Cauthrien
Warden-Constable of Ferelden
Staff member
Canon Character
Grey Warden
Post DAI Timeline
DAO/DA2 Timeline
- Posts
- 362
((14 Haring, 9:35; Mid-day; Alongside Into The Underground ; Niamh , Sofia di Castelbuono , Cordelia ))
The skies were clear overhead, but the towering pine and spruce trees of the Gherlen Pass blocked enough of the sun that they no longer needed to wear the slitted leather goggles to prevent snow blindness. The snow-laden boughs above did have an annoying habit of releasing their burdens on the trail below, and enough had melted down the collar of Cauthrien’s winter gear that she was thoroughly uncomfortable. Breath of Warden and horse alike billowed in the chill air as they rode single file through the narrow path that had been broken, snowbanks rising to belly height on either side of the horses. Away from the shelter provided by the trees, the snow was deeper, and twice since entering the Frostbacks, they had heard the rumble of an avalanche, one unnervingly close.
Winter was a fact of life that every Fereldan learned to deal with, but most folk dealt with it by staying inside where it was warm as much as possible. Even military campaigns were traditionally halted in the winter months, armies and militias hunkering down in their camps or dispersing to their homes. Loghain and Maric had broken with this tradition in the rebellion against Orlais, leading their forces through the snows and falling upon a camp of chevaliers by night, scattering their horses to be gathered up for slaughter by the hungry rebels and leaving the surviving Orlesians to slog their way to the next camp on foot, grumbling about the ‘barbarism’ of the Fereldans, who had eaten much better than their foes for several weeks.
“Best you remember that,” Cauthrien warned her own mount, who flicked his askew ear at her to indicate his lack of concern.
Kill me and you walk home, boss.
“Yeah, yeah,” she grumbled. Dragon had actually behaved the last few days, likely because, like the rest of them, he was too damn cold to do anything but keep going forward, but the first few days, he had taken the chance to plow through every snowdrift and bump every available tree with his shoulder or hip, sending snow showering down onto his rider. They’d been lucky with the weather; the only significant storm had found them at the northern end of Lake Calenhad, and they’d spent a wary two nights at the Spoiled Princess, waiting for it to blow over. Fortunately, the denizens of Kinloch Hold seemed no more eager to brave the weather … or perhaps they didn’t want to risk another conscription. Either way, no templars or mages looked in on them during their stay.
Ahead, the path widened as it joined a road coming in from the north: wagon traffic to and from the port at Jader, wheel ruts sunken into the frozen ground, and Cauthrien carefully guided Dragon onto the comparatively smoother path between the ruts. Soon enough, they emerged into the loose enclave of merchants, traders and vagrants that clustered about the entrance to Orzammar. Eyes turned to follow them, voices raised as their uniforms were recognized:
“Fine weapons, Wardens! Genuine dwarven craftsmanship much cheaper than they’ll charge you below!”
“If you’re huntin’ darkspawn, you’ll be needin’ good armor t’ cover yer arses!”
Cauthrien ignored them. Wade’s skill was a match for Orzammar’s finest, and well beyond anything these hangers-on would be able to offer.
“Oi! Big ‘un!” This was directed toward Aerion. “How’d you manage to rate six?” Cauthrien leveled a flat stare at the speaker, who gave her an unrepentant - and mostly toothless - grin. “If the Wardens be givin’ out harems, I might join up!” he quipped, then yipped as the Summer Sword left its scabbard. Dragon pawed the ground, ears laid back.
“I don’t think you could handle one of us,” she warned him. He swallowed hard, wide eyes fixed on the silverite blade.
“Jus’ havin’ a joke, m’lady,” he mumbled, backing away. Leaving him to the jeers of his mates, she turned Dragon forward again, sheathing her sword.
“Nicely done,” she congratulated him, patting his neck. He snorted and shook his head lightly.
All part of the service, boss. Picking on you is my job.
The guards at the massive stone and steel doors saluted respectfully as they drew their mounts to a stop. “Wardens,” the captain greeted them. “King Bhelen is expecting you. We’ll see to your horses.” He nodded toward a stable that looked to be half built of wood, half carved into the mountainside.
Cauthrien nodded and dismounted, untying her pack from the saddle and handing the reins off to the hostler who approached. “Careful, he bites,” she warned before turning to her companions. “Leave the horses, take everything else.”
The skies were clear overhead, but the towering pine and spruce trees of the Gherlen Pass blocked enough of the sun that they no longer needed to wear the slitted leather goggles to prevent snow blindness. The snow-laden boughs above did have an annoying habit of releasing their burdens on the trail below, and enough had melted down the collar of Cauthrien’s winter gear that she was thoroughly uncomfortable. Breath of Warden and horse alike billowed in the chill air as they rode single file through the narrow path that had been broken, snowbanks rising to belly height on either side of the horses. Away from the shelter provided by the trees, the snow was deeper, and twice since entering the Frostbacks, they had heard the rumble of an avalanche, one unnervingly close.
Winter was a fact of life that every Fereldan learned to deal with, but most folk dealt with it by staying inside where it was warm as much as possible. Even military campaigns were traditionally halted in the winter months, armies and militias hunkering down in their camps or dispersing to their homes. Loghain and Maric had broken with this tradition in the rebellion against Orlais, leading their forces through the snows and falling upon a camp of chevaliers by night, scattering their horses to be gathered up for slaughter by the hungry rebels and leaving the surviving Orlesians to slog their way to the next camp on foot, grumbling about the ‘barbarism’ of the Fereldans, who had eaten much better than their foes for several weeks.
“Best you remember that,” Cauthrien warned her own mount, who flicked his askew ear at her to indicate his lack of concern.
Kill me and you walk home, boss.
“Yeah, yeah,” she grumbled. Dragon had actually behaved the last few days, likely because, like the rest of them, he was too damn cold to do anything but keep going forward, but the first few days, he had taken the chance to plow through every snowdrift and bump every available tree with his shoulder or hip, sending snow showering down onto his rider. They’d been lucky with the weather; the only significant storm had found them at the northern end of Lake Calenhad, and they’d spent a wary two nights at the Spoiled Princess, waiting for it to blow over. Fortunately, the denizens of Kinloch Hold seemed no more eager to brave the weather … or perhaps they didn’t want to risk another conscription. Either way, no templars or mages looked in on them during their stay.
Ahead, the path widened as it joined a road coming in from the north: wagon traffic to and from the port at Jader, wheel ruts sunken into the frozen ground, and Cauthrien carefully guided Dragon onto the comparatively smoother path between the ruts. Soon enough, they emerged into the loose enclave of merchants, traders and vagrants that clustered about the entrance to Orzammar. Eyes turned to follow them, voices raised as their uniforms were recognized:
“Fine weapons, Wardens! Genuine dwarven craftsmanship much cheaper than they’ll charge you below!”
“If you’re huntin’ darkspawn, you’ll be needin’ good armor t’ cover yer arses!”
Cauthrien ignored them. Wade’s skill was a match for Orzammar’s finest, and well beyond anything these hangers-on would be able to offer.
“Oi! Big ‘un!” This was directed toward Aerion. “How’d you manage to rate six?” Cauthrien leveled a flat stare at the speaker, who gave her an unrepentant - and mostly toothless - grin. “If the Wardens be givin’ out harems, I might join up!” he quipped, then yipped as the Summer Sword left its scabbard. Dragon pawed the ground, ears laid back.
“I don’t think you could handle one of us,” she warned him. He swallowed hard, wide eyes fixed on the silverite blade.
“Jus’ havin’ a joke, m’lady,” he mumbled, backing away. Leaving him to the jeers of his mates, she turned Dragon forward again, sheathing her sword.
“Nicely done,” she congratulated him, patting his neck. He snorted and shook his head lightly.
All part of the service, boss. Picking on you is my job.
The guards at the massive stone and steel doors saluted respectfully as they drew their mounts to a stop. “Wardens,” the captain greeted them. “King Bhelen is expecting you. We’ll see to your horses.” He nodded toward a stable that looked to be half built of wood, half carved into the mountainside.
Cauthrien nodded and dismounted, untying her pack from the saddle and handing the reins off to the hostler who approached. “Careful, he bites,” she warned before turning to her companions. “Leave the horses, take everything else.”
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