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.
no subject
He takes a step back, away from Alistair, a defensive move rather than offensive. His first thought is, in fact, he's already a bit tired, if he presses the attack he may wear out and leave himself open.
He wants to gauge the other man's stamina before doing anything too rash. Caution is his friend.
no subject
He steps back, ankles shoulder-width apart. Shield arm is tense; sword arm is even more so. Piercing blues scan the other for a moment (so, Alistair decides, Cullen prefers to take the defensive?) before straightening his back and rolling his neck.
Rock back, he can hear Duncan's demanding voice, and press forward!
Instead of repeating the overhead attack he had tried moments ago, his arm is low, bringing his arm up for an uppercut attack.
no subject
He reacts to the move, and the blades crash together before Cullen sidesteps, his own blade swinging low, aiming to knock Alistair's legs from under him - or at least throw him off-balance enough to gain the upper hand.
no subject
The ex-Templar realizes Cullen's tactics well, however, and he is well aware that Cullen could easily grab the upper hand here. However, he would not let himself live it down (and neither would Tabris, Maker bless and damn her soul consequently) if he was to lose this fight.
Alistair regains his footing, taking his eyes off of Cullen for a split second-- but a split second is all the other needs, isn't it?
no subject
no subject
Alistair's back hits the ground with a thud, eliciting a grunt from the man as he's taken aback by Cullen's skill with a blade. His own blade goes up to protect himself from the dulled metal of the practice sword.
"Alright, alright. I concede. You can-- would you STOP that?!"
no subject
He stops when the other man is down, breathing heavily, dropping his own sword and offering a hand to help him back to his feet. "Good fight," he says, a smug smile he can't quite keep down crossing his face.