DRAGON AGE II: IRON HEEL, IRON HAND
How had Ferelden come to this?
Once the standard of a free realm in Thedas, it was fast becoming swallowed up in the schemes of a despot: its new King, His Majesty Aedan Cousland the First. Alongside his wife, the beautiful and cunning Queen Anora, the former Grey Warden and Hero of Ferelden has now ruled the land with an iron hand for five long years. Many wonder: Would things have been any different if Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir had actually become our King instead? Would our lives be better, or the same? The way things stand now, they can only get worse...
Will a new champion step forward to depose the old, or will all be lost?
Perdante Avrait had finally had enough. Enough of searching, of marching and hailing and finding nothing at all. She had sailed over treacherous seas to come from Orlais to Ferelden in its time of need, to fight against the darkspawn threat that remained after the archdemon had at last been slain. Indeed, she and her fellow soldiers had
slain quite a few darkspawn when they had first set out on an endless patrol, but now it seemed like their task was finally finished. Still, did that mean they could stop? Did that mean they could lay their weary heads down on the stones they used for pillows and rest? Did that mean they could return to their homes and families?
Alas, no. Not if King Aedan Cousland the First had anything to say about it...
"Here's to Ser Cousland," grumbled one of her inebriated comrades, raising a large mug of ale in their rugged, smelly camp. "Long live the sodding king and all of his merry men!"
Perdante slapped her hand over her mouth to keep from letting out a loud guffaw. It was treason to speak in such a way, but seeing as how she and her compatriots had been ordered to march hundreds of miles in search of their quarry and finding nary a darkspawn, most of them could care less if death found them. At this point, they had nothing left to live for, because their loved ones back home likely believed them slain. As for Perdante herself, she had no family in Ferelden, and her relatives back in Orlais had prayed for her before she left like one prays over the dead. They knew that she would not return. What more had she to lose, except her life, which wasn't worth much over here in this land?
The drunken soldier leered at her. "Want to take a tumble in my tent, missy?"
Perdante rolled her eyes. "The only thing that's tumbling right now is my stomach..."
He laughed harder than before, harder than he had all evening, and fell over on his back. Ale spilled everywhere, and Perdante wiped some off of herself.
"Disgusting," she grumbled, rising from the place where she was sitting on the ground. Right now,
she thought. This is my chance. If I were to defect, what better time than now, when all of us are eating and drinking like perfect swine? No one's going to notice if I 'slip out to the privy' for a brief moment...
She regained her balance and headed away from the camp. The sun was setting, and shadows set out across the land.