Nathaniel Howe
Warden Commander of Ferelden
Canon Character
Noble
Grey Warden
Post DAI Timeline
DAO/DA2 Timeline
- Posts
- 183
((OOC: Haring 15, 9:34 - Grey Warden Compound - Cauthrien))
The knock came to the door like so many before. Nathaniel's response was no different. "Go away," he yelled, voice raw from drink and tears long spent.
Shuttered windows kept the concerned from looking in and the time of day unknown. By his best estimation, he figured he had been locked up in his office for more than a day. An empty bottle rolled upon the ground at his feet as he pushed up from the chair he'd placed before the pallet holding his wife. Only half a bottle of whiskey remained before he would need more. And more he would need. He had no intentions of leaving Fiona. Not yet.
With a stumbling step, he neared Fiona. A palm pressed into the pallet to balance him, he tipped back the bottle of whiskey and swallowed. The liquor had long stopped its burn. The same could not be said for his grief. No amount of whiskey seemed to lessen the bite. He drowned within his failure to her, failure to himself. She deserved so much more than he gave. His duty came first; Fiona came second.
His head tilted down, eyes soaking in her death mask. Other men wielded the knife, but Nathaniel, himself, might as well have struck the final blow. His lies, his deceits put her in that alley without guards. She feared his disappointment when she need not have. She was the single most important thing in his life. That could never disappoint.
The bottle slipped from his hand. Reflexes slowed by his whiskey consumption, Nathaniel barely managed to keep the bottle from tipping over and onto the floor. He was not able to stop whiskey from splashing out of the bottle and onto Fiona's dress. Frantic, he smoothed the liquid off the velvet. He could not stain her dress. Not now. It hardly mattered the dress was beyond ruined, her earlier injuries seeing to a good portion of the lower part of the gown covered in blood.
The knock came again, louder and with more force. His eyes slammed shut, trying to fight back the fresh bud of tears. The response was the same, though more plea than yell, "Go away."
The knock came to the door like so many before. Nathaniel's response was no different. "Go away," he yelled, voice raw from drink and tears long spent.
Shuttered windows kept the concerned from looking in and the time of day unknown. By his best estimation, he figured he had been locked up in his office for more than a day. An empty bottle rolled upon the ground at his feet as he pushed up from the chair he'd placed before the pallet holding his wife. Only half a bottle of whiskey remained before he would need more. And more he would need. He had no intentions of leaving Fiona. Not yet.
With a stumbling step, he neared Fiona. A palm pressed into the pallet to balance him, he tipped back the bottle of whiskey and swallowed. The liquor had long stopped its burn. The same could not be said for his grief. No amount of whiskey seemed to lessen the bite. He drowned within his failure to her, failure to himself. She deserved so much more than he gave. His duty came first; Fiona came second.
His head tilted down, eyes soaking in her death mask. Other men wielded the knife, but Nathaniel, himself, might as well have struck the final blow. His lies, his deceits put her in that alley without guards. She feared his disappointment when she need not have. She was the single most important thing in his life. That could never disappoint.
The bottle slipped from his hand. Reflexes slowed by his whiskey consumption, Nathaniel barely managed to keep the bottle from tipping over and onto the floor. He was not able to stop whiskey from splashing out of the bottle and onto Fiona's dress. Frantic, he smoothed the liquid off the velvet. He could not stain her dress. Not now. It hardly mattered the dress was beyond ruined, her earlier injuries seeing to a good portion of the lower part of the gown covered in blood.
The knock came again, louder and with more force. His eyes slammed shut, trying to fight back the fresh bud of tears. The response was the same, though more plea than yell, "Go away."