BARBED WIRE : open, sort of a plot ish

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    [align=center][fancypost bgcolor=; border: 0px; width: 400px; text-align: justify; font-size: 8pt]They were getting louder.


    Alistair's performance first slipped as he was dragging a deer across the ground, a strange winter kill he'd taken advantage of whilst searching for rabbits. About ten metres from camp, a muscle in his jaw spasmed and he released the carcass, head throbbing and vision blurring as he stumbled, legs clicking, only to catch himself a second later, shaking himself out and resuming his task with a vengeance.


    The second time, he was busy trying to secure a fourth rabbit to a stick he'd found; he was meaning to take them all back hanging from the piece of wood, rather than trying to fit them all into his mouth, and his limb twitched, kicking out and forcing him to lose his balance, a low groan escaping him as he slammed his jaw on the earth, body teetering sideways due to the sudden loss of balance. Again, like before, he recovered quickly, and he went on to finish the job with only a slight tremble, movements rushed as he hurried to gather the stick in his maw and bring his kills back to camp.


    The third, fourth and fifth times were remarkably similar, whilst walking, a sudden screaming in his ears caused him to flinch, and his legs buckled beneath him, sending him crashing down, sprawled in a heap on the floor. Throughout the day, a headache had been getting progressively worse, and the background whispers were getting ever louder, until he was able to make out a pattern, a beat, a rhythm, and this time, it was a lot harder to recover.


    They were singing to him.


    Alistair decided to try and ignore them, however, and continued on his way. It was day three, and the sudden bodily failures were getting worse and worse, and far more frequent — he was understandably concerned, but has yet to embarrass himself in complete view of anyone, and so took it upon himself to say nothing, because explaining the punishments of being a Warden to anybody who didn't quite understand was ... very difficult. Becoming a Warden didn't save anyone, really, other than those you fought for.


    The fifteenth fuck up, however, occurred in camp, and Alistair hadn't even felt it coming — it was accompanied by a delayed shriek, one audible likely only to him, and he stumbled, going down hard with a low grunt of agony, feeling the press of his sword against his side and the weight of his shield on his back, pinning him to the ground, even more than before.


    A soft sound of exertion escaped him, and he coughed, swiping his tongue along his lower lip and tasting blood. " Oh, no, not now! " he mumbled, sounding only somewhat panicked and attempting to struggle to his feet.


    : mobile, sorry for any mistakes!


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    [fancypost bgcolor=transparent; border: 0px solid red; font-size: 11px; color: white; text-align: justify; width: 340px;]where are you getting all of this muse I can't
    this gives me the Alistair feels


    They were all a broken set. Oh, they were functional, of course they were, some more than others, but it was folly to claim one had absolutely nothing plaguing their mind or their spirit. Lost families, betrayals, dead friends, addictions, tortures- the list was truly endless, limited only by life's imagination, and what an imagination she had, burning the homes of this individual here, and later sending them to a slow death at the grips of some disease. Dorian could easily succumb to the misfortunes that were strapped to his shoulders, forming a truly dreadful garb that he would burn had he the ability to do so. Yes, it would be simple to distance himself from all on behalf of the fear inspired by the majority of his life spent in the company of people he thought he could trust, only to later learn that his idolatry blinded him. He could have rejected Trevelyan, denied he pursuing of a relationship as a result of the buzzing fear that had him glancing back occasionally.


    But he did not. He had a circle of friends he trusted with his life, and he had crossed many milestones, beaten down anxieties, and he was stronger for it, though he knew the same could not be said for many, who were burdened by more than terror.


    Finding Alistair, attempting to rise in a manner that was truly pitiful for someone Dorian had thought more than physically capable of sprinting with both shield and sword, reminded him of this. The ebony lion did not speak, initially, merely aiming to brace a shoulder beneath the man and aid in lifting him to his paws. "I knew you were clumsy of speech, Alistair, but not of body." He wouldn't begin the questioning until Alistair recovered from this bout of whatever it was. Nothing good, that was for certain.


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    [align=center][fancypost bgcolor=; border: 0px; width: 400px; text-align: justify; font-size: 8pt]: my vocabulary has been condensed into about 6 words though, so
    not much muse here
    it'll all disappear soon, trust me


    Alistair's chest heaved as if he'd been running for hours, but he allowed himself to be helped up, locking out his legs and glancing at Dorian, well aware he was flushed with embarrassment though unable to bring himself to care about that, wholly concerned about the connotations of the issues he now faced. It was slow and debilitating, and the longer he resisted it, the more it would gnaw away at him, making him appear more like walking death than a living creature. At first, it'd take away the fat that built up, then it would cause his muscles to waste away; his eyes would appear sunken and hollow, and he would tremble, uncontrollably. His fur would dull, maybe fall out, definitely lose its golden pigment, and his teeth would lose their strength and sharpness.


    His temperament would then alter, quite drastically. The calm friendliness would dissipate, replaced by violent mood swings and a constant sense of uneasiness. He knew he would experience random and uncalled for bouts of anger, and would find ridiculous things hilarious, but would be claimed, for the most part, by unfair rage and confusion. As this whole ordeal progressed, though, he would wind up completely devoid of emotion, containing only a hollow determination when it came to his tasks. His humanity would, ultimately, slip away, leaving him as a desperate she'll of what he once was.


    As the singing increased in volume, he knew he'd lose his grip on reality. Between the voices and what was physically touchable, Alistair would not be able to discern, and talking to himself would become a regular occurrence. At this point, one would have to lock him away to prevent him from getting to the Deep Roads, but by that point, if he was indeed still alive and had not yet fled on order of the Calling, would anybody refuse him the right to die? Alistair wasn't certain, but he knew the stages of unwinding well, and was completely aware of his future. He just hadn't anticipated it so soon; Duncan had never seemed unwell, and he was positive it wasn't meant to come on this quickly.


    Then again, he thought, it affected everybody differently, and he wasn't always known for his remarkably good fortune.


    " Ah, yes, well, everybody falls from time to time, right? I'm fine now, anyway. Thanks. " he spoke, voice hurried and clipped in an attempt to brush off the situation.


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    [fancypost bgcolor=transparent; border: 0px solid red; font-size: 11px; color: white; text-align: justify; width: 340px;]/nope not believing a word


    Dorian might have cared for dignity, were their places swapped, but for the moment, Alistair's embarrassment was a mere backdrop to some puzzle that he was attempting to piece together, with little success. He hadn't spoken often with Alistair, but even if he had ever made to inquire after his past, he doubted the results would have been conclusive. What scraps he did know of the man fed Dorian the impression that he was inclined to slather humor over severity and leave it to marinate for too long. Dorian was no stranger to finding amusement in what situations were meant to be serious- that was often his response to dour moments, but would he deny anything was wrong when he was aware they could see that there was? He might like to give his own moments their share of bluster, but even he had his moments of painful truth, pride placed somewhere too far away for meddling.


    "Yes, but I suspect I could push you over again and you would still need help rising," the ebony feline countered. "You do not have to tell me what is ailing you, but anything is better than pretending nothing is wrong. Are you sick?" It wasn't likely that he would be able to shake Dorian at this point, though that had been the case from the moment he scrambled the way he had.


    it's not strange that I imagine the 'dorian slightly disapproves' popping up whenever he's angry is it
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    [align=center][fancypost bgcolor=; border: 0px; width: 400px; text-align: justify; font-size: 8pt]: have faith, it'll go soon


    Alistair exhaled, slowly, puffing out his cheeks but not countering Dorian, likely because he wasn't certain that the other male's comment was entirely false. He did feel somewhat weaker than he had before his small stumble, but would he find himself unable to rise again? Perhaps, he conceded, but did not admit that, remaining silent and thoughtful until he was given something he could answer.


    Was he sick? " Well, I mean, that depends on how you look at it, doesn't it? Some would say yes, I'm sick, and others would say no. It's not exactly something you can cure, either. I'd not call it an illness, either, because it isn't going to kill me. Well — not firsthand, anyway. It'll set up the circumstances, I mean, but it won't actually end my life. Of course, the longer I resist it, the worse it'll become, and by the end, some would argue that it has killed me, but I'm an eternal optimist, so ... "


    He was also an eternal rambler, from the looks of it. Alistair broke off for a moment, taking a few, short seconds to breathe, before continuing. " You look like a smart man — maybe you'll understand. Thing is, I'm a Warden. An exiled Warden, but a Warden nonetheless. And being a Grey Warden means I'm going to die. I mean, we all die, eventually, but not in the way I'm probably going to die. This is ... my little Warden sense telling me my time is running out. Slowly, and I probably still have a while, but I'm dying nonetheless, and prematurely I suppose. It's nothing to worry about, mind. "


    Alistair wasn't against letting people know,'per se. It was what he was, and he was unafraid of others understanding, so long as they didn't see it as something fun. He'd not recommend guzzling darkspawn blood to anyone. Grimacing, the leopard shifted, then decided that wasn't smart, and one leg buckled again, leaving him half-on the ground and half-still standing.


    : no, it's not weird
    i see it, too XD


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    [fancypost bgcolor=transparent; border: 0px solid red; font-size: 11px; color: white; text-align: justify; width: 340px;]/I don't share that faith


    Dorian's eyes narrowed, and he fought the urge to grip the man by his shoulders and shake him until he made sense, as rambling wasn't something Dorian had practice deciphering. In the Imperium, people spoke in concise sentences, when they weren't off on some righteous diatribe or gossiping about their cousins, and most of the people he was acquainted with in the clans were more inclined to saying too little until an argument came to be. Then, words were abundant as flowers in spring. Luckily, he managed to grasp the first concept, which was that whatever afflicted him was not to be the direct killer, but would rather serve as a catalyst for what would. An awful way to pass, it seemed, not by the volition of what began it, but by something else entirely. It made it all the more difficult to undergo when having that knowledge, from Dorian's perspective. He didn't wish to know how he would die- though he'd already died once.


    There it was. The link missing from the chain. A Warden. Why hadn't he started with that? Possibly due to the ignorance of those topics in these parts, though that was no fault of the clans'. "I never thought I'd meet one of you, exiled or no." His smile was thin. "Nothing to worry about? No, I suppose there isn't. You aren't living on the last leg of your life, or anything similar. Why would it matter?" He shook his head. "That was unworthy. At any rate, I-" Dorian cut himself off when Alistair fell once more, not as entirely as he had before, but enough so that he again, offered his aid by attempting to serve as something to lean on. Dorian was a lion; he was large enough that it wasn't troublesome. "No final wishes? You could be out seeing the world, jumping off cliffs and swimming with large, carnivorous fish and wooing women with tales of your scars. Not roaming about this place."


    okay good because I keep thinking about it
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    [align=center][fancypost bgcolor=; border: 0px; width: 400px; text-align: justify; font-size: 8pt]Somewhat pleased that he didn't have to explain what a Warden was, how one became a Warden, why he had chosen to become a Warden, what being a Warden entailed, etcetera, Alistair shrugged, idly. He hadn't expected to meet one? " Well, we pop up everywhere. Chances are you've met plenty of Wardens between Blights, and you just never knew. We don't always run around screaming it out, because we aren't meant to actively hunt recognition. It's sort of like being a Templar, only worse, and with darkspawn. And broodmothers. You do not want to meet a broodmother. "


    The African leopard gnawed on his lower lip thoughtfully. " No, no, not unworthy. Perfectly- " he groaned- " fine. It's not like I'm about to lose my footing any time soon, is it? I can still serve the clan just as well. " he felt pretty ridiculous, leaning on Dorian considering he'd always been confident in his ability to ... well ... stand. He was not prideful enough to refuse the aid, however, and used the lion to find his feet again, exhaling in another sigh.


    At the final comments, Alistair laughed. " No ... I'm not very good at ... wooing — I can't even woo a rock without getting all flustered — and I don't think I'd like to do either of the other things. I'm happy here. "


    : see it's going already
    then again, this is rushed


    i see the hearts from origin whenever i roleplay alistair, so


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    Dorian didn't know all there was to learn of Wardens- the group was rather 'hush hush' about what business they got up to aside from running about fighting darkspawn. Even if they were forthcoming, Tevinter was, understandably, not the place to make inquiries of such things when it seemed the very faith they followed pinned the blame of that particular mess upon their heads. They hardly wanted pointed fingers, unless they were aimed at anyone else save themselves; blame and pride had a tendency to function in that manner, Dorian had learned. Many times, in fact. "A broodmother? No, I don't think I would. 'Mothers' and 'brood' don't make the best of combinations." Brood could mean a number of things, from larvae to pondering darkly, but either easily spelled disaster.


    Serving? Oh, yes, that was incredibly important to these people, wasn't it? Dorian wasn't especially fond of that attribute; it had taken far too many people from him already. "I don't know about that. You've just lost it twice, and a little something I call intuition tells me this isn't the first time it's happened." He released a puff of breath, the exhale frustrated in nature. "This isn't about your ability to serve, Alistair. I imagine you could lose all your legs and both eyes and you would still be as disgustingly dedicated." He would be, wouldn't he? Dorian wasn't certain if he should be horrified or if he should be jealous of that conviction.


    "I cannot see why you would try wooing a rock, unless- is that something you like, then?" The curl of the lion's mouth was a smirk. "As long as you're happy, failing to woo your rocks, I suppose the rest shouldn't concern me." None of it had in the first place, admittedly, although Dorian had a proclivity for placing himself in situations in a way that made him a part of it, regardless of their feelings in the matter.


    /shhh
    well now i'm seeing those too
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    [align=center][fancypost bgcolor=; border: 0px; width: 400px; text-align: justify; font-size: 8pt]" No, well, nobody wants to meet a broodmother. Some of them talk. Heck, some darkspawn talk. It's terrifying, let me tell you. All ... flabby and huge, churning out darkspawn ... eugh. " he shuddered in mock-disgust — as terrible as they were, they no longer made him squirm. He was perfectly used to their disgusting selves, though it didn't make them any less ... less. There were few words that could describe a broodmother, really — he wasn't sure language did their ... masses justice.


    It wasn't about serving? Alistair's entire life had revolved around just that, ironically enough — it was not his only trait, nor his only desire, but everywhere he went, there was always someone more important telling him to serve. To now be told that it wasn't about that was oddly refreshing, but the manner in which it was presented to him was cause for amusement. " Yes, well, if you mutilate me like that, then I'll just have to inchworm my way through my daily duties. " he responded dryly, though it was hardly a serious statement. Ish. Much. " I'm too young to retire! I've got my whole life ahead of me- or I would have, had the voices not started singing. "


    Alistair again puffed out his cheeks, then, shaking his head. " I'd not woo a rock, not really. I'm not much of a wooer, actually. I'd not know where to start. A rock'd be even harder than a person! " well ... yes, that was the point of a rock, but- " How would you compliment a rock? ‘You're lovely and ... um ... Stony? Hard? Rough?’ I don't know! " and he was rambling again. " At least you can comment on a person's ... eyes, or their fur, or something. "


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