Cauthrien
Warden-Constable of Ferelden
Staff member
Canon Character
Grey Warden
Post DAI Timeline
DAO/DA2 Timeline
- Posts
- 362
((29 Drakonis, 9:35, morning))
A year and a half in Denerim had been more than Cauthrien had spent in any one spot since the Blight, and more than enough for her to develop the settled routine that she preferred. When her eyes opened, she knew that it was roughly two hours before dawn. She rose and dressed without bothering to light the lamp in her quarters, then made her way through the still halls of the Grey Warden compound to the kitchen, nodding and murmuring greetings to the guards on duty.
Food was a relatively new addition to her set routine. Before becoming a Grey Warden, she had eaten for sustenance, but when she was busy, hours or even a day or more might pass before hunger pangs grew sharp enough to draw her attention.
No more. She still ate for sustenance, with little true preference for anything except blackberries and little antipathy for anything except beets, but the hunger was not something that could be ignored or denied. Food was the last thing she sought before retiring and the first upon waking. In between were no fewer than three full meals, any of which would have left her too stuffed to move in the old days, along with numerous snacks. With six other Wardens at the Denerim compound, each of them requiring the same level of nutrition, along with a dozen guards with healthy - if more normal - appetites, it was little surprise that Tobias, the head cook, and his assistant Cressa, were already in the kitchen when Cauthrien arrived, getting a head start on the day.
She greeted them and headed directly for the counter along the wall where readily consumable foods were kept available day and night: sweet rolls and bread, dried meats, fruit, cheeses, a pot of stew kept simmering at the small hearth. The rules of the kitchen were simple: Tobias and Cressa prepared the main meals and kept the counter stocked. Anyone desiring more than that could either cook for themselves or eat at one of the many taverns in Denerim.
Fresh fruit was still some months away; Cauthrien helped herself to a handful of dried apples and peaches, a thick slice of sharp cheddar, two cinnamon rolls and some dried beef, piling her selections onto a plate and retiring to the dining room with a mug of tea to break her fast. She ate quickly, neatly, returning to the kitchen to wash her plate and mug and set them in the rack to dry, then snagging still more dried meat and fruit, slipping them into the pouch that hung from her belt before making her way to the armory.
With hunger stilled for the moment, she could focus upon her drills. Her armor gleamed in the lamplight, and she took the time to inspect it before putting it on, looking for loose links in the chainmail, worn straps, rust. She had checked for the same defects the previous night when she had removed it, but the twice-daily ritual was one that she had maintained since her earliest training, and it ensured that weapons and armor were kept at the peak of readiness. A similar inspection of her sword revealed a sharp edge with no nicks or rust.
The winter snows had finally melted, and the flagstones in the practice yard were kept swept clear of dirt that would otherwise have turned to mud. Torches had been lit along the wall where the pells were located; her morning routine was well known to all the guards, and those who drew the first watch, from midnight to sunrise, generally saw to it that the practice yard was ready for her.
Forms first. She drew her sword from its sheath and settled into a ready stance. The weapon was simple steel, the runes etched into the blade coruscating in the torchlight, flame to flame. It was nothing like the Summer Sword, the magnificent silverite blade that she had wielded for nearly a decade, but it was hers, its weight and balance as familiar to her now as the other had once been. A slight shift in the set of her shoulders was all it took to set it into motion, scything through the air. Her movements were smooth, controlled, precise, her vision focused in the middle distance as she stepped in, out, sideways, the sword a seamless extension of her will. A greatsword was not easily mastered; her skill had been bought by long hours of practice, and maintained through more of the same.
Satisfied at last, she returned the blade to its sheath and retrieved the blunted practice blade from the rack, its weight and balance calibrated to match that of her fighting weapon. The pells were stout oaken posts set into holes in the flagstones, replaced every few weeks as they grew splintered from constant battering. She used them to hone her precision: a hundred strikes, placed exactly where she aimed them, starting over if she missed by more than a handswidth, moving from single strikes to combinations, pushing until her muscles burned and sweat coated her face and neck.
By now, the sky had begun to silver with the approach of sunrise, and others made their way onto the practice field: guards and Wardens alike. They picked up armor and weapons and set to work, talking in low voices among themselves, but none of them spoke to her. It was a long-established rule: any other time, at any other task, she could be interrupted, but these early-morning hours were hers, disturbed only for good reason.
She let the presence of the others slide to the back of her mind, returning her focus to her drills until she heard the ringing of the bell announcing breakfast. Like her, the other Wardens had eaten only enough to quiet the most immediate pangs of hunger earlier, so the exodus to the dining room was immediate.
There was no order imposed on seating arrangements; guards and Wardens ate side by side, something that Cauthrien had deliberately fostered. Half a dozen Grey Wardens occupied a compound made to house four times that number, and while the Wardens in Denerim had not been required to deal with anything more than sporadic darkspawn - and that before the winter snows - Cauthrien remained acutely aware of just low their numbers were. She drilled the guards alongside the Wardens, developing tactics in which the Wardens would draw the brunt of an assault, while the fighters not immune to the darkspawn taint would execute swift in-and-out attacks on the flanks or utilized ranged weapons. You worked with what you had.
The tables were covered with heaping bowls of eggs; potatoes and onions; platters of ham; toasted bread with butter, jam, honey. All of it was disappearing at a rate that would suggest starvation in a normal population. Cauthrien filled her plate with the ease of long practice and settled into a chair beside the newest Warden, who was hunched miserably over the table ... and who hadn't been in the practice yard this morning.
"Dreams?" she asked quietly.
Kein nodded, his face pale and dark shadows ringing haunted eyes. He was a farmer's son; his family's holding had been attacked last fall by a small band of genlocks. The damn things had been almost too easy for the Wardens to dispatch, but they had been more than enough to kill Kein's father and leave the boy - not quite eighteen - taint-touched. His mother had begged the Wardens to save him. Cauthrien hadn't honestly thought he would survive the Joining ... and she had wondered more than once in the weeks since if it would not have been better if he hadn't.
The nightmares that had slowly decreased in frequency and intensity for the rest of them still plagued Kein several nights a week, and either his were unusually vivid or he was unusually sensitive. Add to that the fact that he had less aptitude with weapons than anyone Cauthrien had trained and the temptation to simply send him back to his mother and siblings had been a strong one.
She hadn't needed to consult with Nathaniel to know that wasn't an option, however, so she simply said, "Eat your breakfast. I'll have you work on swords with Roland this morning."
"Yes, ma'am." He never refused, never complained, but he was wasting away before her eyes, and she had no idea what to do about it. She glanced across to the next table, caught Anders' eye. The mage gave her a rueful shrug; he'd tried sleeping draughts and sedatives, to no avail. Matthias, one of two Warden mages recently arrived from the Free Marches, had read of similar cases in their archives, and the histories were not encouraging.
Her eyes shifted next to Roland, who nodded in response to her silent request. He and Kein were close in age, though he would make almost three of the farmboy. Burly as he was, he had a protective streak for those younger and weaker ... and he would walk through fire if Cauthrien asked it of him.
That concern having been dealt with, at least for the moment, she turned her attention to cleaning her plate. There was no lingering at the tables to chat; that was for the evening meal. During the day, a schedule was followed, time devoted to duties on the roster, combat training and, since Matthias' arrival, lessons in the afternoon on Grey Warden history. The Fereldans had more experience with darkspawn than any of their contemporaries, but precious little knowledge of the order's heritage.
As Yorick and Linn, both of them Joined the previous summer, began clearing the tables, Cauthrien retired to her least favorite room in the compound. She'd managed to avoid administrative duties for most of her career, and Joffrey, the steward, kept them to a minimum now, but as the commanding Warden in Denerim, some tasks still fell to her.
A letter bearing Nathaniel's seal lay on top of the short stack of incoming correspondence. She opened it first, scanned the contents. He would be returning soon from his trip to Orlais, stopping first in Denerim...and bringing more horses. She squeezed her eyes shut, pinching the bridge of her nose. She knew all the arguments, and logically they were sound, but a stubborn corner of her mind remained resistant to the idea of trusting anything but her own feet, much less a mountain of a beast that could be tracked as easily by its nonstop production of shit as by the trail laid by iron-shod hooves. It probably hadn't helped that one of the two horses dropped off by the Warden Commander before he'd left for Orlais had turned out to be the Archdemon in disguise. Barely in disguise.
Briefly, she toyed with the notion of a special feast to welcome Nathaniel back to Ferelden. Horse had been a popular dish with the rebels during the Orlesian occupation, and many a captured chevalier had been forced to watch as his noble steed was butchered and roasted. Loghain had always spoken highly of horse steaks...
Regretfully concluding that Nathaniel probably wouldn't appreciate the gesture, she set his letter aside and picked up the next. This one was from the commander at Fort Drakon, informing her of new prisoners that might be worth a look. Always a long shot, but one that occasionally paid off, as in the cases of Roland and Linn. Unfortunately, since her appearance there would be in an official capacity, she would be expected to ride.
Damn it.
A year and a half in Denerim had been more than Cauthrien had spent in any one spot since the Blight, and more than enough for her to develop the settled routine that she preferred. When her eyes opened, she knew that it was roughly two hours before dawn. She rose and dressed without bothering to light the lamp in her quarters, then made her way through the still halls of the Grey Warden compound to the kitchen, nodding and murmuring greetings to the guards on duty.
Food was a relatively new addition to her set routine. Before becoming a Grey Warden, she had eaten for sustenance, but when she was busy, hours or even a day or more might pass before hunger pangs grew sharp enough to draw her attention.
No more. She still ate for sustenance, with little true preference for anything except blackberries and little antipathy for anything except beets, but the hunger was not something that could be ignored or denied. Food was the last thing she sought before retiring and the first upon waking. In between were no fewer than three full meals, any of which would have left her too stuffed to move in the old days, along with numerous snacks. With six other Wardens at the Denerim compound, each of them requiring the same level of nutrition, along with a dozen guards with healthy - if more normal - appetites, it was little surprise that Tobias, the head cook, and his assistant Cressa, were already in the kitchen when Cauthrien arrived, getting a head start on the day.
She greeted them and headed directly for the counter along the wall where readily consumable foods were kept available day and night: sweet rolls and bread, dried meats, fruit, cheeses, a pot of stew kept simmering at the small hearth. The rules of the kitchen were simple: Tobias and Cressa prepared the main meals and kept the counter stocked. Anyone desiring more than that could either cook for themselves or eat at one of the many taverns in Denerim.
Fresh fruit was still some months away; Cauthrien helped herself to a handful of dried apples and peaches, a thick slice of sharp cheddar, two cinnamon rolls and some dried beef, piling her selections onto a plate and retiring to the dining room with a mug of tea to break her fast. She ate quickly, neatly, returning to the kitchen to wash her plate and mug and set them in the rack to dry, then snagging still more dried meat and fruit, slipping them into the pouch that hung from her belt before making her way to the armory.
With hunger stilled for the moment, she could focus upon her drills. Her armor gleamed in the lamplight, and she took the time to inspect it before putting it on, looking for loose links in the chainmail, worn straps, rust. She had checked for the same defects the previous night when she had removed it, but the twice-daily ritual was one that she had maintained since her earliest training, and it ensured that weapons and armor were kept at the peak of readiness. A similar inspection of her sword revealed a sharp edge with no nicks or rust.
The winter snows had finally melted, and the flagstones in the practice yard were kept swept clear of dirt that would otherwise have turned to mud. Torches had been lit along the wall where the pells were located; her morning routine was well known to all the guards, and those who drew the first watch, from midnight to sunrise, generally saw to it that the practice yard was ready for her.
Forms first. She drew her sword from its sheath and settled into a ready stance. The weapon was simple steel, the runes etched into the blade coruscating in the torchlight, flame to flame. It was nothing like the Summer Sword, the magnificent silverite blade that she had wielded for nearly a decade, but it was hers, its weight and balance as familiar to her now as the other had once been. A slight shift in the set of her shoulders was all it took to set it into motion, scything through the air. Her movements were smooth, controlled, precise, her vision focused in the middle distance as she stepped in, out, sideways, the sword a seamless extension of her will. A greatsword was not easily mastered; her skill had been bought by long hours of practice, and maintained through more of the same.
Satisfied at last, she returned the blade to its sheath and retrieved the blunted practice blade from the rack, its weight and balance calibrated to match that of her fighting weapon. The pells were stout oaken posts set into holes in the flagstones, replaced every few weeks as they grew splintered from constant battering. She used them to hone her precision: a hundred strikes, placed exactly where she aimed them, starting over if she missed by more than a handswidth, moving from single strikes to combinations, pushing until her muscles burned and sweat coated her face and neck.
By now, the sky had begun to silver with the approach of sunrise, and others made their way onto the practice field: guards and Wardens alike. They picked up armor and weapons and set to work, talking in low voices among themselves, but none of them spoke to her. It was a long-established rule: any other time, at any other task, she could be interrupted, but these early-morning hours were hers, disturbed only for good reason.
She let the presence of the others slide to the back of her mind, returning her focus to her drills until she heard the ringing of the bell announcing breakfast. Like her, the other Wardens had eaten only enough to quiet the most immediate pangs of hunger earlier, so the exodus to the dining room was immediate.
There was no order imposed on seating arrangements; guards and Wardens ate side by side, something that Cauthrien had deliberately fostered. Half a dozen Grey Wardens occupied a compound made to house four times that number, and while the Wardens in Denerim had not been required to deal with anything more than sporadic darkspawn - and that before the winter snows - Cauthrien remained acutely aware of just low their numbers were. She drilled the guards alongside the Wardens, developing tactics in which the Wardens would draw the brunt of an assault, while the fighters not immune to the darkspawn taint would execute swift in-and-out attacks on the flanks or utilized ranged weapons. You worked with what you had.
The tables were covered with heaping bowls of eggs; potatoes and onions; platters of ham; toasted bread with butter, jam, honey. All of it was disappearing at a rate that would suggest starvation in a normal population. Cauthrien filled her plate with the ease of long practice and settled into a chair beside the newest Warden, who was hunched miserably over the table ... and who hadn't been in the practice yard this morning.
"Dreams?" she asked quietly.
Kein nodded, his face pale and dark shadows ringing haunted eyes. He was a farmer's son; his family's holding had been attacked last fall by a small band of genlocks. The damn things had been almost too easy for the Wardens to dispatch, but they had been more than enough to kill Kein's father and leave the boy - not quite eighteen - taint-touched. His mother had begged the Wardens to save him. Cauthrien hadn't honestly thought he would survive the Joining ... and she had wondered more than once in the weeks since if it would not have been better if he hadn't.
The nightmares that had slowly decreased in frequency and intensity for the rest of them still plagued Kein several nights a week, and either his were unusually vivid or he was unusually sensitive. Add to that the fact that he had less aptitude with weapons than anyone Cauthrien had trained and the temptation to simply send him back to his mother and siblings had been a strong one.
She hadn't needed to consult with Nathaniel to know that wasn't an option, however, so she simply said, "Eat your breakfast. I'll have you work on swords with Roland this morning."
"Yes, ma'am." He never refused, never complained, but he was wasting away before her eyes, and she had no idea what to do about it. She glanced across to the next table, caught Anders' eye. The mage gave her a rueful shrug; he'd tried sleeping draughts and sedatives, to no avail. Matthias, one of two Warden mages recently arrived from the Free Marches, had read of similar cases in their archives, and the histories were not encouraging.
Her eyes shifted next to Roland, who nodded in response to her silent request. He and Kein were close in age, though he would make almost three of the farmboy. Burly as he was, he had a protective streak for those younger and weaker ... and he would walk through fire if Cauthrien asked it of him.
That concern having been dealt with, at least for the moment, she turned her attention to cleaning her plate. There was no lingering at the tables to chat; that was for the evening meal. During the day, a schedule was followed, time devoted to duties on the roster, combat training and, since Matthias' arrival, lessons in the afternoon on Grey Warden history. The Fereldans had more experience with darkspawn than any of their contemporaries, but precious little knowledge of the order's heritage.
As Yorick and Linn, both of them Joined the previous summer, began clearing the tables, Cauthrien retired to her least favorite room in the compound. She'd managed to avoid administrative duties for most of her career, and Joffrey, the steward, kept them to a minimum now, but as the commanding Warden in Denerim, some tasks still fell to her.
A letter bearing Nathaniel's seal lay on top of the short stack of incoming correspondence. She opened it first, scanned the contents. He would be returning soon from his trip to Orlais, stopping first in Denerim...and bringing more horses. She squeezed her eyes shut, pinching the bridge of her nose. She knew all the arguments, and logically they were sound, but a stubborn corner of her mind remained resistant to the idea of trusting anything but her own feet, much less a mountain of a beast that could be tracked as easily by its nonstop production of shit as by the trail laid by iron-shod hooves. It probably hadn't helped that one of the two horses dropped off by the Warden Commander before he'd left for Orlais had turned out to be the Archdemon in disguise. Barely in disguise.
Briefly, she toyed with the notion of a special feast to welcome Nathaniel back to Ferelden. Horse had been a popular dish with the rebels during the Orlesian occupation, and many a captured chevalier had been forced to watch as his noble steed was butchered and roasted. Loghain had always spoken highly of horse steaks...
Regretfully concluding that Nathaniel probably wouldn't appreciate the gesture, she set his letter aside and picked up the next. This one was from the commander at Fort Drakon, informing her of new prisoners that might be worth a look. Always a long shot, but one that occasionally paid off, as in the cases of Roland and Linn. Unfortunately, since her appearance there would be in an official capacity, she would be expected to ride.
Damn it.