#noble origin

Another sketchy paint doodle thing of Bunc :)

wake up babe new cass au dropped - weeping gods edition

spelled kassandros - vague greek descent; mostly egyptian

son of vizier harkhuf / noble origin; early 20s (21-22)

as per usual, polyam achillean

sad wet beast core + less hard edges than canon!cassander

was married but his wife unfortunately died soon into their marriage, leaving him a widower

m!ahmose + m!zaia romance

escapee master

Sabeta and Rowan Cousland, sis and bro.

Ah Dragon Age fanfic, I missed youuuu!

Rated: Teen and Up

Warnings: allusions to death and gore, angst

Words: 961

Summary: Breme’s serious talk with Alistair didn’t turn out how she wanted.

Part 1 of ?? of the On the Heroes Borne of River Dane series

The air between them felt a little heavier after Alistair's weighty confession about wishing to die with Duncan. Breme scrutinized him as he lapsed into silence and stared into the campfire beside them. She didn’t belittle him, not like Morrigan would have, but she softly assured him that she understood completely. It didn’t look like it assuaged any of his guilt. Alistair tugged at a strap under his armor, shifting from foot to foot. He looked up at Breme through his lashes, clearing his throat quietly and lowering his voice so that not even Leliana, standing on the other side of the fire, couldn’t hear him. "Have you...had someone close to you die? Not that I mean to pry… I'm just..."

Breme felt herself deflate, her breath leaving her in a rush. All the events of the last few weeks were played over again in her head, fresh and painful to relive. Discovering her nephew and sister-in-law left in pools of their own blood. The tug of Rory's hand around her wrist as he pulled her back to him for a final goodbye kiss pressed to her quivering lips. Her father gutted and dying in her arms. Her mother sacrificing herself so that Breme and Duncan could get a head start. Her mother... She had been trying desperately to tell her something over the din and chaos. "Your father," she kept saying. "You need to know about your father." At the time, Breme has assumed she was talking about Bryce—who else could she be talking about? Yet Eleanor apologized over and over again, always, apologizing to Breme. She had supposed it was shock; she felt it too. The tightness sunk from her chest to her bones. Her heart, it felt, had been completely ripped from her. Yet after having so much time to herself in Duncan's company she was wondering if Eleanor had meant...something else entirely.

Duncan had tried to help her as best as he could, trying both to coax her out of her silence and give her adequate space, but Breme thought he hardly should have bothered. She wasn't sad and she never cried; all Breme had felt was empty. And in the interim when even emptiness was too much for her heart to bear, she felt...rage.

Howe would pay, she kept telling herself. Howe would pay, Howe would pay, Howe would pay, and that had been all that had kept her going, one foot trudging in front of the other. She repeated his offenses, the list of names of those people she had found dead. Oran, Oriana, Eleanor, Bryce, Roland, Ser Fere, Dairren, Lady Landra, Iona and her daughter that waited for her, Nan, her tutor Aldous, Cymren, Gal, Kiera.... Every guest, every Cousland, every soldier and every servant, all the ones she knew, and all the ones she didn’t. Breme's desire for vengeance was all that kept her alive some days. It was the only flame that burned in her heart when her grief had stripped all else away.

And then, it had happened all. over. again.

She had made new acquaintances, met new people; the kind that she had never known in Castle Cousland. Duncan, the Grey Warden who had shown her nothing but kindness since they left Castle Cousland in flames behind them. Ser Jory, the dedicated (if somewhat tiresome) knight from Redcliffe. Daveth, the clever cutpurse with the brightest smile she had ever seen. The gruff quartermaster, the attentive healers, the proud Ash Warriors that took her in, her brother Fergus, even the King. Another family to fill the void of the one she had lost. It could have been hers for the taking. Until it was stolen from her all over again. This time, the thief was the fabled hero, Loghain Mac Tir.

Maybe she was cursed, Breme surmised. Maybe everything she touched was doomed to die. The curse of the last Cousland from Highever. Maybe she was the one that brought death wherever she went. Certainly looked that way. After Breme became a Grey Warden, the Darkspawn taint writhing inside her like an ugly black slug, she almost felt as if she brought the Blight with her now too. Already, they were hearing talk that Lothering was being swallowed up by Darkspawn and they had hardly left a few days ago. So perhaps it was true. Breme brought nothing but death and she trailed the Blight behind her.

And while Breme felt nothing more than the angry spark in her heart once again, Alistair had been upset ever since they quit the Korcari Wilds. Breme had meant to bring it up, to ask about Duncan and try to coax him out the way his mentor had done for her. Clearly the other Grey Warden was close to Duncan and he mourned him acutely. Breme could see his suffering as surely as she felt her own. But, still wrestling with her own twisted grief, she wasn't sure she could stomach someone else's.

She had finally mustered up the courage to ask him, in half-hopes of voicing her own sorrow, maybe. It couldn't have hurt to speak up. Anything to fill up the hole that was tearing her chest ragged from the inside.

And then he had asked her. Did anyone close to her die?

Breme blinked her piercing blue eyes up at Alistair and wetted her lips. Her heart hammered loud in her ears. She took a breath and her stomach twisted into knots. "I'd rather not talk about it, to be honest." Her voice, thick with emotion, betrayed her and she scowled at the ground.

"Oh." Alistair hesitated a moment. "Sorry about that." Breme felt his hand pat her shoulder awkwardly.

She shrugged him away. She wasn't sorry.