Nathaniel Howe
Warden Commander of Ferelden
Canon Character
Noble
Grey Warden
Post DAI Timeline
DAO/DA2 Timeline
- Posts
- 183
((OOC: Firstfall 18, 9:35, Evening, Vigil's Keep - Howe Family Vault - Fergus Cousland ))
The ground was cold beneath Nathaniel; his body slumped in a seat upon the stone flooring of the Howe family vault beneath Vigil’s Keep. The painting of his father, rescued from what had been Bann Esmerelle’s estate years prior by Fiona, sat pristine across from him in direct counter to the splintered remains of what had once been the chair he often occupied when visiting the portrait of Rendon Howe.
Many months had passed since Nathaniel found himself in the vaults. The place was not a happy one for him. Darkness that matched the trail of his thoughts filled the room, only a few torches illuminating the expanse.
Today he had been drawn to this grim place. Guilt and a need for judgment bringing him before a painting he should have well destroyed long ago but could not find the strength to do so.
The letter had seemed an innocent one, tucked away amongst correspondence that had gone neglected too long. While eating a late lunch, Nathaniel sorted through the missives, setting aside those that could be answered later from those that needed a more immediate response. He had not recognized the penmanship on the outside of the letter thus intriguing him to open it before others.
What he read brought an end to his appetite and the first swells of guilt.
The letter warned from an anonymous friend of an assassination attempt upon Albert. Warned that he would be attacked upon the road in early Firstfall. Warned that his death was meant to be seen as a message to the Howes. Warnings read too late and not because the letter was not received in time but because Nathaniel was too distracted by Velanna’s abandonment of him.
An empty whiskey bottle lay at his feet, the remains of another grasped in his hand, he sloppy raised the drink in toast to the grim visage of the man before him. He was every bit of the disappointment his father thought him to be. Failing his sister, failing Albert, failing his nephew and niece. Too wrapped up in his own affairs, he allowed the preventable to happen.
Rendon Howe would never have let such a thing occur.
Perhaps it was the drink, the whiskey blurring his vision and dulling his other senses, he swore the corners of his father’s mouth, painting into the smuggest of smirks, raised just a hair.
The ground was cold beneath Nathaniel; his body slumped in a seat upon the stone flooring of the Howe family vault beneath Vigil’s Keep. The painting of his father, rescued from what had been Bann Esmerelle’s estate years prior by Fiona, sat pristine across from him in direct counter to the splintered remains of what had once been the chair he often occupied when visiting the portrait of Rendon Howe.
Many months had passed since Nathaniel found himself in the vaults. The place was not a happy one for him. Darkness that matched the trail of his thoughts filled the room, only a few torches illuminating the expanse.
Today he had been drawn to this grim place. Guilt and a need for judgment bringing him before a painting he should have well destroyed long ago but could not find the strength to do so.
The letter had seemed an innocent one, tucked away amongst correspondence that had gone neglected too long. While eating a late lunch, Nathaniel sorted through the missives, setting aside those that could be answered later from those that needed a more immediate response. He had not recognized the penmanship on the outside of the letter thus intriguing him to open it before others.
What he read brought an end to his appetite and the first swells of guilt.
The letter warned from an anonymous friend of an assassination attempt upon Albert. Warned that he would be attacked upon the road in early Firstfall. Warned that his death was meant to be seen as a message to the Howes. Warnings read too late and not because the letter was not received in time but because Nathaniel was too distracted by Velanna’s abandonment of him.
An empty whiskey bottle lay at his feet, the remains of another grasped in his hand, he sloppy raised the drink in toast to the grim visage of the man before him. He was every bit of the disappointment his father thought him to be. Failing his sister, failing Albert, failing his nephew and niece. Too wrapped up in his own affairs, he allowed the preventable to happen.
Rendon Howe would never have let such a thing occur.
Perhaps it was the drink, the whiskey blurring his vision and dulling his other senses, he swore the corners of his father’s mouth, painting into the smuggest of smirks, raised just a hair.
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