Before the Fall // Duncan & Loghain
Frustration bit deep. Everything should have been going well, and that would have been the case if he hadn't been forced to act with a heavy hand. Loghain was fighting a losing battle in a multiple front war, but it was not a victory he would hand over so easily. He'd rather die before giving in and seeing his own ambitions fall short, and he was sure that neither would happen. Not if he could help it.
Mac Tir's shoulders were rigid as he leaned over a lengthy desk covered in official documents both signed and scribbled in his hand. He was unmoving now though, elbows pressing firmly into the smooth wood as he pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. He was wasting time and money trying to subdue a never-dying target, that he knew, but there was no other way for him to carry on as he believed to be necessary. He held no real contempt for the Wardens other than for the endless headaches they had given him and the sorry state they'd thrust the capital into. Their elimination was merely necessity, he believed, and if he had to show that they weren't required as all of Thedas believed them to be, then so be it. If Ferelden survived without them during their exile, then it could continue to thrive without their usurping claws sinking into its political affairs.
There was a knock on his study door however; a thunderous hammer that roused Loghain from the lethargic realm of his own thoughts. At first his nose wrinkled, skin drawing back over the thrice-broken, forever-crooked cartilage as he processed the muffled sound of a voice from behind the door requesting his presence in the main hall. A throaty groan rolled out from the cavity of his chest as he moved to stand, body sore from the hunched position he had come to claim and had earlier fallen asleep within.
The General's joints creaked, back stretching, muscles straining as the chair was shoved away with the backs of his knees. A rumble of thunder echoed through the estate's stony walls with the occasional flash that lit up every crevice more effectively than the light of any candle ever could. He couldn't help but wonder who stood upon his doorstep in the middle of the night; a messenger would have no doubt taken cover from the rain unless the delivery was rather urgent, and any who knew Loghain well enough would have waited. None stumbled upon him in the wee hours of the morning save for Maric, and he wished to keep it that way.
He had a right mind to dress in his platemail, though the urgency of the servant streaming through the halls gave him little time to do so. As a result he was silent though--almost phantomlike as he wandered through the dark corridors in little more than his earthen tunic and darker slacks that were usually worn beneath his famed River Dane armour. A form came into view, though little more than that was discernible through the open front door. Loghain squinted through the dim lighting, neck arching, chin lifting as he proceeded forth to address whomever approached his Denerim estate in the middle of the night. He could not rely on his ears through the rumbling of the thunder and the rain drumming against every facade of the demesne, though still he called out towards the open door in wait of a reply from his unexpected visitor:
"Who goes?" He demanded, his own growling almost matching that of the rolling thunder, "what is the meaning of this?"
