Alistair Theirin
King of Ferelden
Canon Character
Noble
Grey Warden
Post DAI Timeline
DAO/DA2 Timeline
- Posts
- 124
((Early Drakonis, 9:41 Dragon; Highever, then the Bannorn; Fergus Cousland ))
Alistair had been truly angry only a handful of times in his life: when Eamon had left him at the Chantry as a boy; discovering Aedan’s deception with Morrigan; finding out that Vaughan Kendalls had raped Shianni and Maker only knew how many other women in the Alienage that he was charged with protecting; learning that Eamon had concealed Goldanna’s death, spirited her children out of Ferelden and arranged to have them killed rather it be revealed that the King had commoner relations; tracking down his father in the clutches of a Tevinter magister that had been bleeding him drop by drop for a decade.
This eclipsed them all.
There was a very personal rage: seeing his uncle’s haunted eyes as he spoke of being ensnared by blood magic for the second time in his life, watching Kiley’s features contort in pain as the healers mended her broken bones; the fear and confusion of their children, driven from the place of their birth. Then there was the colder fury of a king whose lands and people had come under attack from a foreign power. He had accepted that there was little that he could do directly about the rifts and that the most prudent course was to support this Inquisition - as ominous as the name sounded - so long as they weren’t demonstrating any inclination toward conquest.
But this …
Tevinters. In Ferelden. Again.
NOT. Happening.
He’d pulled seventy armed and mounted fighters from Denerim. Grand Cleric Elemena had been at the Conclave, and with no word since the explosion, presumed dead. A handful of templars skulked around the chantry like dispirited dogs; it hadn’t been difficult to convince them to join up. The words ‘Tevinter’ and ‘blood mage’ had brought an eager fire back into their eyes.
Eighty now. Riding hard and ready for blood.
Just one more stop.
“Your Majesty!” the lookout at the gates looked to either side and signaled as Alistair thundered up the final approach with Donal, Hicks, Hudson and Vasquez. Ari bore the royal banner, but the bows didn’t lower until he was close enough for them to see his face. Ten years on, old memories lingered in Highever; it was the reason he’d left the bulk of his forces at the bottom of the rise. “The Teyrn wasn’t expecting you -”
“Just get him out here!” Alistair roared, reining Maximillian to a halt. “I’m not stopping long!”
“Redcliffe, sire?” he wanted to know; a restless murmur ran along the wall in the wake of the query. Teagan had stopped at Highever long enough to leave word of what had happened before continuing to Denerim.
“And if he’s not out here in ten minutes, I’m leaving without the lot of you!” Alistair promised.
That did the trick.
Alistair had been truly angry only a handful of times in his life: when Eamon had left him at the Chantry as a boy; discovering Aedan’s deception with Morrigan; finding out that Vaughan Kendalls had raped Shianni and Maker only knew how many other women in the Alienage that he was charged with protecting; learning that Eamon had concealed Goldanna’s death, spirited her children out of Ferelden and arranged to have them killed rather it be revealed that the King had commoner relations; tracking down his father in the clutches of a Tevinter magister that had been bleeding him drop by drop for a decade.
This eclipsed them all.
There was a very personal rage: seeing his uncle’s haunted eyes as he spoke of being ensnared by blood magic for the second time in his life, watching Kiley’s features contort in pain as the healers mended her broken bones; the fear and confusion of their children, driven from the place of their birth. Then there was the colder fury of a king whose lands and people had come under attack from a foreign power. He had accepted that there was little that he could do directly about the rifts and that the most prudent course was to support this Inquisition - as ominous as the name sounded - so long as they weren’t demonstrating any inclination toward conquest.
But this …
Tevinters. In Ferelden. Again.
NOT. Happening.
He’d pulled seventy armed and mounted fighters from Denerim. Grand Cleric Elemena had been at the Conclave, and with no word since the explosion, presumed dead. A handful of templars skulked around the chantry like dispirited dogs; it hadn’t been difficult to convince them to join up. The words ‘Tevinter’ and ‘blood mage’ had brought an eager fire back into their eyes.
Eighty now. Riding hard and ready for blood.
Just one more stop.
“Your Majesty!” the lookout at the gates looked to either side and signaled as Alistair thundered up the final approach with Donal, Hicks, Hudson and Vasquez. Ari bore the royal banner, but the bows didn’t lower until he was close enough for them to see his face. Ten years on, old memories lingered in Highever; it was the reason he’d left the bulk of his forces at the bottom of the rise. “The Teyrn wasn’t expecting you -”
“Just get him out here!” Alistair roared, reining Maximillian to a halt. “I’m not stopping long!”
“Redcliffe, sire?” he wanted to know; a restless murmur ran along the wall in the wake of the query. Teagan had stopped at Highever long enough to leave word of what had happened before continuing to Denerim.
“And if he’s not out here in ten minutes, I’m leaving without the lot of you!” Alistair promised.
That did the trick.