#grcywardcn

Gerlinde didn’t want to say she was suspicious of this newcomer, after all, newcomers came in all the time. Little boys and little girls who didn’t know they were going to be here forever and ever, or new Templars who gave her nasty looks, they knew who she was, they heard of her, the strange one with the curly hair who bit a Templar on her first day. She hated them. They were bad men.

But this wasn’t a little boy, or a little girl, or a Templar. This was an entirely new person, one that had come regularly as of late. He took Wynne away, she was a nice lady, nice to her like Irving was. Irving had told her that he was a Grey Warden, and he was here to recruit mages to fight the darkspawn. Which meant they got to leave the Tower. 

Gerlinde had been stalking behind the old man since he once again entered the home of the Magi, she was very good at being as quiet as a chantrymouse. She sometimes scared other people when they didn’t realised she had entered the room. She was watching him, he was watching everyone else, not knowing whether or not Irving had even mentioned the dishevelled, newly promoted mage, and her apparent gift for spirit magic.

All she knew is that Duncan was an outsider, and he knew things she did not.

She remembered waking up in a cold sweat some nights, touching her hand to her face to ensure there were no black veins swelling beneath her fingertips. Every night, she was proven a fool for confusing dreams and reality, but now?

Now she could feel her blood thicken under her skin, slowly poisoning her, and the only thing that stood before her and death was some mysterious ritual even Anders had seemed unsure about. Her full weight was shared between two Wardens, one she remembered from a time long ago, before the Blight. Before Tamlen had vanished.

“Your name is... Duncan, isn’t it?” she asked, voice hoarse from either the Taint or the weeks they had spent escaping the Deep Roads.

“Am I going to die?”

talk about us ( accepting ) | @grcywardcn

What they define their relationship with your muse as: I am not sure what I will come up with considering the amount of interactions but I’ll try to make my best guess :’) For now, it is business related, he’s going to go help her with darkspawn considering the priestess has never really fought or seen a darkspawn up close and she doesn’t want to take the risk. He is an odd human, she has not met many if any humans that would have stuck up to some knife ears ( when they assumed that she was dalish ), regardless if in the paper says that they should do so. They are both older people and until now it’s been pretty amicable.

Something they like about your muse: His dedication to his duty regardless of how unpopular it is and his face. His face is pretty for a human.

Something they dislike about your muse: He’s human  :(

Their first impression of your muse: Should have smacked his shield on his friend’s head for being an idiot, agreeing to help her bought him cookie points though.

Their impression of your muse now: Can’t say since their interaction hasn’t moved too forward from there :’)

How they feel about your muse: just gonna remove this one because I simply go off on the other ones

Something they are hiding from your muse: At this point he doesn’t know anything in general so :’)

PET PEEVE HEADCANON

               people who play devil’s advocate, or anyone going out of their way to find something to criticize something by for no apparent reason??? that isn’t even helpful and just serves to feed their own ego????? that brand of purposeful negativity/cynicism aggravates her many pre-existing negative mindsets caused by her depression that she’s worked hard on trying to push aside. 

Riley wakes in bits and pieces, first aware of the clear sky above her, eyes trying to focus on the solitary cloud drifting across her field of vision. She falls back asleep -- or unconscious. She’s then aware of her body, a rock digging into her back, the agonizing pain in her leg. Then her face and the tacky feeling of dried blood. It takes a while to become fully conscious.

She gets to her feet when she’s awake, gingerly, careful to not put weight on her injured leg. She has to grit her teeth to muffle a scream, but she manages it. She knows there are bodies all around, her fellow Grey Wardens, the Fereldan soldiers, but she can’t think about it. She’s so thirsty, her whole body overly hot, and if she thinks about all of the dead, she’ll start to weep and never stop.

Her quiver is empty, but her bow is intact. She remembers her archer’s perch being overrun by darkspawn. She knows she must have fallen because she’s not up there anymore. But she doesn’t remember how it ended. She and her comrades were overrun only a few hours into the battle, shortly after Loghain and his ilk quit the field.

She can’t think about that either.

She picks her way off the battlefield, moving slowly but steadily. She doesn’t think her leg is broken, but her head’s seen better days. The blood dried on her face is probably hers. There’s a gash on the side of her skull. She focuses on that, and her thirst, and she’s able to make it to a quick-running stream as it’s starting to get dark. 

Now and then, a few denizens of Skyhold glance in their directions, eyes curious as the Wardens circle each other like wolves waiting for an opening. They were silent at first, focused and intent. And then the universe remembered that this was Alistair.

“Come on, old man,” he taunts, his grin turning impish at the corners.

Duncan scowls back at him, eyes rolling in exasperation. “Watch yourself, pup,” he cautions, but there’s little heat behind the words.

Alistair’s grin turns positively gleeful. “I’m the same rank as you now~” he offers in a sing-song. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

Finally, Duncan makes a move. Two longswords meet, and his dagger skitters against Alistair’s shield as it comes to bear. With a laugh, Alistair dodges out of reach again.

“Are you this much of a child in a real fight?” Duncan sighs, but there’s something like a smile hiding at the corner of his mouth.

“Different sort of childish, then,” Alistair informs him cheerfully. “Much more screaming and pants-wetting.”

Duncan sighs in irritation, and Alistair surges forward. There’s a reverberating clang of steel on steel, followed by a flurry of quick strikes. Alistair’s back hits the grass and Duncan’s foot pins his shield, but before he can bring his blade down, Alistair slips his arm from his shield and tumbles out of the way. He sweeps Duncan’s legs out from under him almost as an afterthought, and bounces back to his feet. He switches his sword to a two-handed hold, and Duncan shoves the shield out of reach as he stands back up.

He blocks the next strike with both blades, sword and dagger crossed. Alistair heaves his weight forward, sending Duncan just enough off-balance to avoid getting his sword wrenched away from him. Duncan stumbles back a step, and when he straightens back up, Alistair is half-blading his sword, the tip of the blade level with his nose.

“A tie, then?” Duncan suggests after a moment. Alistair glances down to where the tip of the dagger is tapping at gap in the collar of his armor.

“A tie,” Alistair agrees with a grin, lowering his sword as Duncan pulls his dagger back. There’s a beat, and then, “Best two out of three?”