Cauthrien
Warden-Constable of Ferelden
Staff member
Canon Character
Grey Warden
Post DAI Timeline
DAO/DA2 Timeline
- Posts
- 362
((Wintermarch, 9:41; 2 days after Through Thick And Thin; late morning; Sofia di Castelbuono ))
The stables were deserted, more than half the stalls empty, the only sound the occasional snort and the shuffling of hooves in hay. A sizable contingent of Grey Wardens had departed an hour earlier on a joint sortie with the Denerim guard in response to reports of demons straying from a rift toward a village. Cauthrien had known better than to even suggest accompanying them, but she intended that this be the last day that she was forced to stay behind.
The previous day, after getting caught up on the things that had happened while she was sequestered and seeing to some correspondence, she had spent several hours with Lucien, learning how to mix the draught of refined lyrium and calculating the lowest possible daily dose that would allow her to utilize her abilities without any ill effects, along with the supplemental doses that might be needed in prolonged combat. He had warned her that the required amount would likely increase over the years, warned her also that when (and he clearly believed there to be no ‘if’ about it) she found herself tempted to consume the supplemental draughts out of combat, she should consult him immediately to determine a new dose.
She had promised that she would, while privately resolving to never reach that point. It had been late enough in the day when they were done that Lucien had advised against taking her first dose, and this morning, he had gone out to deal with the demons. One or more templar-trained individuals were included in each sortie, along with healing mages, and after one of the few templars remaining in Denerim’s chantry had been more interested in attacking the Warden mage than the demons, the Grey Wardens had filled that role, as well.
With no idea when they might return, or in what condition, Cauthrien had decided not to wait, and the stables offered the privacy that she wanted. Word of her intention had gotten around, and while everyone tried to hide it, she had caught the worried looks. She didn’t blame them, but neither did she want an audience while she experienced the effects of lyrium for the first time. Bad enough that they had all seen her half dead a few days earlier. Her philter kit was in her pouch; Lucien hadn’t told her where he had gotten it and she hadn’t asked. Everything she needed to mix her first dose of lyrium was contained within.
First things first, however.
“Stop that,” she admonished Dragon, who had pinned his ears and backed deeper into his stall at the sight of her, tail whipping in irritation. “I’m sorry it’s been so long. I couldn’t leave my sodding room.” He snorted disdainfully but watched as she reached into her pouch and withdrew an oatcake. Fresh apples were still several months away, but Cressa had been prevailed upon to bake treats for the Grey Wardens’ mounts. His ears flicked as she broke the cake apart, then leaned on the stall door and held out a piece in the palm of her hand.
“Your choice.”
He held out for a few moments longer, then ambled forward with studied nonchalance. Five years ago, such a presentation would have risked a bite, but today, only velvet-soft lips brushed Cauthrien’s palm as Dragon took the treat and munched on it with relish. She fed him the rest of the cake piece by piece in the same fashion, looking him over as he ate. The wounds on rump and shoulder had been healed, the lines of the scar tissue outlined in fine white hair. His coat was rough, mane and tail still tangled. In quieter moments, he would allow the stable hands to groom him, but evidently his agitation from the fight and headlong run back to Denerim had lingered, and at such times only Cauthrien could approach him. She fed him another cake, then an unprecedented third, before fetching the grooming tools and entering the stall. Dragon snorted, but not so harshly as before, and his ears were no longer flattened.
“You did well,” she told him quietly as she began running the brush over his coat, working out the dust and dried sweat. “We wouldn’t have made it without you.” She brushed careful fingers over the scars; the flesh twitched beneath her touch, but he did not shy away. “Sorry I got us into that. I’ll try to keep it from happening again.” They’d been caught off guard then, forced into a fight that favored the enemy. Lyrium would even the odds, as would more fighters and time to devise better tactics, but anything could happen once a battle was entered.
Dragon was less patient at her attempts to comb out his mane and tail, but the last of the oatcakes provided an effective bribe. She checked his hooves one by one, and was unsurprised to find the shoe on the left front missing; that would need to be replaced before they rode out again. “You’re getting more grey,” she remarked. “We both are.” The smith had looked at his teeth and guessed him at seven years when he’d arrived six years earlier. Thirteen wasn’t geriatric for a horse, but neither was it young. Much as forty was neither old nor young for a soldier. She didn’t mind the silver strands that touched her hair or the lines that had begun to show on her face; vanity had never been one of her vices. She did mind the aches and pains that had begun to encroach on her movement, but so far they were only an annoyance. When they advanced further, well … dying in battle didn’t frighten her, but what did haunt her thoughts was someone else dying because she hadn’t been fast enough, strong enough, good enough. It had happened five days ago, and if it had been Sofia instead of the Blackstone who had been killed -
She shook her head violently, dispelling the unwelcome thought. Dragon snorted and shied back a step. “Sorry,” she murmured, scratching his neck until he settled again. Even before, losing the mage would have torn something inside her, and now - She huffed a sigh, setting the comb, brush and hoof pick aside. Now she wasn’t sure what to think. On the job, they remained professional, but the Antivan had shown an uncanny knack for catching Cauthrien alone and initiating kisses that left her head spinning and pulse racing. Sofia, of course, could step away from such encounters with total aplomb to return to her duties, but Cauthrien generally required a minute or two to reassemble her thought process. Not that she was objecting; she trusted that the mage would not distract her in that manner on the verge of combat, which was really the only time that she couldn’t spare a minute or so.
So far, there had been no time for anything but the kisses, and while they left Cauthrien wanting more, the prospect of it actually taking place made butterflies the size of ravens start swooping in her belly. She was acutely aware that all of her prior lovers to this point had been fellow soldiers, and while she had never bedded anyone that she had not at least liked, such trysts had been primarily an outlet for the unspent energy of battle and a sating of physical wants more than any expression of affection. To say nothing of the fact that it had been - Maker, she didn’t want to think how long since she had been to bed with anyone. Sofia was a Grey Warden, true enough, but she was of noble blood, and a beautiful woman, and while she had never been one to flaunt her lovers, neither did she shy from the fact that she had them. Most, if not all, undoubtedly had more skill than an aging warrior who hadn’t had a bedmate since well before the last Blight. Cauthrien didn’t want to disappoint, but more than that, she didn’t want to lose what they had in the aftermath of a disastrous romantic encounter. What seemed exhilaratingly possible whenever the Antivan was in her arms fell prey to the relentless tumble of her thoughts when she was alone. What if she was awful? Sofia would undoubtedly be too kind to say as much, and then things would be awkward between them, and -
She heaved another sigh and sank onto the manger. This was getting her nowhere, and had nothing to do with why she had come here. Dragon’s ears flicked forward as she reached into the pouch at her hip again. She withdrew the leather case containing the philter and allowed him to sniff it. He snorted and stepped back, shaking his head in disgust.
“That’s reassuring,” she murmured, opening up the kit and staring down at the contents. She had already dispensed her first dose into a stoppered vial that lay beside the flask and measure. “Do me a favor,” she told her horse as she picked up the vial. “If I pass out, don’t step on me or shit on me.”
The stables were deserted, more than half the stalls empty, the only sound the occasional snort and the shuffling of hooves in hay. A sizable contingent of Grey Wardens had departed an hour earlier on a joint sortie with the Denerim guard in response to reports of demons straying from a rift toward a village. Cauthrien had known better than to even suggest accompanying them, but she intended that this be the last day that she was forced to stay behind.
The previous day, after getting caught up on the things that had happened while she was sequestered and seeing to some correspondence, she had spent several hours with Lucien, learning how to mix the draught of refined lyrium and calculating the lowest possible daily dose that would allow her to utilize her abilities without any ill effects, along with the supplemental doses that might be needed in prolonged combat. He had warned her that the required amount would likely increase over the years, warned her also that when (and he clearly believed there to be no ‘if’ about it) she found herself tempted to consume the supplemental draughts out of combat, she should consult him immediately to determine a new dose.
She had promised that she would, while privately resolving to never reach that point. It had been late enough in the day when they were done that Lucien had advised against taking her first dose, and this morning, he had gone out to deal with the demons. One or more templar-trained individuals were included in each sortie, along with healing mages, and after one of the few templars remaining in Denerim’s chantry had been more interested in attacking the Warden mage than the demons, the Grey Wardens had filled that role, as well.
With no idea when they might return, or in what condition, Cauthrien had decided not to wait, and the stables offered the privacy that she wanted. Word of her intention had gotten around, and while everyone tried to hide it, she had caught the worried looks. She didn’t blame them, but neither did she want an audience while she experienced the effects of lyrium for the first time. Bad enough that they had all seen her half dead a few days earlier. Her philter kit was in her pouch; Lucien hadn’t told her where he had gotten it and she hadn’t asked. Everything she needed to mix her first dose of lyrium was contained within.
First things first, however.
“Stop that,” she admonished Dragon, who had pinned his ears and backed deeper into his stall at the sight of her, tail whipping in irritation. “I’m sorry it’s been so long. I couldn’t leave my sodding room.” He snorted disdainfully but watched as she reached into her pouch and withdrew an oatcake. Fresh apples were still several months away, but Cressa had been prevailed upon to bake treats for the Grey Wardens’ mounts. His ears flicked as she broke the cake apart, then leaned on the stall door and held out a piece in the palm of her hand.
“Your choice.”
He held out for a few moments longer, then ambled forward with studied nonchalance. Five years ago, such a presentation would have risked a bite, but today, only velvet-soft lips brushed Cauthrien’s palm as Dragon took the treat and munched on it with relish. She fed him the rest of the cake piece by piece in the same fashion, looking him over as he ate. The wounds on rump and shoulder had been healed, the lines of the scar tissue outlined in fine white hair. His coat was rough, mane and tail still tangled. In quieter moments, he would allow the stable hands to groom him, but evidently his agitation from the fight and headlong run back to Denerim had lingered, and at such times only Cauthrien could approach him. She fed him another cake, then an unprecedented third, before fetching the grooming tools and entering the stall. Dragon snorted, but not so harshly as before, and his ears were no longer flattened.
“You did well,” she told him quietly as she began running the brush over his coat, working out the dust and dried sweat. “We wouldn’t have made it without you.” She brushed careful fingers over the scars; the flesh twitched beneath her touch, but he did not shy away. “Sorry I got us into that. I’ll try to keep it from happening again.” They’d been caught off guard then, forced into a fight that favored the enemy. Lyrium would even the odds, as would more fighters and time to devise better tactics, but anything could happen once a battle was entered.
Dragon was less patient at her attempts to comb out his mane and tail, but the last of the oatcakes provided an effective bribe. She checked his hooves one by one, and was unsurprised to find the shoe on the left front missing; that would need to be replaced before they rode out again. “You’re getting more grey,” she remarked. “We both are.” The smith had looked at his teeth and guessed him at seven years when he’d arrived six years earlier. Thirteen wasn’t geriatric for a horse, but neither was it young. Much as forty was neither old nor young for a soldier. She didn’t mind the silver strands that touched her hair or the lines that had begun to show on her face; vanity had never been one of her vices. She did mind the aches and pains that had begun to encroach on her movement, but so far they were only an annoyance. When they advanced further, well … dying in battle didn’t frighten her, but what did haunt her thoughts was someone else dying because she hadn’t been fast enough, strong enough, good enough. It had happened five days ago, and if it had been Sofia instead of the Blackstone who had been killed -
She shook her head violently, dispelling the unwelcome thought. Dragon snorted and shied back a step. “Sorry,” she murmured, scratching his neck until he settled again. Even before, losing the mage would have torn something inside her, and now - She huffed a sigh, setting the comb, brush and hoof pick aside. Now she wasn’t sure what to think. On the job, they remained professional, but the Antivan had shown an uncanny knack for catching Cauthrien alone and initiating kisses that left her head spinning and pulse racing. Sofia, of course, could step away from such encounters with total aplomb to return to her duties, but Cauthrien generally required a minute or two to reassemble her thought process. Not that she was objecting; she trusted that the mage would not distract her in that manner on the verge of combat, which was really the only time that she couldn’t spare a minute or so.
So far, there had been no time for anything but the kisses, and while they left Cauthrien wanting more, the prospect of it actually taking place made butterflies the size of ravens start swooping in her belly. She was acutely aware that all of her prior lovers to this point had been fellow soldiers, and while she had never bedded anyone that she had not at least liked, such trysts had been primarily an outlet for the unspent energy of battle and a sating of physical wants more than any expression of affection. To say nothing of the fact that it had been - Maker, she didn’t want to think how long since she had been to bed with anyone. Sofia was a Grey Warden, true enough, but she was of noble blood, and a beautiful woman, and while she had never been one to flaunt her lovers, neither did she shy from the fact that she had them. Most, if not all, undoubtedly had more skill than an aging warrior who hadn’t had a bedmate since well before the last Blight. Cauthrien didn’t want to disappoint, but more than that, she didn’t want to lose what they had in the aftermath of a disastrous romantic encounter. What seemed exhilaratingly possible whenever the Antivan was in her arms fell prey to the relentless tumble of her thoughts when she was alone. What if she was awful? Sofia would undoubtedly be too kind to say as much, and then things would be awkward between them, and -
She heaved another sigh and sank onto the manger. This was getting her nowhere, and had nothing to do with why she had come here. Dragon’s ears flicked forward as she reached into the pouch at her hip again. She withdrew the leather case containing the philter and allowed him to sniff it. He snorted and stepped back, shaking his head in disgust.
“That’s reassuring,” she murmured, opening up the kit and staring down at the contents. She had already dispensed her first dose into a stoppered vial that lay beside the flask and measure. “Do me a favor,” she told her horse as she picked up the vial. “If I pass out, don’t step on me or shit on me.”