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Death of a Salesman [Open]

Nathaniel Howe

Warden Commander of Ferelden
Canon Character
Grey Warden
Post DAI Timeline
DAO/DA2 Timeline
((OOC: Firstfall 15, 9:34, Evening, Open to all at Vigil's Keep))

Vigil’s Keep loomed ahead. The fortresses huge spires cutting through the full moonlight of the evening sky. Rex sauntered along the pathway toward the main gate with none of the purpose of earlier in the day. Nathaniel knew what awaited him at Vigil’s Keep and he felt no urgency in returning. He knew himself and his method of dealing with not only grief but also guilt.

The wave of guilt hit him hard upon leaving his sister’s home. He saw it as his duty all the same to see to her happiness, her safety. He failed not only her but also Abigail and James. Delilah would disagree; she was so fiercely independent and possessed of the same stubbornness as Nathaniel. But he saw things as such all the same.

News of Albert’s death had obviously spread throughout Vigil’s Keep during Nathaniel’s absence. As much showed within the eyes of all those that greeted him upon his return. The stable boy, a usually chatty youth named Martin, was unusually quiet upon taking Rex from Nathaniel. Even Varel tempered his expression; the disapproving look typically reserved for Nathaniel nowhere to be found as he greeted him with a respectful, “My lord,” upon passing Nathaniel in the hallways.

Another time Nathaniel might have disappeared into the solitude of his rooms or even the family vault where he locked away his favor tool of self-flagellation, a painting of his father. He did not wish to slip into such a spiral, though. He could help his sister little if he succumbed to self-loathing. He had meant what he said to her. Whatever she needed. If it was in his power to do so, he would do it. Regardless of their quarrel, something that seemed so silly now, she was one of the most important people in his life.

Rather than disappear, Nathaniel made his way to the dining hall. There was some comfort, some safety to be found in being surrounded by the din of conversation. Amongst others, he would moderate his behavior. He was Warden-Commander. He was Arl of Amaranthine. Those duties, those titles would shackle him sufficiently to keep himself in check.

Keeping control of his urges did not preclude him indulging in some whiskey, though. A taste, he had told himself. Something to take the edge off and nothing more. He set a bottle grabbed before heading to the hall atop a vacant table near the hearth.