03-13-2010, 07:39 AM
The earth shook beneath his feet. The mountains quaked, and the valley trembled. He came to an abrupt halt, dropping to a knee and pressing an ear to the dirt. The rumblings were getting louder - the darkspawn horde, and the archdemon, gained ground every second, poised to emerge from their underground refuge at the opportune moment.
He quickened his pace, the Frostback Mountains rising on either side of him, determining his path. The snow-capped peaks surrounding him set forth a foreboding path, but he knew that this journey had almost reached its climax. In just a short hour or two, he would reach his last checkpoint on his way to Ostagar, the ancient fortress in south Ferelden that had gone unused for hundreds of years, where all of Ferelden’s forces had gathered to meet the scourge.
The request for his help had come as a shock. The tensions between Ferelden and Orlais were well known, and though the two countries had extended an olive branch after the war thirty years before, most Ferelden people still held some hostility toward their former sovereigns. Bitter as they were, they had called for help from the Orlesian Grey Wardens, and Juno had been the representative sent.
He clutched the strap of his satchel, holding it tightly onto his shoulder as he slowed to a stop. The edge of the Frostback Mountains was within sight, lying just down the ridge and over a small slope. He saw a small campfire below, and knew that those must be the other Grey Wardens - those of Ferelden - sent to meet him, to escort him to Ostagar, as he was not familiar with their lands.
The taint within him swelled suddenly, and he instinctively glanced around and let his hand fall slowly to the staff that hung on his back. His robes billowed in the gusty winter winds as he turned back toward the mountains, watching carefully for any sign of the disfigured creatures that he had been sent to fight. There were rustles in the trees and bushes that surrounded him, and he knew that he was not alone. Most darkspawn foot soldiers were not very good at laying low, making ambushes easy to intercept. Nevertheless, he remained cautious, carefully sliding his staff off of his spine while allowing his eyes to dart back and forth between both sides of the pass.
As if from nowhere, a flaming arrow whizzed past Juno’s face, and the Warden turned on his heel, bringing his sword up to block a second attack. He still couldn’t see his attacker, who had shot from under the cover of shade from a patch of trees, but his mind suddenly projected an image of an axe being brought down upon him, and he leapt into the air, spinning and smirking as the hurlock’s weapon clashed with his own. The creature doubled back, climbing up onto a rock face and staring down at the seer.
The Grey Warden turned his attention back to the archer beneath the trees. Sure that his next shot would strike the Orlesian, the genlock leapt forth from underneath his cover and fired off a shot which was easily avoided, and then fell face first into the dirt - hard. Juno lifted his staff and rushed for the creature, eliciting a ferocious battle cry as he threatened to slice the thing in half. The smaller darkspawn was almost done for, but managed to reach into the folds of his leather armor and pull out a bent dagger, mustering up enough strength to parry his opponent’s sword. Dissatisfied, the clairvoyant slammed his foot into the fallen darkspawn’s face, and then wasted no time bashing the creature’s skull in with his mage’s staff.
“Zat is what you get,” Juno taunted, but all of a sudden, he noticed something rather… suspicious. For whatever reason, he now had some sort of accent, the likes of which he didn’t recall having previously. Then, it hit him: he was still inside Kill Town, and this was just a part of the game.
He didn’t have much time to ponder that, however, for the hurlock had become bold once more, swinging his axe at the half-Saiyan’s knees. He leapt into the air, watching as the weapon sailed beneath him, and then landed soundly, pressing one palm against the hurlock’s chest and firing off a Pop. A bolt of violet ki burst forth from his palm, and ripped through the hurlock’s armor, which was of stronger make than the genlock’s, but still not strong enough to resist Juno’s attack.
The mindless goblin collapsed in a lump of smoking flesh, dark red blood seeping forth from the wound. The onyx-haired warrior stepped over the corpse and stood once again at the crest of the pass. His destination was just down the slope.
His thoughts, however, were not distracted long from his recent realization. His eyes floated down and examined the staff he held in his hand - he knew that he was a mage, the only mage of the Orlesian Grey Wardens, and their principal diplomat and strategist. In short, he was the intellectual of the order in Orlais. However, Ferelden was a much different ballpark now; he was in foreign lands, under foreign authority, and he had to respect that.
But something kept tugging at the back of his mind - that none of this was real. It felt so real, though, even more than the pirate ship had. Wait; a pirate ship? When had he been on a pirate ship? More memories continued to return, and eventually, after suffering through a headache of epiphanies that popped up one right after the other, the Grey Warden was forced to realize that he was not, in fact, a Grey Warden after all, but rather a contestant trapped in a seemingly endless game world that continued to plague him with strange situations.
As he began to filter more of his old self back in, he slowly set off down the slope, considering his options. He was, for all the ‘character’ he had been assigned knew, an Orlesian mage, who had gone through a ritual known as the Joining to become a member of an elite order of heroes: the Grey Wardens, whose sole responsibility was to protect Thedas, the continent that encompassed Ferelden, Orlais, and many other countries, from the Blights.
He had heard stories of the Ferelden Wardens - brave, indeed, but much more focused on combat than the Orlesians. In Orlais, it had been a principal part of their training to learn strategy, but in Ferelden, the warriors were valued more often than the mages or the rogues. Occasionally, you could find a recruit that was valuable in thinking up a plan of attack, but more often than not, intelligent as they may be, their skills were illustrated through their prowess in combat itself, not in the planning of said combat. Juno supposed that would be what he was here for: to supplement an already excellent combat regimen with reason, which he had recently gained back since his rash excursions on the Black Oyster.
At the head of the darkspawn horde would be the archdemon, and Juno the player supposed that this was his goal: to join with the Grey Wardens of Ferelden and help them to defeat the archdemon, which would, in effect, then cancel out the darkspawn horde, effectively saving Thedas and, borrowing from video game terminology, beat the game. Only after that would the evil mastermind - Gamer - release him once gain, back to the carnival, back to the place where he could just sit around and wait for either his impending doom or the next event.
Perhaps it would be more prudent to just stay here after all.
No, no, he convinced himself, despite his utter discontent at the idea of being relocated to the circus once again. The slope went quickly, and by now, he knew that the Wardens at camp would’ve probably noticed his approach. He couldn’t turn back. Not now. Now, he had to play this game to fruition - and besides, if he didn’t, what hope was there for him to ever get out? If he had to suffer through one of the creepiest field trips of his life just so that he could get back into the real world, then by the Maker, he’d do it.
He paused for a second; once again he was forced to consider the game he was playing, and evaluate how everything would play out. According to the memories that he supposed had been programmed into him, the order of Grey Wardens was desperately weakened. There were only a handful of Wardens left in Orlais, and even less in Ferelden - four, to be exact. So would they be other players, like him? That seemed like the only logical conclusion.
Night was falling on Ferelden. The orange glow of the firelight now acted as a North Star, and the staff he wielded had transformed into something resembling a blind man’s cane. He stumbled through the darkness, the Wardens’ camp growing closer and closer. In the wee hours of the morning, they would travel to Ostagar, and join the battle which Juno feared was already raging - he just hoped that Ferelden would not have fallen before they had the chance to interfere. Perhaps, though, the king of Ferelden had paused his assault before making his move - they could only hope he had shown some wisdom. The Orlesians had never known the son of the man who drove them from the country to be anything but headstrong and brash. And if that hadn’t changed, Juno wasn’t sure any strategy of his could save them.
“Maker save us all,” he muttered before resuming his approach.
He quickened his pace, the Frostback Mountains rising on either side of him, determining his path. The snow-capped peaks surrounding him set forth a foreboding path, but he knew that this journey had almost reached its climax. In just a short hour or two, he would reach his last checkpoint on his way to Ostagar, the ancient fortress in south Ferelden that had gone unused for hundreds of years, where all of Ferelden’s forces had gathered to meet the scourge.
The request for his help had come as a shock. The tensions between Ferelden and Orlais were well known, and though the two countries had extended an olive branch after the war thirty years before, most Ferelden people still held some hostility toward their former sovereigns. Bitter as they were, they had called for help from the Orlesian Grey Wardens, and Juno had been the representative sent.
He clutched the strap of his satchel, holding it tightly onto his shoulder as he slowed to a stop. The edge of the Frostback Mountains was within sight, lying just down the ridge and over a small slope. He saw a small campfire below, and knew that those must be the other Grey Wardens - those of Ferelden - sent to meet him, to escort him to Ostagar, as he was not familiar with their lands.
The taint within him swelled suddenly, and he instinctively glanced around and let his hand fall slowly to the staff that hung on his back. His robes billowed in the gusty winter winds as he turned back toward the mountains, watching carefully for any sign of the disfigured creatures that he had been sent to fight. There were rustles in the trees and bushes that surrounded him, and he knew that he was not alone. Most darkspawn foot soldiers were not very good at laying low, making ambushes easy to intercept. Nevertheless, he remained cautious, carefully sliding his staff off of his spine while allowing his eyes to dart back and forth between both sides of the pass.
As if from nowhere, a flaming arrow whizzed past Juno’s face, and the Warden turned on his heel, bringing his sword up to block a second attack. He still couldn’t see his attacker, who had shot from under the cover of shade from a patch of trees, but his mind suddenly projected an image of an axe being brought down upon him, and he leapt into the air, spinning and smirking as the hurlock’s weapon clashed with his own. The creature doubled back, climbing up onto a rock face and staring down at the seer.
The Grey Warden turned his attention back to the archer beneath the trees. Sure that his next shot would strike the Orlesian, the genlock leapt forth from underneath his cover and fired off a shot which was easily avoided, and then fell face first into the dirt - hard. Juno lifted his staff and rushed for the creature, eliciting a ferocious battle cry as he threatened to slice the thing in half. The smaller darkspawn was almost done for, but managed to reach into the folds of his leather armor and pull out a bent dagger, mustering up enough strength to parry his opponent’s sword. Dissatisfied, the clairvoyant slammed his foot into the fallen darkspawn’s face, and then wasted no time bashing the creature’s skull in with his mage’s staff.
“Zat is what you get,” Juno taunted, but all of a sudden, he noticed something rather… suspicious. For whatever reason, he now had some sort of accent, the likes of which he didn’t recall having previously. Then, it hit him: he was still inside Kill Town, and this was just a part of the game.
He didn’t have much time to ponder that, however, for the hurlock had become bold once more, swinging his axe at the half-Saiyan’s knees. He leapt into the air, watching as the weapon sailed beneath him, and then landed soundly, pressing one palm against the hurlock’s chest and firing off a Pop. A bolt of violet ki burst forth from his palm, and ripped through the hurlock’s armor, which was of stronger make than the genlock’s, but still not strong enough to resist Juno’s attack.
The mindless goblin collapsed in a lump of smoking flesh, dark red blood seeping forth from the wound. The onyx-haired warrior stepped over the corpse and stood once again at the crest of the pass. His destination was just down the slope.
His thoughts, however, were not distracted long from his recent realization. His eyes floated down and examined the staff he held in his hand - he knew that he was a mage, the only mage of the Orlesian Grey Wardens, and their principal diplomat and strategist. In short, he was the intellectual of the order in Orlais. However, Ferelden was a much different ballpark now; he was in foreign lands, under foreign authority, and he had to respect that.
But something kept tugging at the back of his mind - that none of this was real. It felt so real, though, even more than the pirate ship had. Wait; a pirate ship? When had he been on a pirate ship? More memories continued to return, and eventually, after suffering through a headache of epiphanies that popped up one right after the other, the Grey Warden was forced to realize that he was not, in fact, a Grey Warden after all, but rather a contestant trapped in a seemingly endless game world that continued to plague him with strange situations.
As he began to filter more of his old self back in, he slowly set off down the slope, considering his options. He was, for all the ‘character’ he had been assigned knew, an Orlesian mage, who had gone through a ritual known as the Joining to become a member of an elite order of heroes: the Grey Wardens, whose sole responsibility was to protect Thedas, the continent that encompassed Ferelden, Orlais, and many other countries, from the Blights.
He had heard stories of the Ferelden Wardens - brave, indeed, but much more focused on combat than the Orlesians. In Orlais, it had been a principal part of their training to learn strategy, but in Ferelden, the warriors were valued more often than the mages or the rogues. Occasionally, you could find a recruit that was valuable in thinking up a plan of attack, but more often than not, intelligent as they may be, their skills were illustrated through their prowess in combat itself, not in the planning of said combat. Juno supposed that would be what he was here for: to supplement an already excellent combat regimen with reason, which he had recently gained back since his rash excursions on the Black Oyster.
At the head of the darkspawn horde would be the archdemon, and Juno the player supposed that this was his goal: to join with the Grey Wardens of Ferelden and help them to defeat the archdemon, which would, in effect, then cancel out the darkspawn horde, effectively saving Thedas and, borrowing from video game terminology, beat the game. Only after that would the evil mastermind - Gamer - release him once gain, back to the carnival, back to the place where he could just sit around and wait for either his impending doom or the next event.
Perhaps it would be more prudent to just stay here after all.
No, no, he convinced himself, despite his utter discontent at the idea of being relocated to the circus once again. The slope went quickly, and by now, he knew that the Wardens at camp would’ve probably noticed his approach. He couldn’t turn back. Not now. Now, he had to play this game to fruition - and besides, if he didn’t, what hope was there for him to ever get out? If he had to suffer through one of the creepiest field trips of his life just so that he could get back into the real world, then by the Maker, he’d do it.
He paused for a second; once again he was forced to consider the game he was playing, and evaluate how everything would play out. According to the memories that he supposed had been programmed into him, the order of Grey Wardens was desperately weakened. There were only a handful of Wardens left in Orlais, and even less in Ferelden - four, to be exact. So would they be other players, like him? That seemed like the only logical conclusion.
Night was falling on Ferelden. The orange glow of the firelight now acted as a North Star, and the staff he wielded had transformed into something resembling a blind man’s cane. He stumbled through the darkness, the Wardens’ camp growing closer and closer. In the wee hours of the morning, they would travel to Ostagar, and join the battle which Juno feared was already raging - he just hoped that Ferelden would not have fallen before they had the chance to interfere. Perhaps, though, the king of Ferelden had paused his assault before making his move - they could only hope he had shown some wisdom. The Orlesians had never known the son of the man who drove them from the country to be anything but headstrong and brash. And if that hadn’t changed, Juno wasn’t sure any strategy of his could save them.
“Maker save us all,” he muttered before resuming his approach.