edge_of_forever | Darkspawn [Open]

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Darkspawn [Open]

Until a second ago, Alistair wished that whatever-this-was didn't have to come to an end.

There was nothing that the Templar-Gone-Grey-Warden more than a family. And for whatever reason, he suddenly had one. A real family with a real sister and a real collection of nieces and nephews, all for his very own.

The other Warden was there, too, though if he thought about it hard enough, they probably shouldn't be. Then again, the family he hadn't met shouldn't have been present either, but he didn't think of that at all, either.

He is in the middle of a game of hide and seek with Davis, the youngest of his imagined nephews when he finds that he can't find him. At all. Or anyone else, for that matter. He starts racing towards the house, but finds that grass slowly gives way to metal gray floors.

When he turns around, the field outside his sister's house is not there. It had all just vanished.

With a sharp intake of breath, he turns around again, his brows furrowed with confusion. He realizes it, then. He's aboard the Prosperina, still. All that before was...

"Just a dream." Like that time in the Mage's Tower, when they went into the Fade.

Disappointment wells up inside of him. Having the family he wanted so badly had been unceremoniously seized from him before and now it had been taken away from him again. But there's little time to dwell on that.

Alistair hears a snarl rise up from behind him.

A very familiar snarl.

He spins around, only to find himself face-to-face with a trio of Darkspawn. One ogre, flanked by a hurlock and a genlock. And unfortunately for Alistair, none of the three seemed particularly happy to see him.

And unlike him, they also had weapons.

"Darkspawn!" he says in one second. In the next, he's racing down the halls, eyes searching frantically for something -- anything, he can use to fend the creatures off. With a weapon, he could handle the Darkspawn. Without one -- well, he was just about as useless as everyone else.

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Sandor had had more than he could stand of the visions that had been plaguing him and the rest of the people still remaining on the station. Between the big hairy beast that had chased him all over the place, the kid's little blue men and then the Stark girl the night before, he was done. Anything that came at him now, he was going to ignore it and let it do its worst.

But of course, none of Sandor's plans have ever really worked out the way he intended. He was on his way back to his rooms when the tall blond man (the one who'd reminded him of the Kingslayer before the Kingslayer actually appeared) came running at him, shouting. "Darkspawn?" he repeated skeptically.

Then the things he was running from came into view behind him, and Sandor thought better of his plan to sit by and do nothing. They were like nothing he'd ever seen, disgusting and terrifying at the same time, and he wanted nothing to do with them. He fell into step beside the other man, sparing breath to ask, "How do you kill them?"

"Without going very much into it," Alistair says, still racing forward, not quite looking at the newcomer next to him. "You hit them with a sword until they're dead. Unfortunately for us, save for those practice swords in the training rooms, we don't have any real steel aboard the station. At least that I know about, anyway."

He glances back over his shoulder; the orc gives out a mighty roar -- one that shakes the walls of the space station slightly. Alistair glances up at the man beside him. Whoever the man, he's monstrous, both in size in appearance. But if he's willing to help with the Darkspawn, Alistair's willing to withhold judgment for the time being.

"You don't happen to know where we can find arms, do you?" he asks, still running as he turns down a corridor. He can hear the footsteps of the other darkspawn moving still close behind them.

"Aside from those practice swords, no," Sandor said, since the knives he'd pilfered from the science labs would be all but useless against something of that size. "But we might as well get them. Anything's better than nothing."

Quickly, he assessed their location. The entrance to one of the concourses was ahead, and the sparring room halfway between it and the entrance to the next concourse. "You go down this concourse and lead them up the next one," he said, his rough voice straining further with the effort of running and talking at the same time. "I'll get the swords and anything else we can use to hurt them, and meet you at the other end."

He hoped the man wouldn't disagree. Sandor wasn't many things, but he was good in a battle, and strategizing how to win (and stay alive) was something he'd gotten very, very good at over the years.

Alistair doesn't disagree. Part of it is because he's used to taking orders -- either from Duncan or one of the other Grey Wardens, or from the Grey Warden. The one he was traveling with. He didn't have any confidence in his ability to lead anyone anywhere; the other Warden was much better at making decisions. She didn't ever hesitate; she made decisions and people followed her, almost naturally.

Alistair lacked that natural leadership. He lacked the confidence to make decisions so readily and see them through. So when Sandor starts barking out orders, he's secretly thankful.

"Right," he says, giving the larger man a nod of the head. "I'll do that. If I see anyone, I'll take them with me." That might not be the most brilliant idea -- considering that the Darkspawn can sense him as much as he can sense them -- but there's always a chance that there are others here. Other Darkspawn -- who, for all he knows -- may be going after those on the Prosperina who aren't as adept at combat as he suspects he and the other man are.

He'd tell the other man to stay safe, but with a build like that, Alistair doubts he'll run into any trouble. "Good luck," he settles on instead. "I'll see you on the other side."

With a brief nod, Sandor put on a burst of speed, focusing on breathing even so he didn't tire. He had to move fast, but he had to be able to fight when he was through. He was just glad he hadn't decided to spend that morning getting drunk like he'd originally planned; then they'd both be fucked.

The practice room was dimly lit, but he didn't bother raising the lights. He moved quickly, grabbing all the swords he could see-- nevermind that they were blunt as spoons and more heavy than dangerous-- and then turning to the handheld weights. He needed something to put them in-- he could hardly carry them all and the swords freehand-- and cast about for only a few seconds before he realized all he had was the overshirt he wore. Dropping everything, he knelt to pull it off, and began fashioning it into a sling, all the while calculating how long it would take the other man to run through the Porta Ianualis and out the other side. He couldn't afford to be late.

The last few days had been perplexing, in a way that Sansa had never anticipated. She was surrounded by wildlife - wildlife out of drawings, birds that braided her hair, that brought her towels when she bathed. Flowers sprung from her steps, and she spend the nights sleeping on moss as soft as lamb's wool, with rabbits bringing her her blankets.

It was... disconcerting, especially given how she knew others on the station were not so lucky. Her mind had been focused on her own state - that Ser Jaime Lannister was here, that it made it even more likely that the horrible man who had ben collecting rats was not wrong - that there were more people from Westeros who she did not know or see. She had settled in the grand, open room where they had all begun, listening to the echo of the birdsong as a pair of squirrels played in front of her, a doe lying on her side next to her fawn. It made her miss Lady, it made her miss everything - things that couldn't exist any longer, that she had never seen - Life was not the way it was in stories, but this - this surely must be from a story, did it not?

Sansa looked up at the birdsong stopped, as the the doe nudged her fawn up, as they both bounded away, white tails marking their fear. The birds and rabbits and squirrels got her up, the birds drawing on her hair and clothes as they tried to pull her away. "What? What are you doing? Stop it- I'm sorry, but-" As if they would understand.

They gave up and flew, they bounded and ran as Sansa whirled around, standing in a meadow that had not been there that morning - and she saw Alistair, and the monsters behind him, and she stared with wide eyes, taking a step back, then another, crushing a flower under her foot, too frozen by her own fear to know if she should run or stay or hide.

"There's no time to explain," he says, before Sansa can start to ask any questions.

Alistair reaches out to grab Sansa by the wrist, but within seconds he realizes there's no way that she's going to be able to keep pace. Within seconds, he hoists her into her arms and sprints forward.

"We're going to meet with--" Alistair realizes then that he never caught the other man's name "Someone else," he supplies. "At the end of this corridor. We're going to fight the Darkspawn off, so don't worry. You just need to worry about staying out of their way. I don't want to see you getting hurt. Or anyone, actually."

But especially Alayne.

Alistair quickly glances over his shoulder as they approach the end of the corridor; these Darkspawn are quicker than he remembers -- or else, he's getting slower.

She's not used to this - to being pulled into someone's arms, to running from monsters - her sorts of monsters are the type that smile at you, that very quietly slip a dagger between your ribs as they kiss you, that eat at you like acid. It's not giant thundering real monsters, like Old Nan used to talk about but a million times worse, like you see in your nightmares when you imagine a monster chasing you. In those split seconds when she's hiding her face against Alistair's neck, she can only think of one person, which is absurd.

Jon Snow.

Is this what he went to the Wall to fight? If so, then he was surely dead. He was surely dead, and it hurt, that she thought another part of her family was given up for lost, but she said not a word, just clung closer to Alistair. "I'll stay back," she said, even though she didn't know how any of them could be safe, how any of them would be safe, her or Alistair, or the someone else he was talking about.

Alistair finds himself wishing quite desperately that he had gotten that other man's name before racing down one of the corridors. Maybe then he'd have something to shout out as they reached the end of the corridor.

But he doesn't have a name. Instead he yells out, "Hey!" And then, even more stupidly: "You there yet?"

And then before he can hear Sandor's reply, they reach the end of it; immediately Alayne is set down and Alistair moves into a fighting position -- feeling very naked without both his armor and sword.

Sandor heard the shout, first dimly, then closer as they converged on each other. "Coming!" he shouted, loosening the knot on his makeshift sling as he rounded the bend and saw the other man facing down the advancing monsters. He barely registered the third person in their party, hidden as they were behind the other man's bulk.

"Back here," he said, backtracking a short way to one of the observation areas, beckoning them after him, his eyes never leaving the three beasts as they came after. They were moving slow, almost taking their time, like they enjoyed making their prey suffer in anticipation. It was a chilling thought, one he banished as soon as it occurred to him. It wouldn't be smart to get scared now, especially not when his own hallucination had proved that real or not, these things could hurt you if they got close enough.

"Take this," Sandor said, tossing one of the practice swords to the man, then going to a knee and undoing the bundle entirely. "We're not going to be able to keep them at bay, so best to try and knock them out with these." He hefted a weight with a 20 on it. "If we can't get close enough to hit, we'll have to throw. How's your aim?"

He directed this at the third person, who had moved out from behind the big man enough to be seen. But when Sandor's eyes swiveled up to her face, shock poured over him like a bucket of ice water and for a moment he froze. Time seemed to roll away from him and for a moment he was back in the Red Keep while the city burned and her voice anchored him to sanity. Then he remembered where he was, what was happening to him, the vision he'd had the day before; a bitter expression stole over his face and he turned away from the apparition to find the other man staring at him oddly. Must not be able to see her, he thought, like I couldn't see Mystique's.

"Nevermind," he said. "I'm seeing things everywhere I look today." He got to his feet and launched himself at the nearest of the three with a roar of anger that had almost nothing to do with the monsters.

"Alistair-" Her voice is strained because she has known him since the start, because she'd seen him since the beginning, and she's very nearly yelling, but then she backs up a step, her breath lodged in her throat as she reaches behind her for something - for a wall, or a pillar, or something to put her back against, and then he's there - Sandor, Sandor Clegane, wearing the same black uniform as all of them, and she can just remember what she'd forced herself to forget. She'd known. She'd known he was here, and here he was and she couldn't--

Sansa covered her mouth as she made a sound, like pure desperation had taken form and crawled it's way out of her throat because it couldn't be both of them, it couldn't be Alistair and Sandor facing these monsters, but then the ogre moved closer and the ground shook, and she screamed. She screamed, as a white and grey blur launched itself from the concourse with enough force that the ogre staggered. The wolf rolled past them, skidding on the floor as it put itself in front of Sandor and Alistair, growling, it's hackles up - and it was nearly the size of a draft horse, a tattered, thin pink ribbon around it's neck. It only took Sansa moments to know, her voice raw as she ran forward, not even thinking. "Lady-" She just knew, even though her eyes burned from the tears that slipped down her cheeks, not knowing what to do even as the ogre pull itself to it's feet.

Alistair is so extremely grateful that someone else is there to take charge. He's never been much of a leader -- not like the other Warden was and having someone else bark orders at him brings him some relief.

Or as much relief as one can have when they have three Darkspawn chasing after them, anyway.

Alistair catches the sword in his hand. "Can't say much for my aim," he says, because honestly, he's used to getting up close and personal with his targets. He was a melee fighter first and foremost; throwing weights was definitely not going to be his forte.

Alistair is about to charge -- second after Sandor when he hears Alayne's small voice coming up from behind him. He tries to give her a reassuring smile, the sort of smile that says 'I can handle this, don't worry', though he doesn't have that confidence himself. Not truly.

"Don't worry," he says, because he knows the smile isn't going to say it for him. "We'll take care of them."

And when he turns forward, he finds something there that wasn't there before. Something he almost certainly would have noticed as she was the size of a horse and covered with a thick layer of fur. For a second, he stops -- Darkspawn completely forgotten -- and doesn't move at all.

It takes a few seconds for him to register that the wolf (is it a wolf? he wonders, because he's never seen one that large in Ferelden) isn't attacking them.

Actually, she might be trying to help.

The snarling wolf leapt past him and launched itself at the hugest of the three beasts, jaws snapping, claws scrabbling for a place to sink in. Sandor couldn't look away from it; it was a direwolf, there was no mistaking its size or the lithe power in its body.

His distraction cost him. The demon-thing he fought swung, and he parried too late; the blade bit into his arm and pulled, tearing muscle, and he roared in pain and frustration. Blood soaked his sleeve and he went into a frenzy, chopping at the monster and swinging the weight at its head, driving it back and keeping its blade away from his flesh.

It seemed distracted by the scent of his blood, and Sandor suddenly knew how to use that to his advantage. Dropping the useless false sword, he grabbed the creature's sword hand at the wrist and turned in, putting his back to it and bringing the weight down hard on its fingers. Momentarily stunned, its grip loosened, and Sandor used the momentum to pry the real sword from its paw.

He felt a moment of triumph before the creature growled loud in his ear, and sunk its many teeth into his shoulder.

Sansa stared at the fight in front of her, at the blood that was spattering the floor and ceiling, and was backing away even as Lady through herself at the ogre, as Sandor wrenched the blade from the monster's hand that was human sized. She kept backing up, her heart in her throat until it went for Sandor's throat, until he pushed it off so it's teeth found his shoulder, and she screamed again - only to be struck with blinding pain, the her eyes wide as she realised that there was a dirty, bloody arrow that had sprung from her shoulder. She hadn't been watching - it must have come from the shorter monster that Alistair was fighting, and all the sound in her throat died as she kept walking backwards, as her back finally pressed against a pillar and she tried to reach for it with shaking hands, but every time she touched it pain shot through her body.

She was sobbing, curling herself into a ball as she couldn't watch, couldn't watch them fight and die, sliding to the ground as her sweatshirt slowly soaked with blood, her fingers red with it.

"Stay back," Alistair yells, and he might as easily be yelling to the monster as he is to Alayne. The darkspawn's sword rips through the sleeve of his sweatshirt, drawing forth a long line of blood. The darkspawn sword, unfortunately, is more sword than the wooden one in his hands, which is already splintering. If he doesn't finish this up fast, they're all as good as done for.

One lucky strike on the back of the darkspawn's genlock's head sends the creature toppling to the ground. Alistair drops his own sword and grabs its own. For a second, he clutches his bad arm with his good, hoping to temper the flow of blood. Armor usually made sure that he didn't bleed out. He'd be sore from a good blow in the morning, but full plate kept the blood from draining from him on a regular basis.

His eyes look past the direwolf, still fighting the ogre, towards Sandor, his brow heavy with sweat. The hurlock is on top of him now, snapping at his shoulder. Alistair races towards him, slashing at the creature's back in an attempt to force him into relinquishing his grasp on Sandor.

"Are you all right?" Alistair is used to fighting Darkspawn. And while judging from the look at him, Sandor's probably used to fighting something, Alistair somehow doubts that he's accustomed to fighting anything like the Darkspawn.

"You tell me," Sandor gritted out, twisting his neck around to look at the terrible bite mark on his shoulder. It oozed blood and black gore-- the creature's saliva, maybe? A foul thought if ever there was one-- and hurt worse than the gash in his other arm by tenfold. "What the fuck are those things?"

Before the man had time to reply, the smaller monster got to its feet and came at them again, but this time Sandor was armed. Ducking under its first swing, he elbowed it in the face, then drove the point of its own sword up under its chin. It died with a revolting gurgle, and Sandor jerked the sword free and turned to face the giant horned thing. The direwolf was keeping it occupied, but clearly wouldn't be able to kill it; the Starks' entire pack of wolves might have been able to, but it seemed Sansa was the only Stark he was going to be hallucinating today.

He didn't look back as he swung the sword up and went for the ogre with everything he had.

Alistair glances at the larger man's shoulder and winces. That was definitely going to hurt in the morning. "Darkspawn," he answers, as he finds himself circling the ogre-direwolf matchup the way a boxer might circle their opponent in the ring.

"They're creatures I was sworn to fight as a Grey Warden," he says, slamming his practice sword into the creature's side with so much force that the sword began to splinter under the force of the attack.

"My sword's not going to hold up much longer," he yells to Sandor, wishing very much that he was wielding a real sword instead of a practice one. He glances over at the weights the man brought wonderingly -- just in time to be knocked back by one of the ogre's bulbous arms.

"I'm not going to hold up much longer either," Sandor muttered, staggering as he tried to push through the pain flooding his body. The direwolf was doing its best to keep the gigantic beast away from them-- away from Sansa, really-- but it was only a matter of time before the thing got even madder and swept the wolf aside. Sandor nearly tripped as he stumbled toward the pile of weights he'd dropped. They were a long shot, but he was rapidly losing control of his arm-- he could see it had begun to swell around the bite, and the fluid seeping from the wound was green now as well as black-- and wouldn't be able to swing a sword with any skill for much longer.

He waited til the other man looked his way, then tossed him the sword he'd taken from the smaller monster. "Have that," he said, and hefted a weight with a 50 on it in his other arm. He grimaced; in order to do real damage it should be twice as heavy, but if it were, he couldn't have lifted it. So he made do with what he had, and spun around once to get some momentum before aiming and letting the barbell fly.

It caught the monster in the nose, not exactly where he'd been hoping it would hit, but close enough. Its head flew back and it appeared to lose balance, momentarily addled. And that was when the direwolf struck. Rearing back on its hind legs, it launched itself at the monster, latching onto its neck and tearing. The thing tripped back, flailing blindly to try and dislodge the predator at its throat, but with no luck. Sandor rushed at it, his weight bulling it backward, and he saw the man on its other side do the same.

One of the Darkspawn's windmilling arms caught him on the temple, and his vision went grey. When his eyes cleared, the direwolf was covered in black sludgy blood, and the ogre had stopped moving; the wolf had torn its throat out.

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Darkspawn [Open]

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