Alistair Theirin (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
wardenings) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2015-04-02 08:59 am
wardenings) wrote in thecapitol2015-04-02 08:59 am
Entry tags:
devoted to neurosis. | open.
Who| Alistair Theirin / You!
What| Fear finally sets in Alistair's head; taking it no longer, he does what he does best to block away the noise -- train.
Where| The training area!
When| Day after / a couple of days after Stark's crowning.
Warnings/Notes| Violence, mentions of alcohol consumption, possible Dragon Age Origins spoilers depending on Alistair's dialogue, mentions of PTSD.
What| Fear finally sets in Alistair's head; taking it no longer, he does what he does best to block away the noise -- train.
Where| The training area!
When| Day after / a couple of days after Stark's crowning.
Warnings/Notes| Violence, mentions of alcohol consumption, possible Dragon Age Origins spoilers depending on Alistair's dialogue, mentions of PTSD.
There could be swords, but don't bet your luck on it, sweetheart.
There could be a happy ending, but you're more than likely to die. That's why these aren't called the Survival Games. They're called the Hunger Games. Eat or be eaten. Get your ass in there and train.
He was never sure who it was talking to him. Duncan, maybe? It never sounded like Duncan. Nevertheless, he moves with the strength that the Maker had blessed him with, gripping one of these training swords (surprisingly, a well-made blade, but nothing like the Oathkeeper he wielded back in Ferelden) firmly in his hand. Sweat drips from his hair, staining it a darker shade than it was when dry, onto his body, muscles aching and quaking with the strenuous exercise.
He pauses in his swing for a moment, staring down the poor dummy that was the object of his wrath and frustration. The tip of the blade is placed against the floor with a mechanical tap, and warm breath cascades over his lips, pausing to catch himself. The calling of the Darkspawn was a bard's sweet song in comparison to these nightmares, these flashbacks. Hearing that Tabris was missing, being run into hiding by the Wardens, the massacre of Ostagar... all these suppressed memories and fears rush forward like white water after a dam's destruction.
His tongue darts out to wet dried lips; his teeth bite down on the sides of his tongue to wet dry pallet. Fatigue sets into the man's form, but he doesn't stop the training. He's endured worse, he's become worse. The Maker watches over him and guides hi--
Alistair's inner monologue is interrupted by the metallic slicing of the door behind him, signaling someone else's entrance into the room he currently inhabited. Instincts kick in without his permission, and he takes a battle-ready stance, again forgetting that he is not on the battlefield of Ferelden, but instead in a cushioned and secluded room dedicated to the training of all the Tributes. There would be others. However, the ex-Templar's mind doesn't connect the two dots, and he doesn't break from his stance.
There could be a happy ending, but you're more than likely to die. That's why these aren't called the Survival Games. They're called the Hunger Games. Eat or be eaten. Get your ass in there and train.
He was never sure who it was talking to him. Duncan, maybe? It never sounded like Duncan. Nevertheless, he moves with the strength that the Maker had blessed him with, gripping one of these training swords (surprisingly, a well-made blade, but nothing like the Oathkeeper he wielded back in Ferelden) firmly in his hand. Sweat drips from his hair, staining it a darker shade than it was when dry, onto his body, muscles aching and quaking with the strenuous exercise.
He pauses in his swing for a moment, staring down the poor dummy that was the object of his wrath and frustration. The tip of the blade is placed against the floor with a mechanical tap, and warm breath cascades over his lips, pausing to catch himself. The calling of the Darkspawn was a bard's sweet song in comparison to these nightmares, these flashbacks. Hearing that Tabris was missing, being run into hiding by the Wardens, the massacre of Ostagar... all these suppressed memories and fears rush forward like white water after a dam's destruction.
His tongue darts out to wet dried lips; his teeth bite down on the sides of his tongue to wet dry pallet. Fatigue sets into the man's form, but he doesn't stop the training. He's endured worse, he's become worse. The Maker watches over him and guides hi--
Alistair's inner monologue is interrupted by the metallic slicing of the door behind him, signaling someone else's entrance into the room he currently inhabited. Instincts kick in without his permission, and he takes a battle-ready stance, again forgetting that he is not on the battlefield of Ferelden, but instead in a cushioned and secluded room dedicated to the training of all the Tributes. There would be others. However, the ex-Templar's mind doesn't connect the two dots, and he doesn't break from his stance.