An Idiot's Oath.

Lothering, for all the efforts even now being put into its reconstruction, was a chaos of villagers and travelers and workers and soldiers going here and there, and Nygozy was understandably busy. The Warden-Commander had her hands full with a collection of spontaneous recruits and Wardens that seemed to be arriving every hour, to say the least of Macha's own sudden intrusion into her plans. Once she'd delivered her message and made official her reinstatement of service, Macha had done her best to leave Nygozy be. There would be more than enough time for catching up on the road ahead, and it wasn't as if there was any lack of things for her to do in the meantime.

She had been in Lothering for two nights now, and this morning was dawning as noisily and bustling as the last. It seemed to Macha that the townsfolk of Lothering never slept; there always seemed to be something new built up overnight, and the sound of hammering and slamming and shuffling was near-constant. Admittedly, when she'd first started traveling around Ferelden with Nygozy during the Blight, she'd had trouble sleeping in the wilderness, used to the comforts of her room and bed. But she'd learned well by now to sleep when she could—Maker knew the nightmares made it difficult enough to manage even that, so sleep where she could find it was essential. Compared to all of that, the reconstruction was mere background noise.

Macha had busied herself yesterday by chatting with some of the city's reconstruction planners. She was no engineer or mason, but she had overseen the maintenance of Highever her whole life, and had picked up much and more from that time while acting in Alistair's place during the reconstruction of Denerim. Providing a less-weary extra eye, she'd helped rearrange some of the public square's plans, among several other suggestions. It wasn't her intention to take over—she knew she couldn't commit to it, given the fact that their Warden company was due to leave any day now—but it felt good to offer the help. Today, however, she felt like butting in would be over-staying her welcome, and she was on the hunt for some other business, no matter how insignificant, to keep her occupied. Perhaps she should go speak with some of the recruits that had been spilling into Lothering the last few days. Nygozy had met a great many of them, but Macha hadn't spoken to any of them personally. It might do both parties some good, a meeting of the senior and junior ranks.

The Wardens had been set up in a small compound near the village gates, and Macha had been on her way there on foot—no need to ride Damon around in this cramped village. He was a war horse, and he might have been as even-tempered as they came, but there just wasn't enough space for him to move around without due-cause. Besides, Lothering was a small village, and the walk wasn't far.

Just as with the last time she'd been to Lothering, the fields spread before the town were filled with refugees, vagabonds, and merchants of every race and varieties of intentions. Some were simply hoping to find a new home; others were looking to take advantage of so many struggling people in one place. All of them, regardless of origin, looked bone-weary and nervous, though the terror that she had seen last time seemed to be absent now. That was an improvement, at least.

But then, a loud sound cut through the air, and a few of the camped out families looked to the sky with a start. For some, that old familiar terror returned to the line of their faces. Macha came to a sudden and alert attention, freezing as she turned her ear towards the sound. She wanted to turn around and tell all that it was nothing to fear—that a horn blown outside a town might simply be a signal of approach and nothing more. But when it blasted again, frantically, she feared that their panic might not be misplace.

"Stay where you are, all of you!" She shouted. The people nearest her, noting immediately her Warden regalia and accepting her without question as a voice of authority, nodded, and shuffled quickly back to their tents and lean-tos. Some soliders, who had moments before been leaning on their spears with boredom were approaching her. Macha noted, with a grim pull at her lips, that their young faces were almost as frightened as the refugees.

"What should we do, Ser? Is it- Could it be darkspa-"

"A horn like that will be sounding for bandits," she interrupted. "I don't sense any darkspawn around here." She didn't want to tell them that darkspawn usually came upon you so suddenly that there was almost never time to sound a horn of pleading or warning. But it was true that she didn't sense any darkspawn, and that was some comfort. Bandits she could handle. "One of you, come with me. You," she said, pointing to the younger of the two, the one who seemed more afraid, "go back to the Chantry and get anyone you can gather in short time and bring them along." In a town as small as Lothering, there was no city guard—the local Chantry's Templars were all the defense they had. In this case, it was probably overkill, though she doubted any of the townsfolk were complaining.

With the other soldier in tow and Argos, her constant shadow, at her heels, she started off at a brisk jog towards the sound of the horn. It hadn't been far off. She wished she had a horse, but hopefully she would get there in time on foot if she hurried. Her soldier companion might tire from such a hurried pace, but her Warden stamina was incredible, and she at least would be fine. She had gone faster and longer, and still managed to fight gangs of darkspawn more times than she cared to remember in the past.

Lothering was set just on the edge of the Korcari Wilds. The line of trees had been pushed back, hundreds of trees cut down for lumber, but you'd hardly have noticed. The forest loomed as massive and imposing as ever before them. Caravans who had to come through the forest were notoriously paranoid about traveling through the gloomy wood, fearing bandits or worse, but more often than not their fears were unfounded. Anywhere else, such a forest would have been the perfect place for thieves and brigands to steal upon traveling merchants, but such was the reputation and the fearful stories of the Wilds that most bandits stayed clear. For a moment, Macha thought of Morrigan, and smiled.

At last, Macha and her soldier came upon a small clearing of the woods. The trees were still thin here, and the sunlight was strong through them, the town still in sight just beyond the trees ahead. As far as strategic places for bandits to attack from went, it was horrible. Any bandit worth their salt would have attacked further back in the forest, where city guards and sunlight were both far away.

"Ho, there!" she called, both of her swords in hand. Argos stalked beside her, as much a third weapon as a blade or bow. "What caravan is this? What's the trouble here?"

[[Anyone who likes is free to have heard the horn as well, or get pulled along by the second soldier. The duel will be between Macha and Charrick, but backup (or an audience) is always welcome!]]

((Hey! I'm taking the liberty of jumping in, just to spectate, because I feel like this might be fun))

“Wow, t’s been a while since yer sword last saw a whetstone, uh?”

The blacksmith tried himself to small-talk while running the edge of the short sword across the spinning wheel. For a silver paid in advance, he had agreed to do a quick sharpening of Damien’s blades; after the knife, the hatchet, and fixing the spear, work finally started on the warrior’s favorite sword. The old man had stopped being surprised at the sight of elves around town, but he was still a little bit uncomfortable when it came to talking to them. Luckily for him, Damien was in a rather good mood – a nice change for once – after having been accepted in the Wardens’ caravan, and already used to the awkwardness between races. There was nothing better than small talk to overcome it.

“Yeah, it’s been a few months at least since I last stopped in a town for longer than just ‘overnight’.”

Besides, the craftsman was kind of nice actually. A man in his fifties, too interested in his trade to bother having an opinion about races, politics, or religion: the elf immediately saw his hesitation was more about not being used to interact with other races, than any deep-rooted defiance towards elves. Something even Damien appreciated greatly in these artisans was the way they trusted experience more than preconceptions, and that brand of honesty they had in everything they did, even when that was just ‘feeling awkward’.

“So you’re stayin’ with’em wardens, uh?”

“Hm,” the elf nodded, “arrived here two days ago, and they took me in.” He didn’t feel like explaining the specifics, knowing full well the blacksmith wouldn’t care anyway. “It’s not gonna be easy, but I’ve been through enough crap already that they’ll...”

Horn.
Horn.
Horn.
Silence fell abruptly for a long second, while both men processed the information. It was a miracle the distant guardsman picked this precise moment to sound his call, when the blacksmith had stopped his grinding to examine the blade. Around the whetstone wheel, just outside of the shop, on the side of the road, both men looked at each other, one man of arm to another.

“Oh,” the old one frowned, concerned, almost shaking. “That’s trouble.”

With a nod, Damien confirmed his suspicions. From his own experience of convoy-guarding, the elf recognized the call for help. “That’s from out of town. Most likely a caravan.” Lone travelers, indeed, rarely thought to carry a horn with them, and even more rarely were given the opportunity to use it. “Probably bandits trying to get their share of the goods coming in.”

Bullshit, he thought to himself. He had been in enough caravans, and had been a bandit long enough to know that no ambush would take place this close to the town, and certainly not with the Wardens’ presence. A pack of wandering darkspawns, on the other hand, was a possibility. But here was no need spreading panic: with the Hero of Ferelden, and all the allies he had only caught a glimpse of, any incident could probably be dealt with before anyone noticed a thing.

“Nothing you should worry about, anyway. You’ve got the Hero and her Wardens on site and, more importantly,” he dragged on, hastily putting on his armor, “you’ve got me.” Though no Warden, and certainly no member of any city watch, Damien refused to miss the opportunity: Darkspawns! He’d never thought he would be able to show his worth so early. Since he decided to join the Hero, things were just getting better and better.

It took him a couple minutes gathering and readying his gear. Then, following a well-coded ritual, Damien reached for a linen scarf, tucked beneath the collar of his leather jerkin, and put it over his mouth and nose. Then, with an oft-repeated gesture, he clicked in the visor of his helmet, a face-shaped mask of immaculate steel. Two slits for his eyes, one for his mouth, and enough protection to keep tainted blood off from his face. With his weapons at the ready – although his sword was only half-sharpened -, and the payment already made, the warrior was quick to jump on his mount and rush his war horse along the main road and through the gates. On the busy path, those who were not taking refuge after the sound of the alarm quickly cleared the way, at the sight of the masked half-armored man, chest covered but arms bare, charging full speed with spear and shield in hands.

Thundering down the road, it was only a short while before Damien sighted a caravan, halted in the middle of a small clearing, bodies on the floor, and, as you would expect it, a Warden. These guys had a reputation of popping up where danger is, the elf thought, but that was a whole new level of swiftness! And… wait a minute. As he got closer to the scene, he could only see backs, but that Warden heraldry with a flow of black hair streaming down, that voice, and that dog: the elf quickly recalled the woman he saw on his first day in Lothering, when he had introduced himself to Nygozy. Well at least she can put her loud mouth to good use, he thought as her call filled the whole clearing. He slowed down to a trot, and then halted when he reached the curious man-woman-and-dog patrol. With a quick nod as greeting and acknowledgment, Damien remained on his horse in silence – there was nothing to add.

Upon closer inspection of the scene, at least one survivor could be easily spotted, sitting atop the caravan itself, and strangely careless too, for some woman surrounded by unconscious-if-not-dead people. What was that? A mistake, a quarrel, a joke… a decoy? His traits tense behind the cover of his mask, Damien scanned his surroundings, expecting… what, exactly? Answers, at the very least.

Oh. Oh now. This was –more- than perfect. Charrick’s grin widened as she caught the sound of twigs cracking in the distance. What luck! Bare minutes after the poor boy had sounded his horn, and she already had a visitor… more than one, from the avalanche of footsteps headed her way. Beneath her, hushed whispers broke out from within the caravan. Charrick chuckled. No doubt they were as curious as she was.


“Relax, relax!” She sing-songed, rapping merrily on the caravan roof: the voices within hushed abruptly. “I don’t know any of ‘em. More then likely, they’re knights in shining armour…”


Two armoured forms erupted through the treeline. Charrick cupped her chin in her hands, tossing an insousiant grin at the newcomers. One she barely saved a glance for: just another boy in armour, his armoured knees clanging together even as he leant on his spear and wheezed, obviously out of breath. It was the woman next to him who left her breathless, a tall, striking figure in ornate armour, her piercing blue eyes flicking over the ruins of Charrick’s latest conquest without a flicker of fear. Slightly more worrying was the warhound padding silently along beside her like a second shadow. Charrick had nothing but respect for the big dogs, having been on the wrong end of a set of fangs more than once in her life. It was an experience she had no wish to repeat. Still…


A familiar rush pounded through Charrick’s veins, igniting goosebumps over her bare arms. After so long without a decent fight she was practically –aching- for a decent challenge, and from the way this swordswoman carried herself, she could tell that she wouldn’t be disappointed.


A sing-song whistle echoed through her teeth, a classic traveller’s greeting made to carry far across the desert sands.


“… here to save the day?" She said. "Hah, the look on your face: absolutely priceless! Welcome to Seear’s Caravan~” Charrick flicked a smirk at the newcomer. “Don’t worry, don’t worry. Most of ‘em are breathin’, I’m pretty sure.” She shrugged a shoulder. “Normally I wouldn’t of touched ‘em: none of ‘em really had any substance. Much like yer little friend there.” A dismissive wave at the young guard, who had placed a hand on his swordhilt. “Honestly, if ya wanted an intimidatin’ escort, might wanna pick one with armour that fits properly. Gotta say, ruins the whole appeal. The growlin’ mutt, yer hair flowin’ loose, swords out… very warrior-made.” She grinned. “Liked ya the minute I saw ya. Woulda liked ya more without the tagalong…” She blinked, chuckled. Really, how ridiculous could she be? “But hey, what do you care whether I like ya or not? We’ve only just met.” A sudden, savage grin. “… an’ since I’m the one who laid this whole caravan to waste, ya can’t be feelin’ too charitable at the moment, right? I’m kinda countin’ on it.”


More rustling, leaf litter stirring. Charrick straightened up, her whole countenance brightening as another figure strode into view: a lean, mounted warrior, face hidden behind a featureless mask of burnished steel. She tipped him a cheery nod, but was cut off before she could greet him by another, gruffer voice:


“Alright, so what is this party, and why haven’t I been invited?”


“Well, it’s not much of a party yet~ Could be, though.” Charrick swung her legs and smiled, trying to ignore the sudden twinge of nervousness twisting in her stomach. These three were all obviously seasoned warriors, that much was certain. If they all attacked at once, she could be in trouble. That said… if they did and she managed to pull it off… hah, that’d be something to brag about. Still, it would be more advantageous to fight them one at a time…


“The name’s Charrick Vasker.” She gave a mock bow, jabbing at her breastbone with a calloused thumb. “An’ if yer wonderin’ about the piles of scrap metal littered around us,” A pointed toe to the caravan guards still groaning on the forest floor, “They drew their swords first. Kept yellin’, ‘Darkspawn, Darkspawn,’ at me. Come on, do I really look that monstrous? Still, glad they did. I was bored out of my skull, they gave me a bit of a workout.” She slipped down from her perch, landing gracefully. “An’ then one of them had to go and sound the alarm. That’s fine too. ‘S not as though I was goin’ to rob ‘em. All I’m after is a bit of a challenge.”

…What?

The woman’s word echoed in the clearing: the speech was crude but understandable, yet Damien listened and could not believe. There stood, gloating, boasting, taunting, a she-bear of a girl who claimed to have taken out, an entire squad of men in arms - and with what exactly? Unarmed and with about as much protection as a brothel stripper (well technically you could pay for armored strippers but that’s not the point), was he to believe that the woman, no matter how savaged she looked, simply wrestled them all into submission? But if magic had been used, it certainly had been well concealed: no blood, no scorch marks, no traces of frost… Arms open in disbelief, the elf was left with the bitter realization that his promised darkspawns had been traded for one lone lunatic.

“Seriously?” His complaint was directed towards the bare-fisted warrior, but addressed only to the cruel and mysterious gearings of fate. “That’s it?”

He had been betrayed! Cheated! Robbed of his chance to shine! All this hurry and enthusiasm and for what? For some crazed half-naked chick who somehow managed to knock out an escort party, really? How had they been so badly overpowered, anyway? From what breed of wimps had these guys been picked?
Feeling hot blood flushing his face, Damien unclasped the visor of his helmet and hung it on the side of his saddle. Whatever trap that could be, darkspawns were apparently not on today’s menu. Pulling the scarf down, he revealed his face, looking just slightly more pissed than usual.

“Apparently it’s a search party.” Damien shouted to the huge Nevarran, answering him in an angry rant: “An entire caravan has lost their balls on the way here, and they’re nowhere to be found!”

With a final ‘f-expletive’, the elf rolled his head back and finally relaxed a bit, letting a sigh flow heavily through his teeth. Regaining a cooler composure, he started to reason that there might be more to it than met the eye: there were chances the girl was just a decoy, and another body could very well be lying in ambush behind the trees, bows drawn, waiting for more targets to show up. In front of him, the august noblewoman had started to circle the caravan, carefully examining every detail, and with the bright idea of dragging along with the speech; he took this opportunity to tell her his intentions:

“Alright, I’m still thinkin’ it’s an ambush. You keep her distracted or whatever, I’ll go check the treeline over there.” With the tip of the spear, he motioned to the only part of the clearing that he thought could be potentially dangerous: considering he arrived from the main road, while Macha had cut through near him and Bowen came in from the right, there was only one spot left where a threat could hide. “Just make sure the bitch doesn’t shoot me in the back,” he grumbled, “she might be a witch for all we know.”

Guiding his mount away, he trotted along the edge of the woods, shield raised, scanning the darkness of trees and foliage beyond. It was never easy trusting his back to someone else’s watch, especially facing such an ill-defined danger. But Damien felt it crucial to trigger any trap now rather than letting a hidden enemy freely keep their initiative. Besides, after what he had been through in the past year, he had learned to trust people fighting on his side, and if anything, Gray Wardens were most probably at least as trustworthy as his former associates. Soon enough, and more puzzled than ever, Damien raised the all-clear signal from the edge of the clearing, before making his way back to the caravan. With the threat of an ambush diminishing, the horseman took the risk of putting down his helmet, then, looking at the scene with a mix of confusion and frustration, scratched his head, waiting for what’s next.

The grin fell from Charrick’s face, to be replaced by a hard, cold stare. So, one of her armoured visitors thought she was touched, the other that she wasn’t worth his time. Same old, same old. It wasn’t as though she wasn’t used to the incredulity. But sometimes, -sometimes,- the mystified expressions really grated.


“ ‘That’s it,’ huh?” She leant forward, locking eyes with the bemused horseman as he returned from looking for her imaginary comrades. “So if someone’s not wearin’ armour, or carryin’ a blade, or settin’ the forest alight with a snap of their fingers, they’re not worth the trouble?” She snorted. “You know who else thought like that? These men here. Can’t ever assume someone’s weak till ya tangle with ‘em.” She snorted. “Couple of ‘em mighta put up a half-decent fight, if they’d kept their heads a little.” Her eyes burned. “You're not the one who thrashed ‘em, so you don’t ‘ave a right to mock ‘em.”


Then Macha raised her sword, and –click- onto her face snapped her biggest grin yet. Wild. Avid. Almost hungry.


“Haha, that’s the spirit!” She vaulted down from the top of the wagon, stepping lightly over the prone forms of the fallen guards, tipping Bowen a cheery wink. “An’ of course I’m serious. Why wouldn’t I be? I wouldn’t call this the middle of nowhere either.” She halted a good distance away from the waiting noblewoman, flicking the trio an insouciant grin. “See, I heard a story from the last caravan I challenged. Tale of a dwarf-girl who’d killed an Archdemon, something like that. So,” she shrugged. “Here I am! Everyone back west seems to love ‘er, so I thought I’d come an’ see what all the fuss was about. Dunno what an’ Archdemon is, but it sure as hell sounds strong.” A soft chuckle. “I’d –love- to meet the person who took down somethin’ as mean-sounding as that.”


She met Macha’s eyes, suddenly serious.
“But, if ya don’t think I’m worth ‘er time, then all ya gotta do is beat me in a fair fight. Ya do that, I swear I’ll go north, south, stroll right into a cell, wherever ya wanna take me. If ya don’t…” She cocked her head to one side. “Then I’ll stay right here ‘till the next caravan comes along.” For a moment her smile seemed almost bitter. “ ‘S not like I got anywhere else to go. Don’t worry, I won’t hurt anyone who don’t fight back: I’m not gonna bully a bunch of harmless merchants. An’ for those that do…” She pointed back over Bowen’s shoulder. “Yer camp’s over there, right? Gotta be someone there who knows how to set a broken bone or two. Why do you think I jumped ‘em here?” She snorted. “I've been doin' this for a while: I don’t want anyone to bleed out ‘cause of me. Just ‘cause they’re weaker’en me doesn’t mean I want ‘em dead. But still, lotta people’ll get hurt.”


She stepped forward. For Charrick, it was as if the rest of the world fell away, the trees around her, the caravan behind her, the guards scattered around them… they all became nothing more than obstacles, things to avoid or use as cover. Around her, the fallen guards twitched and moaned as an eerie atmosphere fell over the clearing, a false gloom that kindled a dull ache deep in the bones of those facing her. Once, further north, Charrick had met a warrior, a member of a fighting group called the Reavers, who seemed to recognise the effect, calling it a ‘Ring of Pain.’ Charrick hadn’t paid much attention. To her, it was simply something she’d always been able to do, a wild, prickling rush that settled across her skin whenever she got into a real fight.
“Ya wanna bring me in? Then come and get me.” The wild girl’s eyes glinted, daring Macha to challenge her one-on-one. “If yer worried about gettin’ hurt, then I have no problems with yer friends steppin’ in if things get too rough.”