The Keeper
Feb 4th, 2013, 02:04:50 PM
It began in the Arling of Stenhold, at the border of the Korcari Wilds.
Even before the Blight came, the fortress of Stenhold was in a sorry state. Battered by countless incursions from the Wilds and fast running out of able-bodied men and women to defend it, it seemed as if an ill-timed breeze might render the fortress into rubble, should it blow the wrong way.
...but the fortune of Stenhold would yet change, with the arrival of a group of mercenaries drawn from all corners Ferelden and beyond. Whilst soldiers drilled at swordplay in the courtyard and the field outside, and masons struggled to patch up crumbling stone walls and poorly thatched roofs, the strangers came – alone or in pairs – to the rain-swollen door of Stenhold fortress.
Not before long, a woman approached the group. Dressed in intricately patterned blue and brown robes with a dulled gold clasped belt at her waist, she wore a ponytail that drew back the pale hair from her brow to reveal peculiar tattoos curving like brush-strokes around her cheekbones and temples. There was no mistaking the emblem stitched into the collar of her mantle; she was a mage of the Circle.
“Greetings. I am Alenka, steward to the Arl. Thank you all for coming to Stenhold at such short notice. I know that that the Arl is eager to meet you and make use of your... unique talents in his time of need. Please, follow me inside.”
The great hall was great primarily in name. The tapestries adorning the walls were faded and the rugs covering the stone floors were ratty at the edges, with plenty of dirt and grime trodden into them. The only thing truly impressive about the great hall was the man standing at the center of the room. Short and stocky in stature, he himself was not particular astounding, rather it was the gleaming plate armor that he was being fitted into that caught the eye. Half a dozen elves with downcast eyes worked at fixing each piece carefully into place with nimble fingers.
The armored figure lifted his look of irritation and distaste from his elven servants to the newly arrived guests to his hall. Suddenly grunting in pain, he spun back to cuff one of the elves in the head, sending the slender-boned girl sprawled to the floor.
“Well?” Arl Neruda snapped, looking from his steward to the mismatched bunch trailing behind her. The steward bowed her head, the genial smile never leaving her lips.
“Please,” she murmured, turning slowly to face the group. “Step forward and introduce yourselves to the Arl.”
Even before the Blight came, the fortress of Stenhold was in a sorry state. Battered by countless incursions from the Wilds and fast running out of able-bodied men and women to defend it, it seemed as if an ill-timed breeze might render the fortress into rubble, should it blow the wrong way.
...but the fortune of Stenhold would yet change, with the arrival of a group of mercenaries drawn from all corners Ferelden and beyond. Whilst soldiers drilled at swordplay in the courtyard and the field outside, and masons struggled to patch up crumbling stone walls and poorly thatched roofs, the strangers came – alone or in pairs – to the rain-swollen door of Stenhold fortress.
Not before long, a woman approached the group. Dressed in intricately patterned blue and brown robes with a dulled gold clasped belt at her waist, she wore a ponytail that drew back the pale hair from her brow to reveal peculiar tattoos curving like brush-strokes around her cheekbones and temples. There was no mistaking the emblem stitched into the collar of her mantle; she was a mage of the Circle.
“Greetings. I am Alenka, steward to the Arl. Thank you all for coming to Stenhold at such short notice. I know that that the Arl is eager to meet you and make use of your... unique talents in his time of need. Please, follow me inside.”
The great hall was great primarily in name. The tapestries adorning the walls were faded and the rugs covering the stone floors were ratty at the edges, with plenty of dirt and grime trodden into them. The only thing truly impressive about the great hall was the man standing at the center of the room. Short and stocky in stature, he himself was not particular astounding, rather it was the gleaming plate armor that he was being fitted into that caught the eye. Half a dozen elves with downcast eyes worked at fixing each piece carefully into place with nimble fingers.
The armored figure lifted his look of irritation and distaste from his elven servants to the newly arrived guests to his hall. Suddenly grunting in pain, he spun back to cuff one of the elves in the head, sending the slender-boned girl sprawled to the floor.
“Well?” Arl Neruda snapped, looking from his steward to the mismatched bunch trailing behind her. The steward bowed her head, the genial smile never leaving her lips.
“Please,” she murmured, turning slowly to face the group. “Step forward and introduce yourselves to the Arl.”