literature

Cut The Rose 5

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One day, things would go right for him.

Maybe.

Sadly, it seemed that day was not to be this day.

He stared around him and sighed. The staff in his hands felt strange and alien, but it was better than no staff and he'd been grateful of it when he accidentally ran into this latest pack of deep stalkers. He'd found it near the rotting remains of some poor unfortunate about four hallways back. From the looks of the hurlock carcasses around the remains, whoever he was had put up a valiant defence but had been overcome by sheer weight of numbers, he guessed. He'd been clad in fairly nondescript robes; not a Grey Warden, from what he could tell. He had wondered who he had been and what he'd been doing alone down in the Deep Roads.

The abandoned pack nearby had held few clues; from the freshness of the rations, he didn't think he'd been down here long. Anders had taken what seemed unspoiled and still good, together with some spare clothing; whoever the mage was, he had been of a similar size to Anders. He'd found an interesting grimoire, some potions and a pouch of silver in the backpack. With an apologetic shrug, he'd appropriated them; their former owner had no further use for them, after all. Still, he felt a little guilty as he'd looted the dead man's belongings.

The staff had lain just beyond the reach of the cold stiff fingers. He had felt an odd, strange tingling in his hand as he had picked it up, but it wore off swiftly, and the staff itself seemed, at least upon the surface, to be unremarkable. It was crafted from some strange black wood he was unfamiliar with. The blade at its foot was leaf-shaped and crafted from no metal he'd ever seen before; it was black, with a subtle ripple effect from where the metal had been folded countless times. The centre of the shaft was wound with black cord, and the staff was topped by a round, clear globe of polished quartz enclosed in tarnished silver thorned stems, like those of a rose, and the shaft immediately below the crystal was inlaid with lyrium in the form of a rose design.

The staff was easy enough to use; it was balanced just perfectly for those fancy twirls and flourishes he just couldn't resist even in the most heated and hectic battles. It seemed to channel his magic almost... eagerly; at least, that was the only way he could find to describe it. As his power flared through his body and flowed through the staff, the lyrium roses glowed, as did the crystal, seeming to amplify the effect of his spells. He'd had cause to be very glad of it very soon after finding it, as he'd run almost immediately into a group of five hurlocks. Then three genlocks. Then there'd been that shrieker.

After that, he had the misfortune to run into wave after wave of darkspawn. It were as though the Deep Roads were throwing everything at him he'd been fortunate to avoid in the first couple of weeks on the way in. He was running on a lack of sleep, close to empty, exhausted and only keeping going by relying on his dwindling supply of lyrium potions.

He stared around himself at the latest dispatched pack of deep stalkers and groaned as he felt the tell-tale tickling and scratching in the back of his skull. He backed away towards the passageway that his maps told him should lead to the surface, etching glyphs into the dirt as he went. As the next wave of deep stalkers emerged from the darkness and skulked towards him, he turned and began to sprint up the passage. The skittering sound of claws on rock told him they were following; at the first curve in the passage, he turned and aimed a blast of pure raw magic back towards the closest glyph, and stayed only long enough to see the chain reaction of explosions start to flow back towards the deep stalkers. Then he fled.

He stumbled as suddenly there was a deep rumble and the ground beneath his feet heaved briefly. Glancing back, he saw with alarm that the roof of the passageway was starting to crumble in. His eyes widening, he turned and fled, desperately trying to outrace the cave-in before he could be entombed together with the darkspawn he'd just a little too effectively decimated. He breathed a brief but fervent prayer to the Maker that the surface was close.

He stumbled out into the late afternoon sunshine, coughing and choking as clouds of dust billowed out around him and the cave roof behind him collapsed inwards, spewing out rocks and small boulders as he staggered away from the depression in the hillside where once there had gaped a cave mouth. He turned and stared wide-eyed at the destruction it seemed his spells had wrought as he leaned upon his staff and tried to catch his breath, still coughing. His clothes, possessions, everything about him – everything was covered in fine, grey-brown dust.

But he'd done it. He'd made it through the Deep Roads alone – and escaped with his life.

Now if only he knew just where, exactly he was, he would be so much happier.





He was feeling marginally happier a couple of hours later. He'd managed to find a stream to wash in, changed into some of the spare clothing he'd found, and managed to catch and kill a rabbit with a handy small lightning bolt. A bit of foraging yielded up some reasonable wild greens and herbs to cook with it, and the resulting stew by a warm fire in a sheltered spot went a long way towards making him feel happier with the world – or at least, the small part of the world he happened to be inhabiting right at that moment. He'd washed his other clothes in the stream, and they now hung drying on a nearby bush.

He still had no idea where he was. He knew it was somewhere on the coast, but he didn't seem to have emerged anywhere near any form of settlement or town. But at least with a full belly and some sleep without the fear of lurking darkspawn he would hopefully be in a better position to carry on come the morning.

He reached for his pack and pulled out the grimoire that had belonged to the dead mage, drawing the black staff closer. He ran a hand over its smooth haft absently as he opened the book and began to leaf through it.

The style of the book was familiar to him; it reminded him a lot of the grimoires written and used in the Ferelden Circle. Most of the spells and potions were just variations of those in his own grimoire, but there were some interesting notes on magically augmented herbal preparations that piqued his curiosity. He could find no clue as to the identity of the grimoire's former owner however; some hapless apostate who had outrun the templars only to come to grief in the Deep Roads. He idly wondered if perhaps it had been someone he had known whilst in the Circle. He rather hoped not.

The evening was drawing on, and the air was starting to turn chill; it was coming on to autumn, and the wind was cold. Anders shifted a little closer to the fire as he laid out his bedroll and snuggled under the blankets. He'd set wards around the sheltered hollow where he'd set up camp; for once he felt he could probably relax enough to sleep properly, though it still wouldn't be as restful as a bed in an inn. Still, he was grateful for what he could get.

He lay on his back under the stars, staring up at the night sky. He was quietly comforted to think that those same familiar constellations also shone over Hawke and Fenris, wherever they may be. He fell asleep whilst musing over what they might be doing right at that moment.




It turned out he'd been closer than he thought to civilisation; two hours' walking the next morning brought him to a village on the road to Highever. To his surprise, the staff slung upon his back occasioned no more than the occasional curious glance; he guessed they didn't see templars much in the area, and the news of the Chantry's destruction in Kirkwall obviously hadn't reached here yet. Cautious inquiries garnered the information that he was only half a day's ride from Highever; he stayed in the village long enough to pick up some apples, bread and cheese before continuing on his way, cheered by the thought he might spend that coming night in a real bed for the first time in nearly three weeks.

It took him most of the day, but towards dusk he was rewarded by the sight of the walls of Highever as they came into view. He managed to reach the city just before the great gates closed for the night; he was surprised that here, again, the staff upon his back occasioned no more than the odd curious glance, and he began to wonder in earnest just what news of the mages' uprising had reached Ferelden. Still, he seemed to blend in with the other newcomers to the city; the guards on the gate gave him no more than a cursory glance as he made his way into the city.

He instinctively made his way towards the harbour quarter; he had spent long enough on the run before Kirkwall to learn that the less salubrious inns were to be found in such places – the sort of establishments where an apostate mage on the run could keep his head down and avoid the eyes of those who might be inclined to cause him trouble. It didn't take him long to find just such a place. The faded painted sign outside proclaimed it to be the Sea Goat, and the reek that hit him when he pushed open the door made him wonder if the goat of the same name had perhaps been drowned and then served up in whatever revolting stew appeared to be being served that evening.

Still, he wasn't here for the inn's dubious culinary delights; as long as the bed were reasonably comfortable and infested with a minimum of insect life then he was content to put up with the smell. He certainly couldn't imagine any templar wanting to linger here for longer than was absolutely necessary, which made the place just perfect as far as Anders was concerned. After inquiring behind the bar about a room and laying down some silver, he ordered a pint of the local watered-down piss they called beer and retreated with it to a relatively quiet table at the back near the fire. He sat and nursed the beer, glad for the warmth of the inn and the noise of voices other than his own around him.

"Well, you're a sight for sore eyes, Blondie, and no mistake!" drawled a familiar voice. Anders jumped, splashing beer across the surface of the grimy wooden table as he pushed himself back, glancing up. His eyes went wide as he took in the female figure standing before him, one hand on her hip, her amber eyes dancing as she grinned down at him.

"Hello, Anders," grinned Isabela.
Anders finds a staff. And has an unexpected meeting.
© 2011 - 2024 The-Arkadian
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Teru-is-True's avatar
O: Isabela! 8D
:heart: :heart: :heart:

Soooo anxious to see what's next!

Ah, but you're gonna switch gears to Fen-fen and Hawkie next chapter. :6
Spoilsport and tease.