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A Lonely Sorrow	By : catharsishedgehog Category: +A through F > Dragon Age (all) > Dragon Age (all) Views: 4168 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own Dragonage, the only character that is mine is Romaliin. I make no money. This is for fun.

Chapter List
- 1-A Lonely Sorrow
- 1
The smell of death hung in the air like the sweaty musk of the frightened buck fleeing the arrow and axe. Darkspawn hissed and shrieked and gargled out threats in a wicked tongue, brandishing their weapons with each thundering step they took towards the small set of forces in front of Ostagar. The hounds charged forth, snarling in defiance at every evil creature who dared to threaten their masters. Strips and sports of khadis streaked with their movements, blood curdling howls ringing out as the bear-like canines leapt and lunged at Darkspawn, powerful jaws snapping down and tearing away at plagued and rotten flesh.

A scarred man hefted his shield and sword, beads of sweat rolling down the side of his face that wasn’t mangled with scar tissue. Beside him, a handsome youth hefted a large sword, breathing heavily.

“Are you ready for this, Brother?” Carver breathed out in a shaky voice, glancing over at the better half of his older brother’s face. The larger of the two returned the glance with a set of almost yellow eyes, single remaining brow lowering over his right eye.

“Ready or not… they are coming,” Romaliin’s voice trailed off, eyes turning back to the rushing bulk of the horde, maintaining the stoicism that he had carried since his fifteenth year of life. Arrows rained down upon the Darkspawn, but the countless monsters continued to charge. The heat of battle burned in the scarred man’s blood, each uneasy shift of the soldiers all around him caused the dark hairs on equally dark arms to rise with unrest. The payment for this battle would have been enough to keep the Templars away for a decent amount of time… assuming they lived through the battle.

King Cailin, in his gleaming armor, raised an arm high above his head, face contorting with a fierce determination.

“For Ferelden!”

The cry was mimicked by the soldiers as they charged forward. Romaliin’s face kept up its stony features with only a vague twitch to display the fear that lurked beneath the surface, heavy boots thudding against the cold dirt of The Wilds, each breath puffing out in a small cloud. Slightly behind him, his somewhat lighter skinned brother ran as well, and a very brief glance showed him the tense expression Carver carried, trying to mask his own fear with a sense of rage. Whipping his attention back to the massive horde ahead of them, Romaliin brought his shield up in front of him, running alongside one of the senior grey wardens, yellow eyes shifting to pick out which target to strike down first.

He had not always been a soldier, his first instinct whenever he heard a bump in the night had not always been to reach for his sword… for that matter, he hadn’t always slept with his weapon.

No, the dark skinned man who charged forth with the rest of the Ferelden people had been contaminated by the weight of responsibility; it was a weight that he carried without complaint, though it had taken its toll already, and Romaliin was only twenty two.

The opposing forces met with a clash of metal, the shrieks of both Darkspawn and otherwise; hounds still weaved in and out of the foul creature, tackling some to the ground and tearing their throats out with a grim sense of duty. Romaliin lashed out with his sword, dragging the blade harshly across the chest of a sweat-glistening Darkspawn dressed and decorated with feathers and shrunken heads. The ichor that spat out of the wound did not look like blood, it was coagulated, sluggish, more like a puss that would slowly wind throughout the shrunken veins of the clammy creatures. Without pausing to linger, Romaliin gave a harsh kick to the creature’s head as it tumbled to the floor. The force of his steel-coated boot connecting with the creature’s poorly protected skull brought on the sound of a crack. Even still, the dark skinned man kept his shield raised, ducking down to avoid the crazed swing of a poorly made axe, making room for his younger brother to swing his sword at the same time, slicing the monster’s head from its shoulders.

So far, the battle was going as was expected.

The wardens chanted as they fought, boosting the rickety spirits of the other soldiers as best as they were able. Romaliin’s warden fought with two axes, teeth bared towards the creatures his life had been altered for the purpose of destroying. For a moment, the woman’s eyes appeared to glow with a ferocious blue light.

A badly formed arrow whizzed by Romaliin’s shoulder, tinking off the metal plates, quickly drawing his attention back to the battle. It did not matter which way he looked, the horde was massive. It swept across the battlefield and pushed ever forward, but the Ferelden forces were not relinquishing any ground; if it meant blocking the way forward with their bloody, broken bodies, they seemed more than willing to commit to that. Romaliin grunted when a mace thudded against his shield, jarring his arm, causing the heels of his shoes to sink into the blood soaked dirt. With his scarred face curled into a snarl to mimic that of the hurlock (the names of the different sorts of darkspawn had been told to him by that same woman with the blue eyes, over their last meal by the fire), the muscular young man shoved forward, lashing out with his right arm, striking the wrinkled creature square in the chest with his shield, driving the spike in the center of the shield into its tainted flesh; ignoring the pain as the mace struck at his side.

The cacophony of shrieks and metal against metal continued; now was not the time to falter due to pain.

Stomping on the neck of the Hurlock and effectively snapping it instantaneously, Romaliin continued on, always maintaining sight of his younger brother as well as the female warden who had eaten supper with them earlier that night. Three years ago, it would have been strange to think that someone he had just met earlier in the day might succumb to death later in the evening. At this point in his life, however, Romaliin was already well used to the concept.

Screams continued, the clashing of weapons rang out over and over, and the crackling of strange, magical things continued to sizzle in the air. Catapaults (how the darkspawn managed to get ahold of them, Romaliin wasn’t sure) flung fiery rocks up at the bridge above the Ferelden forces, either trying to waylay the archers along the edge or simply cause it to crash down upon their heads.

“Emissary!” the woman roared, stumbling as a barbed arrow sank into the leather of her armor, bypassing the chainmail that had been attached to the leather stripes to reinforce it. With barely a grunt of complaint, the grey warden charged forward, favoring her injured leg even as the barbed arrowhead continued to lacerate the muscles inside with each movement, blood flowing easily from the wound, soaking the leather that covered her muscular legs. The magic-wielding creature turned to look at her, letting out a scream of defiance as that gnarled staff swung at the woman, striking her shoulder and throwing her off balance.

Romaliin rushed forward, striking a genlock out of the way with his shield as he struggled to reach them in time, ugly face contorting with determination. At the end of the staff, the emissary had attached a poorly constructed, very crude blade, and that bladed edge was swinging down towards the warden with a vile intent. Stepping directly over the stocky woman, Romaliin hefted up his shield, blocking the staff even as his sword lashed out, slicing open the creature’s midriff, allowing steaming piles of shriveled organs to spill forth.

“Romaliin—“ the woman started, forcing a brief smile, harshly glowing eyes flicking back out to encroaching darkspawn that circled around the pair. The darkskinned man remained standing over her, yellow eyes peering out, facial expression stubbornly refusing to show the fear that bubbled beneath his skin. Genlocks cackled and snarled, waving stubby arms in an attempt to make the large, dark man falter. A Hurlock screamed out a challenge, brandishing its weapons and baring its teeth. Outside of the circle the creatures had formed, Carver was battling two hurlocks, large sword keeping the both of them at bay.

The tower had not yet been lit. Something wasn’t quite right.

Pushing those thoughts aside, Romaliin remained in a defensive posture, lashing out with his sword quickly when an ambitious genlock drifted closer, slicing through the top of its head. Below him, the warden brought two fingers to her mouth, letting out a sharp whistle, no doubt calling for a Mabari.

The circle tightened around them, sweat trickled down the right side of Romaliin’s face (the burns that had marred the left side of his face had effectively destroyed any and all sweat glands on that side), eyes widening with the amount of effort it took to focus on each and every one of them, occasionally letting out a bark of a shout, himself, returning tit for tat, keeping them at bay as best as he could. If they rushed, there was very little he could do. His armor was finely crafted (his previous line of work allowed him to pay for it), but with seven darkspawn all in a hungry frenzy, the chances of surviving a prolonged attack were slim to none. Somehow, he and the warden had managed to become rather isolated from the rest of the forces.

Shifting his weight from foot to foot, Romaliin ignored the dull throbbing in his side, likely from the battered muscles and possible broken ribs the mace to the side had provided him with. Now wasn’t the time… After the battle, healers could tend to them.

If they made it.

About the time the Hurlock pushed forward, a dark figured rushed forward, leaping into the air with a snarl and crashing into the Hurlocks back, tackling it to the ground and snapping its neck, causing quite the stir with the other darkspawn in the ever tightening circle.

“Help Romaliin, Brother!” the warden ordered, grasping her axes in gloved hands, blue eyes shifting from one creature to the next. Her leg burned like fire, and each movement only brought on a fresh spurt of pain, causing her to grit her teeth. All around them, screams rang out. The trees of the wilds seemed all the less welcoming, blocking them in with the darkspawn, almost as if the vegetation itself loved to watch the carnage unfolding. Bolts of strange things magical hissed through the air, striking down here and there. Arrows littered the blood-soaked grounds, and not so far away, an ogre was tearing towards a brightly armored figure.

“The king!” the warden cried, brows rising as she tried to struggle to her feet, managing to stand and keep most of her weight off of her injured leg.

“Romaliin!” Carver shouted out, apparently having finished off his two adversaries.

Romaliin still guarded the warden, actually venturing to lash out with his sword arm, slicing off the hand of a genlock before skipping back once more. The mabari called Brother danced about as well, snapping and snarling, lunging forth, yelping whenever sharp things bit into its flesh, but never abandoning his duty. His master had said to help the man called Romaliin, and help him, he would.

The dark-skinned man bashed a genlock in the face with his shield, forcing the clammy creature to flop back onto its rear with an indignant squall, and Brother made short work of lunging forth and finishing the creature off. Carver had since tromped over, cutting down a Hurlock with his blade before venturing closer to Romaliin’s side, exchanging a brief glance with his older brother. Both of them stank of fear and adrenaline, only Carver’s face betrayed his unease.

“Ro… The signal!” Hope was laced through Carver’s words as the fire finally lit in the tower of Ishal, all three of them, four, including Brother, awaited the horns that would sound off when Loghain and his men charged forward. The buzz of anticipation continued to rush through the brothers as well as the warden (not to mention the rest of the Ferelden forces) as they fought with renewed vigor, exhausted mages from the circle firing off more spells, archers letting loose arrows as quickly as their quivering arms would move, a dwarf with a battle-axe sliced a genlock very nearly in two.

For two minutes, everyone carried hope.

The ogre continued to lumber towards the king, tossing men and darkspawn out of its way as it pleased, tusk-like teeth dripping with a thick saliva as its horned head shook, letting out a roar that caused many to pause in their actions. A man Romaliin had only seen amongst the wardens was quickly battered aside with a spiked forearm, sent flying in the other direction over corpses. The muscled creature snatched up the gleaming king, forcing him to drop the blade he had carried so proudly.

Romaliin, Carver, the warden, and Brother could only watch as the beast shook him, forcing his bones to break under the pressure, tossing him aside like a ragdoll. Carver’s dark face gained a greenish hue, and Romaliin spared a wince, eyes flicking back to those spawn that were still around them.

Something was wrong. The flanking forces should have charged by now.

Gritting his teeth as a crude blade pounded against his armored forearm, Romaliin shoved off, bringing his right arm around with the shield to slam the edge of it into the foul creature.

“What do we do, Ro?!” Carver questioned in a frantic tone, faltering as the battle continued. The adrenal rush from the flash of hope was quickly dying down, leaving all of their limbs feeling heavy and stupid. The older brother glanced about, looking off into the wilds, mapping paths in his head, gauging directions and distances, even as his sword arm lashed out, jarring as it hit the armor of a Hurlock.

Finally, horns sounded.

Whatever color had been in Romaliin’s face quickly drained at the sound; he had been hired for enough skirmishes to know exactly what the note for retreat sounded like. Carver was looking at him with a panicked expression, and the warden stumbled over to lean heavily against him, looking rather blue due to the amount of blood that had drained from her body. Two more arrows had joined the first; one of which was from a human archer.

“The King…” The warden breathed out scratchily, trying to stumble towards the bloody corpse, only to be caught by Romaliin’s firm hand, blue eyes widening as her own commander was caught by the axe of a Hurlock elite.

“They are dead. We run,” Romaliin shouted above the cacophony, single brow lowering again.

“We flee like rabbits into a den?!” The warden was indignant as well as dizzy, seeming none too pleased at the notion.

“If you wish to die, then stay here! There are others who depend on my life,” The dark skinned man snarled out, glaring at the woman, even as she leaned against him, life draining away by the moment. She would not last the speedy flight from the battle, anyway. Carver was starring with an odd expression, seeming to be waiting for an order. Brother, the mabari, was whimpering, licking at his mistress’s wound.

“My duty is here,” the woman huffed out with great effort, gesturing towards the wilds, “Take Brother with you,” blue lips pursed into a thin line as she glared at the two men, only then thinking of how they rather resembled the chasined.

“Brother, go!” she snapped, striking the whimpering canine across the snout with the back of her hand.

With a look of pained complacency, the mabari tried to hover over his woman as she sank to her knees, snarling as darkspawn turned their attention towards them.

“Now!” she snapped.

Romaliin let out a whistle that closely resembled the one the warden had let out before, shoving Carver between the shoulder blades to get him to move faster. “We can’t just leave her, Ro!”

“It was her choice to die; my first duty is to my family, now run!” Romaliin barked out, blunt nose wrinkling as he forced his brother into a sprint, following closely behind him, not needing to glance back to know that a reluctant mabari was trailing after them, whimpering with a profound sorrow the entire time.

Despite the exhaustion that plagued their limbs, the two brothers continued to dash through the trees, running blindly, relying on Romaliin’s keen sense of direction.

It took them two days to reach Lothering.
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A Lonely Sorrow