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.
Let me know if this isn't okay!!
So, rampant alcoholism it was.
He hadn't actually had a discussion with Alistair - knew he was here, of course, but there was knowing and there was experiencing, and Dorian had yet to do the latter. The last time he'd seen Alistair, the man had been King and Completely Unimpressed with him. Which wasn't all that surprising, he supposed, given the situation. Evil Tevinter mages, and all that, and at that time it wasn't even him.
His thoughts were rambling.
So when he saw Alistair looking utterly mopey in the lobby, he offered a small wave of the mostly empty bottle of brandy in his hand. "You look like you could probably use a drink," he said helpfully as he walked over.
ooc. no this is totally okay !!
Dorian, right-- the Pavus boy. Man. Lad? What the hell ever. All Alistair comprehended at the moment was that Dorian was giving him a drink. A way out of this momentary paranoia. "Dorian, right?" Asked the blonde, turning to face the mustached man with a look of desperation on his visage. "The Tevinter mage?"
Pocketing his hands in the loose-fitting pants, blue eyes looked around the lobby, picking up a glass (Maker knows how long it was there, or whom had used it last...) and extending it towards the man with the brandy and the plan. "Just one or two won't hurt. Create enough of a damned buzz to get a bit of sleep, I suppose."
"Alistair. But you knew that. Everyone knows that. Just feels right introducing myself man-to-man, I guess."
no subject
"But I've already been told that you aren't a King, which I have to say, makes a touch of difference." He took a seat nearby, pouring himself another.
"Which in itself is fascinating. You are the third to be so different between worlds, but the first of which we can all agree on a name and a face."
no subject
Beautifully ironic, thought the Warden, as he swore before he had seen an exact replica of the attire of the Ferelden King hung up with all of the clothes he was going to be modeling at some point for these damned Gamemakers. Thankfully taking the glass of brandy and taking a swig of it like it's nobody's business, Alistair eyed the Tevinter mage, furrowing his brows.
"Third. Who're the other two?"