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)
thecapitol2015-05-25 12:15 pm
wardenings) wrote in thecapitol2015-05-25 12:15 pm
Entry tags:
days ahead. | open
Who| alistair theirin + anyone
What| alistair's paranoid and angry about the arena.
Where| tribute center lobby.
When| a couple of days prior to the arena, roughly around midnight.
Warnings/Notes| cursing if that bothers you, mentions of mental illnesses, possible dragon age origins spoilers depending on dialogue !!
The stepping noises of bare feet down one or two stairs was irrelevant to the noise going on inside the head of the Warden. Blonde hair pushed back into a slicked-back style to keep the locks out of his face, Alistair would be seen easily as disheveled, if not completely disastrous. Donning a white tunic-like shirt and a pair of relatively comfortable nightpants (honestly, why didn't they have THOSE in Ferelden?), Alistair found himself alone in the Tribute Center lobby, the other participants tucked away in their beds, sleeping happily.
Sleeping.
Happily.
Hilarious.
The blonde inhaled through his nose and found himself looking out one of the large glass panes, his reflection prohibiting him from seeing the busy city outside. Instead of taking a look at the skyline and calming his mind, the Warden was faced with staring into the eyes of the man he had become, and he was horrified by it. His eyes and cheeks were sunken in, and a pair of stygian shadow circles were taking residence around his once beautiful sea-colored eyes. His skin didn't pale, but he looked sick.
How did Tabris find him handsome?
Alistair had kept himself separate from the rest of the Thedas group for good reason; they saw him as their king (with the exception of one or two people, Maker bless their souls), and would a king really look like this? Would a king be a bastard child? He can hear Anora's laughter in the back of his head, a waking nightmare brought onto him by the calling of the Darkspawn. And damn them too -- that is something not every Tribute would understand, living with that anxiety and that paranoia brought on by the Warden's curse. Damn the darkspawn, damn the Peacekeepers, and damn every Thedan, Ferelden or otherwise, who had the AUDACITY to call him king.
Anger is set in Alistair's expression, his fist, as he allows his brows to furrow, watching his expression of discontent wash over his visage.
He was no king.
He was barely a Warden.
And why, Maker answer him, why was he never happy?
There was a momentary peace and joy when he found Tabris on the roof, arms wrapped around her and inhaling her scent after they had been separated for so long, but alas. That joy had faded the first time he was encountered with a situation he didn't understand. That joy faded when he wanted to rip his own throat out to be freed of this strange and technological situation. He hated it here, but as did everyone else, he was sure. That joy had faded when Warden Alistair Theirin -- can he even CALL himself that name? -- looked at himself and saw no longer the young man ready to fight at the side of an elf with anger issues, no longer the young man ready to bed the Witch of the Wilds to save the world, no longer the young man with not a damned thing to lose, but instead, a hollow shell of a man who had lost everything.
Maker guide him.
What| alistair's paranoid and angry about the arena.
Where| tribute center lobby.
When| a couple of days prior to the arena, roughly around midnight.
Warnings/Notes| cursing if that bothers you, mentions of mental illnesses, possible dragon age origins spoilers depending on dialogue !!
The stepping noises of bare feet down one or two stairs was irrelevant to the noise going on inside the head of the Warden. Blonde hair pushed back into a slicked-back style to keep the locks out of his face, Alistair would be seen easily as disheveled, if not completely disastrous. Donning a white tunic-like shirt and a pair of relatively comfortable nightpants (honestly, why didn't they have THOSE in Ferelden?), Alistair found himself alone in the Tribute Center lobby, the other participants tucked away in their beds, sleeping happily.
Sleeping.
Happily.
Hilarious.
The blonde inhaled through his nose and found himself looking out one of the large glass panes, his reflection prohibiting him from seeing the busy city outside. Instead of taking a look at the skyline and calming his mind, the Warden was faced with staring into the eyes of the man he had become, and he was horrified by it. His eyes and cheeks were sunken in, and a pair of stygian shadow circles were taking residence around his once beautiful sea-colored eyes. His skin didn't pale, but he looked sick.
How did Tabris find him handsome?
Alistair had kept himself separate from the rest of the Thedas group for good reason; they saw him as their king (with the exception of one or two people, Maker bless their souls), and would a king really look like this? Would a king be a bastard child? He can hear Anora's laughter in the back of his head, a waking nightmare brought onto him by the calling of the Darkspawn. And damn them too -- that is something not every Tribute would understand, living with that anxiety and that paranoia brought on by the Warden's curse. Damn the darkspawn, damn the Peacekeepers, and damn every Thedan, Ferelden or otherwise, who had the AUDACITY to call him king.
Anger is set in Alistair's expression, his fist, as he allows his brows to furrow, watching his expression of discontent wash over his visage.
He was no king.
He was barely a Warden.
And why, Maker answer him, why was he never happy?
There was a momentary peace and joy when he found Tabris on the roof, arms wrapped around her and inhaling her scent after they had been separated for so long, but alas. That joy had faded the first time he was encountered with a situation he didn't understand. That joy faded when he wanted to rip his own throat out to be freed of this strange and technological situation. He hated it here, but as did everyone else, he was sure. That joy had faded when Warden Alistair Theirin -- can he even CALL himself that name? -- looked at himself and saw no longer the young man ready to fight at the side of an elf with anger issues, no longer the young man ready to bed the Witch of the Wilds to save the world, no longer the young man with not a damned thing to lose, but instead, a hollow shell of a man who had lost everything.
Maker guide him.