Loghain had found perhaps the quietest corner of Skyhold to resign himself to—far from prying eyes of its denizens, and furthermore from the nobility and foreign dignitaries that roamed the main halls. The Inquisition hoarded its international assets like currency, which he had his own personal opinions about. It also meant plenty of unsavoury jabs and colorful words from a particular demographic that he had countless responses for. On a grand scheme of Thedas’ issues, Orlesians were still by far the worst blight that had plagued its soil, even beyond that of archdemons and Corypheus. Monsters were more straightforward, but men possessed a greater evil.
“I much prefer the company of spiders,” he commented dryly as he paused to lift his stony gaze from his preoccupations, “they are not typically known to be an invasive species, and they are more than capable of coexisting.” The Teyrn angled his head in the warm lighting to eye whomever had intruded upon his solace. He found that silence was often preferable, but it could become deafening. A gentle song and distant conversation were far closer to companionship than the ringing in his ears and the cautious prickling of his skin, however those very instincts were what kept him alive–not the Chant of Light, not the comfort of conversation around a warm fire.
The Warden returned to his blade as he drew the whetstone over it, his jaw tightening as he swallowed the metaphorical blade and shield that were drawn to defend himself. Time had weathered his abrasive demeanor from a snapping maw to a low, guttural snarl. A mere shadow, tame and tempered from an exhausted existence filled with war and strife.
“Once one’s life is pledged to the Grey Wardens, their past matters not.” A sound of exasperation left his lips, his shoulders sinking beneath the weight of the armour that his aging body adorned. “And yet I am reminded constantly, if not by those such as yourself, then from my own mind.” It was not a conversation he was unfamiliar with; snide remarks recollecting his dubious choices, a metaphorical knife wedged between his platemail poised to provoke and injure. It was deserved, many would say, but he had paid for his crimes a thousand fold. The elf’s goading, however, was proof enough that the presence of spiders to men was by far preferable.
“There is nothing I would not do for my country, to keep its people free, even if it means my own undoing. And undone I am.” He rumbled as the whetstone was set aside, his thumb skimming over its edge to test the sharpness. “I am aware of the mistakes I’ve made, the lives I’ve ruined and traded for the mere notion of preserving my countrymen.” The blade was thereafter returned to his lap and, unsatisfied, he continued to hone its edge.
“I am not proud of every choice I’ve made, and I would estimate that you, like everyone else, would not stand by each and every one of their own. There are many I would make again, but the one of which you speak I take no pride in.”
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