good sir. I was Lady Iah’s mother’s lady in waiting.” She smiles serenely and bows slightly. The knight introduces himself as Ser Florin, castellan of Restenford castle. He apologises that it normally would have been his wife who’d have fetched her but she is busy. He explains that she will be introduced to the Lady Iah later in the day, but for now it is the funeral today, and she is welcome to accompany himself and his wife to the Abbey. 

Soon enough everyone is ready. Garrett and Fossett escort their Lady and Laria to the front of the cortege, leaving them there to attend at the rear with Shelby and Ser Lothryn. Behind the knights walks Ser Florin, his wife Betts, Myrtle and others. Among them are a great number of Vintiver’s people, come so show respect to one who fought and died so fearlessly for them. The cortege makes its slow and deliberate march down through Restenford where the peoples line the streets as a mark of respect. 

The sun rises higher into the crisp clear sky, no clouds today, no wind. The world is silent for the passing. Two hours chime by as they follow the road back to his home. Eventually they see above the cherry and chestnut filled orchards the Abbey’s bell-tower and that the flag of the nation sits at half-mast. The Sisters are standing by the gates to greet them. The doors to the chantry have been thrown open wide to receive their fallen son. Rowan stands stoically in the doorway, while his wife Ethelia shakes with tears on his shoulder. 

The cortege eventually files in following Ogden’s mother and father who follow the coffin of their son into his funeral. A heart-achingly beautiful requiem mass is sung, words from Abbess Amelia offer comfort to the congregation and blessings upon the young dwarf with the brave heart.  Rowan speaks a few words for his son as does Ser Farradin, soon Iah is called to speak her eulogy.

“Ogden was a very dear friend here at the Abbey. We all knew him very well. We were childhood friends, tempers would rise and we would bicker but always friends no matter what. He died bravely. He will live on in story and legend. I will always remember him as he was - happy in being himself; brave and impetuous; even though he was much more than a blacksmith’s son. I call upon the knights in this room to fulfill his dream of becoming a knight, to fulfill his dream in this life and the next.”

The congregation look to the knights, the knights look at each other, trying to decide who will go forth.

“I, Ser Lothryn, would wish to have that honour. To knight Ogden on behalf of my people in thanks for the service he performed.” He steps forward and lays his sword on the cask. “I declare thee Ser Ogden, knight of Ferelden, protector of the people of Vintiver.”

The sisters begin another requiem and by its end they are all crying. Ser Florin steps up to carry on the song until Ogden is interred. His baritone voice harmonising richly with the female choir, lending it strength. Ogden’s father Rowan and Ser Lothryn seal the small tomb shut. Poetic in that it was the first and last men present in his life to do so. Abbess Amelia stands again to give her final words.

In the interim Ser Florin coughs and steers Myrtle to Lady Iah, making quiet introductions. Myrtle is pleased and curtsies low, rising with a smile and tears brimming in her eyes. She clasps her hands together and tells Iah how seeing her takes her back twenty years. She sees much of her mother in her and that she wishes she can serve her just as well as she served Lady Nimue. Iah takes her hands in hers and thanks and welcomes her, she would be glad to have someone who knew her mother so well to be as close to her when she knew her not. It will be a welcome comfort.

The congregation begins to form a line to make their condolences to the family. Iah rushes over, a girl once more in her childhood home, and hugs them both. By now Rowan’s eyes are red rimmed and wet. He smiles up at the girl he watched grow who is now a Lady. Ethelia cries all the harder for the sympathy shown.

Ser Lothryn shakes his head solemnly before joining the line. “War is not a glorious thing; this is the face of war.” He speaks with the brothers while they wait patiently. Shelby notices the lonely figure of Laria and makes his excuses to walk over.

She stands staring into air. Still standing where she stood during the service. All is a blur to her. Numb. Without a word he takes her hand and turns her into an embrace, tucking her head into his shoulder. Laria stiffens, wide-eyed for a moment then melts into sobs, holding tightly now she recognises who it is - the one man who treats her like a person and not an oddity.

Eventually the crowd is called to dinner, made by Ogden’s mother. Though she is now sitting quietly, no more tears to cry for now, the sisters of the Abbey serve the guests before taking their places. A prayer is said and all are called to enjoy the meal. It is a sombre affair though there is much talking among the guests. 

Afterwards Ser Lothryn, Ser Florin and the Abbess come and bow to Iah saying they must speak with her about Vintiver. As Abbess Amelia leads them through, Ser Florin nods to Myrtle and motions for her to follow. The brothers Unuthstill join them in the Abbess’s quarters. 

Ser Lothryn begins. 

“I agree with the other knights, while not the best time, what occurred at Vintiver needs to be discussed. The town will need to be rebuilt. The darkspawn will need to be dealt with.”

Iah understands that what happened at Vintiver has not happened in 60 years, a long time indeed and only a few elders remember it from their childhoods. Amelia’s main concern is how the people are going to survive the coming winter as their crops were raised in the attack. At this Ser Fossett suggests sharing crops from other areas in the Bann but Ser Florin explains this would be normal practice. However, the Arl of Lastford has not made tribute this year, making this impossible.

They discuss how best to broach the subject of the missing tribute. Whereupon after some exchange it is best thought that Lady Iah makes an official visit to Lastford as an introduction as the new Lady of the Land. A full procession will be arranged. 

Talk turns to the other matter of Ser Gile’s death and the issue of his daughter the Lady Nina. Fossett offers his hand if it would please the Lady and solve the issue. Iah replies that though Lady Nina should not fail to find him suitable, she is unsure on the matter and is unwilling to force any man upon the poor woman especially in this her time of grief. Ser Florin politely points out that there are four single knights within her vassalage and he is sure she would find one she likes among them. This seems very respectable and Iah advises she shall compose a letter to Lady Nina to advise her of the Sers: Lothryn, Garrett, Fossett and Shelby; of their natures and why she is making this offer.

~ o0o ~

Two days later, in the great hall in Restenford Iah is deep in talk with her vassals over the various problems at hand with her new position and lands. A messenger returns with word from Lastford.

The young boy, well dressed but clearly out of breath from his run and fast riding, falls to one knee and bows his head in respect. 

“My Lady I have returned with news. Lastford’s people have been blessed with a good crop this year and their tribute has been sent forth to Ser Edmund’s hunting lodge at the edge of the Korcari Wilds. No one knows why it has not been sent to Restenford. What’s more Ser Edmond has not been seen or heard from for some time. I am sorry to be the bearer of these tidings. Forgive me.” 

Iah thanks the boy Matthew by name, and advises she holds no ill will to the bringer of news for he is not the creator of the news itself. Little more than simple parchment, and no one could be angry at that. The boy rises and bows again and Myrtle excuses herself from the hall to take him away for food and refreshments.

“Why would he send food to an unstaffed hunting lodge in the forsaken wilds unless it is a trap?” Iah muses looking to her knights for counsel. “Is it all but food?”

Ser Lothryn explains to his lady that farmers give grain and animals in tribute and merchants give coin or goods. After Restenford, Lastford is the richest of the settlements in her Bann so the tribute would have been a sizable amount of food and money, now missing. Truly unfortunate in light of Vintiver’s recent events and situation. 

Talk turns to the procession for Lastford. Lothryn advises that though his people are in need of him, he feels he would be best accompanying Lady Iah as the matter of missing food will eventually become more pressing as time moves on, than rebuilding homes. He will leave Vintiver in the care of its Alderman Cobden in his absence. Laria too speaks out and offers to accompany her lady, feeling she cannot protect her if not by her side. 

The day passes with more talk and by evening Myrtle is helping a tired Iah ready for bed. She speaks about the Lady Nina and about the knights who may be joined in marriage with her. Iah professes she wishes to be better acquainted with Nina and know of her likes and dislikes. She feels Fossett may be the best match for her at the moment with his level-headed nature, bravery and intelligent mind. Myrtle offers to be the one who travels to Nina on her behalf and maybe offer some comfort and care in this difficult time. She has had many a year of caring for mistresses through all of life’s events. Iah is glad and feels this may be an excellent suggestion. She will not have her travel alone on the autumn roads and says she will have Garrett accompany her on the way.

Before sleep they also speak of the tribute and Myrtle asks permission to offer her own thoughts and feelings on the matter. She advises of her fears and of possible strategies. Iah listens as intently as she can though her eyes are sleep worn. Finally Myrtle says that she wishes to know those who are close to her, to be her lady’s eyes and ears. This sounds a wise offer and Iah agrees, making herself comfortable in the large bed and swathes of blankets. Enjoying the warm shadow left by the bed pan Myrtle had placed in her bed earlier. She feels glad to have her as her attendant and confident. 

Slipping into fatigued sleep she dreams of her mother that night, black lotus necklace, raven black hair braided ornately and flowing down her back. The milky hand and tinkling laughter of a woman playing chess with a shadowy opponent. She does not see her face but knows in her heart this is Nimue. She wonders if the hidden opponent may be her father?

The next morning is grey and drizzly, a more typical autumn day as October moves in. It has only been eighteen days past since the knowledge of her birth and nobility was revealed to Iah when Garrett arrived at the chantry with news of her mother’s passing.

It feels more like a lifetime ago now.

She and Laria are standing in the great hall as mounts are readied for their journey to Lastford. Ser Fossett, Ser Shelby and Ser Lothryn are resplendent in their tabards and well buffed armour. Her banners are held high. It is a pity that the weather outside for their travel has decided not to be so kind to them. As they would be a fine sight if not for wearing their cloaks and heavy mantles to keep out the worst of it. 

Iah stands dressed in Laria’s green and cream frock coat dress, marveling at the freedom the breaches give her. She muses at maybe having Lyza make her something in this style for she was sure such a shocking garment would cause a trend as well as talk. Laria, however, is uncomfortably dressed in one of Iah’s low cut gowns. She self consciously moves from foot to foot and folds and unfolds her arms, unsure what to do or how to stand appropriately. The others look on in quiet bemusement, though Ser Shelby has quite the look of wonderment.

It was decided that they should swap clothes for Laria to act as her decoy, thinking back to the attack of the Black Brigand. Though Laria has dark brown hair and is not quite as tall as Iah, it matters little when mounted up and cloaked in mantles. Despite the gown she consoles herself in the knowledge of the dagger she has hidden in her boot. No dainty ladies slippers for her.

Myrtle is absent from the hall as is Garrett, her escort. They left earlier on the road to Oakenfield to visit Lady Nina. 

Once well wrapped and securely mounted the party depart from the castle, just as heavy showers greets them in the town. On the road to Lastford Ser Lothryn speaks with Lady Iah about his thoughts. He feels Malegaunt may be trying to buy the strength of the barbarians of the Korcari Wilds through giving them tribute. If this is so it is his fear that Ser Edmund may have sided with her brother. Iah thanks him for his thoughts and asks that they listen and make no judgments until they have seen for themselves.

[next] session nine

[previous] session seven

[first] session one

[background] life of lady nimue 

[Session 7] Dragon Age - Monday 1st March 2010

Write-up by Dangerous Brian

Lances splinter, horses rear, flesh rends and the ground heaves. The armoured charge of knights and men at arms strike home against an all but oblivious foe. Lothryn's lance takes a darkspawn through the mouth and throat, shattering as the armoured, angry knight spurs past the falling foe. All around him, the brave armsmen of Oakenfield drop their ruined weapons, swords rasping free from scabbards and axes unhooked from saddles. With a fierce shout, the mounted warriors roar their blood-lust and darkspawn turn to meet them.

Not far behind, a flailing dwarf raises his own voice in answer to the warriors battle-cry, axe raised high and swung about his head. Fortunately, only the twinkling stars in the sky bear witness as Ogden topples from the saddle, his wildly swinging axe unbalancing the proud dwarf, sending him crashing to the floor. His brave horse rides on to battle without him.
****************************************************

Astride the shattered ante-room door, Shelby brings his sword down upon the back of another corrupted wolf, sending it crashing to the wooden floor with barely a whimper. Behind him, the brave townsmen who share his defence of this entrance gaze upon the young man and his feats with something akin to hero-worship. The young knight calls his defiance of the foe, gore-smeared and gasping. “Come you scabby dogs! Death awaits you!” He clangs his glistening blade against the scarred and pitted metal of his shield. “Who dies next?”

****************************************************

Outside, the press of battle parts for but a moment, affording Lothryn a single, clear glimpse of a terrifying foe. A giant form, clad from head to toe in black plate, eyes afire with infernal light, swings a mighty falchion the length of a grown man, cleaving through a charging man-at-arms from the mans armoured head to the very belly of his mount. In four bloody portions they fall, man and horse, with the ill-fated rider's feet still caught in the stirrups of his dead mount. Ser Faradon, a mere horse length from the fallen pair, looks across in horror, meeting the gaze of Ser Lothryn with his own.

With a hoarse, near quivering voice, Lothryn calls to the older knight. “We need to bring that beast down!” Incredulous, Ser Farradin, slashing the throat of a genlock that sought to catch him unaware, hollar's back. “Oh you think so, do you?”

Meanwhile, perhaps a furlong behind, Ogden rises from the muddy ground. Head lowered like a charging bull, he grasps his fallen axe from the churned ground and sprints onward, yelling a fierce dwarven war-cry all the while.

***************************************

Behind their burning barricade, Cobden and Garrett call encouragement to the weary, wounded men beside them. Though they swing and shout with all their might, inspiring the simple farmers around them to greater and greater feats of endurance, the men are tiring quickly from many small wounds. One by one, they begin to fall.

Seeing the plight of the exhausted men-folk, Sister Arda calls for the women and children to drag the wounded back from the barricade. Yet as a few tentative souls make their way forward, the terrible, dying scream of a horse drives them back to their huddle against the far wall. Occupied as she is with the hysterical elf girl, she is unable to move forward herself and must satisfy herself by exhorting the terrified woman-folk to sing over the noise of bloody battle, if only to spare the horrors from reaching the ears of the children.

Upstairs, in the belfry, Fossett desperately fends off the genlock swarming the belfry, his back to the stairwell and his rear foot resting on the second step from last. With panted gasps he instructs the surviving youths to flee downstairs and support the others with their bowfire. Three darkspawn glare evilly at him, grinning as the defenders seemingly abandon the lone knight to his fate. Fossett calls upon Andraste to watch over him, tearing the grin off one foes face with a single blow from his gauntleted fist. In retaliation, a second darkspawn shoulders past the first, striking high, but Fossett ducks beneath the blow. His blade bites through rusted iron to land a wound on the creature's belly, even as the the darkspawn's own weapon clatters against the bell, setting it to swing back and forth across the belfry, its loud ringing rattling the teeth of every warrior present -knight and darkspawn alike.

Below, while the bells first peal shakes the temple's very stones, Cobden drops another darkspawn. Garrett leaps atop the pile of corpses at the mighty blacksmith's feet, sword held high in defiance. “Fight! Fight men of Vintiver! Fight for your wives, fight for your children, fight for your home! Up! Up! Fight for your very lives!” Inspired by his bravery and fine, though slobbery words, the men of Vintiver grip their weapons a little more tightly, grit their teeth and offer a ragged cheer. Two gravely wounded men, lying prostrate in their own sticky blood behind the main battle line, drag themselves to their feet, weapons lifted in bloodied, weary hands, their bandages trailing behind them, and force themselves once more into the fray.

In the ante-room, Shelby looks out at a sea of shaken foes. Though they wave, they brandish weapons and snarl menacingly, not one seems willing to charge the seemingly invincible warrior blocking their path. Only when a mighty hurlock, a veritable giant of his kind, steps from the throng do the cowardly beasts resume the attack. Two genlock, propelled onward by their lumbering champion, crash to the ground when they batter themselves against the shield of the unyielding knight. Yet their mighty champion lunges forward over their prostrate, groaning forms, his spear biting deep into Shelby's armoured thigh. Shattered rings fall from his chainmail to the cold, temple floor. Behind him, his despairing men quail at the approving roar of the assembled multitude before them.

His pain, smothered by a righteous fury, Shelby is unbowed. His eyes blaze with the promise of the vengeance to come.

************************************************************

Lothryn glances first at the massive, armoured form before him, then again at his sword. Realising the weapon he wields would be as useless as a broom against so mighty a monster, he throws the discarded wepaon to the ground. Giving spur to his mighty mount and venting forth a furious war-cry, he unhooks the warmaul from his back. With the ground shaking beneath his hooves, Lothryn puts all his might into a single, back breaking blow. The hammer finds it target, crushing the plate protecting monsters armoured spine. Though the impact nearly throws Lothryn from his horse, the monster is barely staggered. It turns the infernal light of its blazing, purple eyes full upon a shaken Lothryn, and with lightning speed the monster brings it's mighty blade down upon the passing haunch of Lothryn's proud steed. The blow lands so close behind the knights saddle that he feels the wind of it's passing. Blood sprays his armoured back. The knight strives to stay atop his wounded mount, but it is hopeless. As the proud steed's hind quarters fall away to the rear, the brave knight learns that the folly of trying to ride a two-legged, dying horse. The horse's ruined corpse topples to the ground. Too late the knight realises his peril. He tries to roll away, but with one foot caught in the stirrup, he falls beneath the still considerable bulk of the slain destrier, his right ankle trapped under the withers of his dead horse. A giant shadow falls astride him, blotting out what little starlight can penetrate the clouds and smoke to illuminate the field. The proud knights looks up, up, up into the blazing, murderous eyes of death incarnate.

Time slows... he sees every bead of dew, every drop of blood condensed on the cool, black iron of the monsters blade. Every pit and groove of rusted metal in it's armour. Off in the distance, above even the noise of battle, he hears an owl hoot, the soft clatter of a spear dropped in the mud. The squelch of trampling feet. Mixed amidts the smells of blood and offal, he can smell the sweet scent of wet grass, of newly turned earth. With agonising slowness, he watches the creatures blade rise in a crescent, only to descend in a terrible arc, every bloody bead cast aside seeming to fall through the air with all the languid careless of a snowflake. As the blade nears, the brave knight closes his eyes....


…....and hears a loud clatter, reminiscent of a bull charging a wagon.

****************************************

Shelby feigns weakness, staggering back into the room. The champion roars at the gathered throng behind it, the two fallen genlock pressing forward into the room. Shelby, strikes out at the two, disappointed by the failure of his attempt to lure the champion forward. Two men move forward on both his flanks, to flank each of the genlock in turn. Despite their brains being rattled by their earlier fall, both creatures stave off Shelby's attack. The wounded knight grits his teeth against the pain of his wound and fights on.

Elsewhere, Garrett catches a glimpse of mounted figures beyond the flames of the barricade. Aware that darkspawn would rather eat a horse than ride upon it, he gives voice to a joyous cheer. Alas, he chooses the very moment that the bell repeats it toll to shout the news. Yet Cobden, also, sees a glimmer of hope appear before him. His booming voice carries all through the Temple. “Knights! Knights! The garrison of Restenford has come!” Knowing this to be impossible, Garrett realises the riders must have come from Oakenfield, but being no pedant, he simply grins, hoping that Ser Giles and his half dozen men will be enough to turn the tide of battle.

In the chaos and noise of the belfry above, Fossett takes another few steps back down the stairs, sacrificing the bell-tower for the greater security of the narrow stairwell. Here, though the foe has the advantage of height, only one can press an attack upon him at a time. The genlock in question lunges forward, abandoning it's axe in the close confines and instead trying to brain the knight with it's spiked helm. Fossett takes the blow upon his shield, kicking up at the darkspawn in a most un-knightly manner, aiming at a most unchivalrous target. The blow connects, but, alas, who would have thought that a darkspawn would see the need to acquire an armoured codpiece. Despite the pain of his now shaky knee, the young knight continues to hold his own against the horde pressing down upon him.

Ogden picks himself up from the ground for the second time in moments, standing astride the fallen, befuddled Ser Lothryn. The eight foot armoured monster, toppled by the tackle of a 200 pound, armoured dwarf throwing himself at it's knees, rises up menacingly from the mud. His many wounds reopened by his series of falls, his bloody bandages dragging in the mud beside him, the exhausted dwarf gives voice to a defiant roar. Axe swinging, he meets the charge of the enraged monster.

It is the last, courageous act of a true hero.

Lothryn struggles to his feet even as the dwarf falls, catching Ogden's mangled remains before they can come to rest on the profane soil below. Craddling the dwarf against his armoured chest for but a moment, he watches the light fade from the warrior's eyes, then gently places Ogden upon the ground. With the sneering monster watching, a few scant yards away, Lothryn takes up Ogden's axe. When the monster meets his steady gaze, it smiles....


Inside:

Fossett flails his sword wildly over the top of his shield, wounding his genlock foe in the shoulder. To his surprise, it screams and falls back, blood spurting in an arterial spray from what he had expected to be no more than a superficial wound. He plants his feet on the stairs behind him, beckoning the next genlock forward with his sword. Shaken, it looks back over it's shoulder at it's fellows, cramming the stairs behind it. It's advance is cautious. The beast seems to be in no hurry to die.

Below, Garrett, seeing many of the darkspawn beyond the barricade falter, gives voice to a cheer. Yet even as the men to his side surge forward, Cobden at the head, he calls them back. Something tells him that his time is fast approaching. But not yet. Not yet. Soon, the battle will reach the tipping point.

In the vestry, Shelby and his men fight on. The hurlock champion patiently bides his time, until one of the men tears open a genlock throat with his pitchfork. Shelby leads his companions in a cheer, and presses home his attack against the second genlock. The hurlock champion stalks forward...

Lothryn meets the charge of the armoured giant, Ogden's axe crashing into its armoured chest. The beast doesn't even flinch. Ser Giles, still mounted, charges the beast from behind, roaring for Lothryn to run. Sword held before him like a lance, Ser Giles rides full tilt at the beast. His sword snaps under the tremendous impact, the beast staggers for a moment, but spins round in a full circle, his falchion glistening wetly in the grim light. For the third time that night, the wicked blade claims a victim, the head of the brave knight of Oakenfield tumbles over Ser Lothryn's right shoulder, his lifes-blood mingling with that of the brave Ogden, further soaking Lothryn's already bloody tabard.

In the stairwell, Fossett smacks the hesitant darkspawn with his shield, following up with a well aimed thrust that takes the staggered beast through the socket of the eye. It falls with nary a whisper. Yet another takes it's place.

Cobden adds a hurlock to the mound of crushed and broken bodies that lie before him. Beside him, one the wounded men, returned to battle by Garrett's inspiring leadership, slays another with his bill-hook. Fewer and fewer foes attempt the barricade. More and more seem to be occupied by the milling horsemen outside.

The second genlock in the vestry falls to a villager's sickle. Shelby orders the two men guarding his flanks to fall back. He charges the waiting hurlock, fighting astride the bodies knee deep atop the shattered door. Both champions test one another with a half dozen light blows, each taking the measure of the other.

In the belfry, Fossett takes another wound. The cut is small, but is above his left eye, caused by a blow to the head that pressed the brim of his pot-helm into his scalp. Though it is but the tiniest nick next to his other wounds, it bleeds profusely, clouding his vision. The genlock before him laughs and presses the attack.

Below, Garrett watches the last genlock on this side of the barricade fall. The few beasts still visible through the flames seem shaken and unsteady. Towards the rear of their ragged formation, he sees a few flee back into the night. Turning, he looks each man of the village in the eye, holding each one, appraising, seeking some fire, some hint of further reserves burried deep down. What he sees in those weary, tired eyes, is a furious anger. Mere heartbeats pass, he turns to Cobden and allows himself a small nod. Throwing his shield aside, Garrett takes his blade and without a word, he leaps the burning barricade before him. He feels no need to look back. He knows the men of Vintiver are with him.

In the vestry, Shelby withdraws his sword from the chest of the hurlock champion. Outside, genlock jaws fall to the floor. Scornfully, he kicks the hurlock's kneeling form to the ground. And then? Shelby smiles and steps through the door...

Ser Farradin, afoot now and bleeding from many wounds, charges to Lothryn's side, his blade strikes the monsters armour, seeking a weakness. Lothryn too presses his attack, aiming Ogden's axe for the creature's back, when the armour has been splintered and shattered by numerous blows. Though he draws black, tarry blood, the beast hardly seems to notice. It fights on, each blow coming closer to severing a limb than the last.

In the belfry, Fossett makes a vicious thrust under the rim of his shield. His blow takes a genlock in the groin. He twists savagely, the beast letting out an unearthly howl that can be heard even over the peal of the bell. He steps over the fallen foe, advancing up the stairs. The genlock before him turns to flee.

Garrett lets out a mighty roar, hacking his way through the genlock ranks, Cobden at his side at the head of a flying wedge. Darkspawn fall before them, the rear ranks throwing their weapons and shields aside in flight, giving full voice to their fear in an gutteral, almost feral tongue.

Shelby advances, his pace quickening, his sword ready. Even before he reaches the front rank of the waiting rabble, first one mounted warrior, then a second, strikes the formation from the rear. The formation shattered, Shelby leaps into the fray, swinging his sword as though reaping hay, a crop of severed limbs and mangled bodies falling at his feet. The men of his guard charge forward with him, armed with pitchfork, sickle and hoe. All about them the foe break. “Victory!” cries Shelby, hacking at the retreating back of another foe. “We have Victory!”

His army fleeing around him, the monstrous beast fights on, careless of defeat. Ser Farradin presses the attack once more, seeing Lothryn's plan, taunting and manoeuvring the beast to give Lothryn the opening he needs. The beast is unnaturally fast, even with one man to either side it twists and turns, fast as a serpent, parrying blows and lashing out with monstrous strength, each impact of blades leaving the arms of the two knights more weary than the last. At last, Ser Farradin forces an error. The Templar falls to his knees suddenly. Rashly, the beast turns to administer the death blow. The falchion flashes up once more, ready to descend in deadly motion yet again.

Seizing his chance, Lothryn buries Ogdens axe in the small of its back. With all the slow, stateliness of a falling tree, the beast falls first to its knees, then to the bloody soil beneath. In moments, it is no more, the only remnants of its existence an oily slick staining the grass of the village green.

While the battered men of Vintiver and Oakenfield roam the field, slaying any foul darkspawn that yet lie dying upon the field, Lothryn falls to his knees and places Ogden's axe upon the brave dwarfs ruined chest.

[next] session eight

[previous] session six

[first] session one

[background] life of lady nimue