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The True Tale Of The Fifth Blight	By : Serena_Hawke-Theirin Category: +A through F > Dragon Age (all) > Dragon Age (all) Views: 13108 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Age or the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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The sunlight trickling through the gaps in the heavy curtains hurt Garrett’s eyes. The vision of the modest room around him was hazy as he attempted to see through the fog of too much rum and not enough food or decent sleep. He scraped his tongue across his top front teeth and grimaced at the taste. With the tips of his thumb and middle finger, he swiped across the corners of his mouth then sat up and put his feet to the floor.

The pirate reeled for just a moment as his brain tried to catch up with his body from the momentum of moving too quickly. His head was pounding. His entire body ached, and his stomach felt as if he had swallowed an acid flask. All he really wanted to do was to just lie back down and sleep for several more days, but his sense of duty as ship captain propelled him to rise. He had wallowed in misery for far too long. It was time to get back to the real world.

He had made several plans on what his next move would be while in his drunken stupor, many completely ridiculous, but a few sound. In the end, he decided his best course of action would be to take the remainder of the cargo the Call was hauling to Jader as he originally planned, then travel to Amaranthine to see if he could find that bastard, Howe. If he wasn’t there, at least Garrett should be able to get a better idea of where the snake was holed up.

He didn’t care if Howe was residing in the royal palace, the captain was going to track him down, capture him, then make him suffer. He would bleed him slowly. His death would come at an agonizing, torturous pace. Rendon Howe would share in Garrett’s pain, and he would beg to be put out of his misery in the end. Even if it cost the pirate his life, it was worth it to watch Howe writhe, to hear him scream in torment.

Captain Hawke considered himself a bad pirate when he arrived in Highever a few days prior, but that wasn’t always the case. There was a reason he was the most feared pirate to ever sail the Waking Sea. Upon taking over as captain of Yavana’s Call after Marko’s retirement, he felt he had something to prove. He sank more ships and disposed of more rival captains in eight months than his predecessor had in five years.

That all changed upon his first visit to Highever as the Call’s captain when Eleanor asked him what he had been doing, and he was too ashamed to tell her. After that, he made it a point to never take a life unless he felt it absolutely necessary. Fortunately, his past deeds and reputation afforded him that luxury most of the time, and he rarely had to engage anyone in a fight. Howe, on the other hand, would look into the eyes of the pirate Garrett once was. He would know the fear of every captain and ship’s crewman Captain Hawke had ever killed, and then some.

After slowly rising from the bed, Garrett donned the clothes Martinez had sent over for him. When his belts and blades were all in place, he ambled over to the small table in the corner that held a stone ewer and basin. He poured the contents of the pitcher into the bowl then splashed his face with the cool water. It felt good on his burning skin and cleared his vision enough to truly perceive the results of his days’ long drinking binge.

Bloodshot eyes stared back at him, the area around them red and swollen with dark circles in the hollows. In fact, his entire face was puffy. The normal dark scruff of his cheeks had turned into the shaggy beginnings of a full beard and his long, thick hair was a tangled mess.

The pirate rifled through the smaller package Martinez had dispatched with his clothes until he located a silver comb, a straight razor and a small pair of shears. He quickly worked through the snarls and knots in his mane then tied it back at the nape of his neck. He then grabbed a nearby bottle and, after taking a healthy swig for the mabari that bit him, doused the cutting tools in the remainder of the rum. Once the task of trimming the hair on his cheeks and jaw was complete, he retrieved a tiny, ornately etched jar fashioned from silver from the pouch at his waist. He unscrewed the leaf-shaped top to reveal a thin metal stick covered in black powder. With a steady hand, Garrett traced the lines of his upper and lower lids with the kohl, then took a step back to admire his handiwork.

Much better.

The pirate always maintained that he wore the kohl to protect his eyes from the harsh glare of the sun while at sea. It was something Marko taught him when he was a young boy. In truth, he simply liked the look of it and had worn the makeup for so long, he felt naked any time he went without it.

Garrett made one last check of the room and his ruined clothes piled in the floor and scowled. He hated leaving that coat behind. It was finally broken in just the way he liked it, but he knew neither the stench nor the memories of the tragedies that befell Castle Cousland could ever be laundered away. The only thing he was keeping from that night were his blades, his coin, and the rage and grief over the deaths of his adopted family.

As he turned the handle of the door, a gnawing pain in Garrett’s gut nearly caused him to heave on the floor again. It had been over two days since he had eaten anything more than a few spoonsful of stew, and the notion of partaking of any of the concoctions Ramirez could come up with turned the captain’s stomach even more. The Call’s cook was a loyal man, but he never quite seemed to grasp the actual concept of food. If Garrett expected to keep anything more than the swallow of rum he just drank in his gut, he would need to order a meal from the tavern.

Ah well. What’s another hour?

The trip from Ostwick had been completely uneventful. The first few days after leaving the Circle were pleasant enough. Miriana got the chance to observe the countryside, something she hadn’t been able to do in nearly ten years. She had forgotten how much she missed the feel of a cool breeze on her skin and the sound of rustling leaves as the wind shook the trees. She marveled at the light and the warmth of the afternoon sun and the brilliance of a million stars twinkling in the sky at night.

That all changed at the end of the third day. That’s when the young mage found herself stuffed into the lower decks of a ship bound for Ferelden, forced to observe the evening sky through the rusty iron bars of the trap door over her head. It was a long journey, plagued by storms that pitched the ship every way imaginable but bottom side up.

The last squall they hit was so bad, in fact, that it finally forced the ship to dock in the port city of Highever, where the templars decided to take shelter for the night at an inn called The Lucky Seagull. The original plan of Miriana’s escorts had been to sail to the small coastal town of West Hill, but after enduring such terrible storms, Lieutenant Kegan made the decision to travel the remainder of the trek to Kinloch Hold on horseback. As seasick as the young mage felt and as raw as her nerves were from the roars of the ocean and the sensation of cold water constantly assailing her skin, she was happy to be anywhere else.

As many times as she read The Pirate Gerard, she never realized sailing could be such a traumatic experience. She found herself wishing many times on that trip that she had a dashing pirate with her to keep her distracted. The crew of The Sea Rover had been a lot dirtier and less piratey than she imagined, and the captain was a very old man with a thick white beard who was missing most of his teeth. Perhaps Julia had been right all along. Gerard was only a character. No one like him really existed in the world.

That morning, Lieutenant Kegan and Ser Grenier woke the young mage just after sunrise to inform her they were going to the market for supplies with the warning that they had her phylactery if she attempted to escape. It was a useless threat. Miriana had no plans to escape. She had no reason or want to.

Unlike Julia, Miriana was relatively happy in the confines of the Circle. After her experiences with Master Vestalus and the Grand Necropolis, she didn’t mind being shut away from the dangers of the outside world. She just didn’t want to be in Ostwick anymore. She was actually excited by the prospect of going to a place where no one knew her and no one but the First Enchanter was aware of her background. Maybe she would finally even find male companionship for the first time in her life.

When the templars returned, they allowed Miriana to have a bath and ready herself for the trip. Her escorts didn’t seem to be in any hurry to get on the road, and even suggested grabbing a bite to eat at the tavern downstairs before they left. Although the mage was anxious to see her new home, she didn’t relish the thought of dining on nothing but travel rations for the next week or better.

After choosing the table nearest the bar, the templars took a seat on either side of Miriana with their backs to the serving area. The young woman was slightly perturbed when Kegan took the liberty of ordering fish stew for her. She hated fish, hated the taste of it, the smell of it, and even the sight of it. She wrinkled her nose at the bowl when the barmaid set it on the table in front of her. Ser Grenier sighed with exasperation when Miriana just pushed the chunks of fish around with her spoon.

“That’s the only meal you’ll be gettin’ ‘til we stop for the night, young lady,” he warned. “I suggest ya eat it.”

The mage screwed up her face with disgust and reached for a piece of bread that had been set out on the table instead. It contained a bit too much yeast for Miriana’s personal tastes, but it was edible with a good slathering of honey butter. As she took small nibbles of her meager meal, the mage cringed as she was forced to listen to the men next to her slurp their stew. The sound was driving her mad and she was compelled to close her eyes to calm her ever-growing annoyance and anger.

When she finally opened her eyes, she nearly dropped her piece of bread into the disgusting concoction in the bowl sitting in front of her. A man dressed in black leather from head to toe swaggered across the room, heading for the table nearest the exit. He moved with purpose and an air of confidence and danger that spoke of a man who was cocksure with good reason, and Miriana gasped at the sight of him. He was exactly how she had always pictured Gerard.

He was tall, over six feet, and thin, but not overly skinny. His long, leather duster swished back and forth just above the ankles of his knee-high boots. The high collared black linen shirt he wore, unlaced to reveal a thick patch of dark chest hair, was covered by a hip-long vest, held together with half a dozen large, ornate, silver clasps and a thick belt with a heavy silver buckle. The vest covered a pair of tight pants, the outer thighs of which were made from the same material as his coat, while the inner portion was fashioned from what appeared to be wool.

The light streaming in from the nearby windows glimmered in the loosened strands of long, ebony hair framing his face. The remainder of his locks were tied back just above the nape of his neck, and hung down well past his shoulders. He appeared to be in his late twenties to early thirties, but it was difficult to tell through the neatly trimmed scruff that shadowed his jaw, and the fine lines at the corners of his deep set, hooded eyes. Thick dark brows complemented the aquamarine color of his irises, as did the healthy bronze shade of his skin.

He called the barmaid to his table by lifting a ringed index finger in the air. The left side of his mouth curved upward to reveal a deep dimple in his cheek. It wasn’t a smile he wore, but more a concentrated frown born from anguish. He leaned back in his chair and crossed the ankles of his long legs then folded his arms over his chest as he awaited the serving girl’s approach.

When the man began to survey the room around him, Miriana looked down to concentrate on her bread. After a few moments, she decided she simply had to chance another glimpse at the handsome stranger. She couldn’t help herself.

When she glanced up, she found him staring directly at her. Miriana’s face grew hot. His crystal green-blue eyes were so intense, so frightening, yet alluring. The exchange only lasted seconds, but the memory of it would be burned into her mind for a lifetime. Her entire body trembled, her fingers shaking so hard she could barely hold the bread in her hand. Against her fascination, the rapid beating of her heart impelled her to cast her eyes downward to break the spell of his gaze.

It took several moments for Miriana to catch her breath. When she regained some of her senses, she scowled at the bowl of stew that lingered on the table below. The smell was vile, prompting her to push it away with the tips of her fingers. As she took another bite of her bread, she began to wonder why he had stared at her in that manner. Was he planning an attack? Scoping out his next victim? Was he thinking of abducting her, of doing unscrupulous things to her? No. Not that. He seemed dangerous and angry, but she saw no hint of the kind of man who perpetrate that sort of crime in his eyes.

Perhaps he found interest in her of a less frightening nature. Maybe he even found her attractive. No. That wasn’t it. It was a lovely notion, but she knew in her heart that was all it could ever be. Even if she weren’t a mage in the presence of two templars, a man like that would never be attracted to the likes of her. She was too plain and uninteresting for someone like him. Miriana gave a small sigh.

At least I’ll have some lovely dreams tonight.

Garrett drummed his jeweled fingers on the worn wooden surface of the table as he waited for the barmaid to bring his order. Even in his agitated state, he sat back and scanned the room for possible dangers just as he always did. The place was nearly deserted, with only one other occupied table.

At the table nearest the bar, there were two men dressed in heavy plate with flaming swords emblazoned on their chests marking them as templars. Sitting between them was a woman in green mage’s robes. Garrett’s gaze lingered on her for several moments. She was attractive, with fair skin and sable brown hair pulled into a single long braid draped over her right shoulder. She couldn’t have been more than twenty, which made her a bit young for Garrett’s tastes. He couldn’t explain it, but he couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from her.

She looked up from her meal, giving him full view of the most mesmerizing pair of lapis eyes he had ever seen. Such an unusual color. One he had only seen once before, many years ago when Marko gave passage to a very young and precocious little girl. Surely this woman couldn’t be that child. She was the right age, however.

The pirate held the woman’s gaze until she quite abruptly returned her attention to her meal. He couldn’t help but chuckle to himself when she wrinkled her nose and pushed the bowl in front of her to the middle of the table. The heavy odor of fish wafting from her direction and her distaste for her food spoke volumes. It had to be her. That same girl had nearly hit him in the head with a plate of fish fourteen years back when he tried to serve it to her on the ship at his father’s behest.

He watched her for a few more minutes. Whether she was that same little girl or not, she made it quite obvious that she didn’t find him as interesting as he found her. He exhaled a small sigh before reluctantly resuming his perusal of his surroundings.

His gaze moved to the table in the corner of the far side of the room. It was nearly completely hidden in darkness, and there was something about it that he found unsettling. Just before he looked away, Garrett swore he discerned movement within those shadows. After focusing on the spot for several minutes, he had to shake himself when he detected what appeared to be two blood red orbs glaring back at him.

Just the after effect of all the rum, mate.

“Will there be anything else, ser?” the barmaid asked as she placed his plate down on the table. Garrett hadn’t even noticed she was there until she spoke.

“No,” he muttered as he plunked a silver down on the worn wooden surface next to his mug. “Thanks.”

The serving girl flashed a wry grin as she fiddled with small amulet nestled between her large breasts. “My shift’s over in an hour if you’re interested in some company.”

The captain shook his head with a half-hearted smile. Between what he encountered at Castle Cousland, his dreams of Maggie, and the uneasy feeling in his gut, he simply wasn’t in the mood for such banter right then.

“Sorry, love,” he told her. “But I plan to be shoving off before then.”

The woman seemed highly put out by his slight of her advances. It wasn’t as if he was rude in his rejection. He simply wasn’t interested.

“Your loss,” she said with a slight scowl and a shrug before spinning on her heel and skulking away.

Garrett coated the end of a hunk of warm bread he had torn from the loaf with butter before slowly moving his eyes back to the darkened corner. He concentrated on the shadows for several moments, but found nothing of interest. If there had really been anything or anyone there before, it was gone.

See, mate. All in your head.

The pirate lifted the piece of bread in his hand to take a bite as his gaze turned back to the mage and her templar escorts. It was then that he took notice of a figure in a heavy black hooded cloak leaning against the bar. The sensation of unease and dread Garrett felt earlier heightened. The captain’s eyes trailed down the figure’s form to its hands where he spotted tiny sparks crackling and dancing around the fingertips. The pirate slipped his right hand into his coat to grip the ebony handled cutlass at his left hip.

You picked the wrong day for this, mate.

I always disliked fighting and I hated killing, but when my dad made me captain of the Call, there where many on the crew who feared my age and inexperience would lead to disaster. To prove myself to them, I endeavored to make a quick name for myself. To announce to the world that Captain Hawke was a force to be feared.

The first time I returned to Highever after assuming command, Eleanor asked me what I had been up to and I was ashamed to tell her. I knew she would be as disappointed in me as I was in myself. I never wanted to see that disappointment on her face, so I made up a story and told her the previous months had been filled with shipping boring cargo, nothing more.

After our meal that night Bryce asked me to join him for a pipe out on the balcony as usual. He lit his pipe, looked me in the eyes and said, “Son, I don’t have all the answers and Maker knows I have made my fair share of mistakes but there is one thing I am sure of. If you can’t look your family in the eyes after returning home, maybe you need to rethink how you’re living your life. A man should never look in the mirror and hate the man looking back at him. Eleanor and I love you and always will, no matter what you’ve done, but you don’t seem to love yourself anymore and that breaks my heart.”

From that moment on, I asked myself every day, would my family be proud of my actions or would it pain them to see what I had done? It is an idea I have tried to measure all my actions with since that day. I’m not perfect, but I can say I have tried to live my life in a way my family would be proud of. The only exception I felt that warranted deviation from that rule was in dealing with Howe. I only hoped that, given the circumstances, they would forgive me that one moment of weakness.

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The True Tale Of The Fifth Blight