Shaw was... different in Denerim. It was subtle at first. He took point as soon as they were within ten leagues. He pointed out landmarks, then told their stories. Then his postured changed- his chest puffed out a bit more, his scowl softened by degrees.
By the time they made it in through the gates, he was near unrecognizable as the sullen Warden who would glare at anything that was unfortunately enough to get his attention. There was some discussion, started by Shaw, about how to handle it if he was recognized. “I’ll need you all to just let me handle it.”
“Sh-shaw?!” One of the guards recognized him from his youth, another child of the gutter who took up arms to find a better place. “Linshaw Frain!” He left his post and scampered to stand before the warrior.
“Pick yer jaw off the ground, Ric, yer lettin’ bugs in.” Accent thick as anyone had ever heard and smiling He uncrossed his arms and grasped the man by the shoulders. “Look at you! A proper uniform, eh? One that almost fits, too. Guess they’re lettin’ anyone in these days. Dark times indeed if Arseface Ulric bears the heraldry.” Ulric laughed and grasped Shaw by the forearms.
“Hey, that’s Corporal Arseface to you.” A laugh from Shaw- still harsh and underused, but less bitter than normal. “They, uh, sent your likeness around. Said you’re a traitor.”
Attention was being garnered by the rest of the guards, some taking a step closer. Shaw looked over Ric’s shoulder and shot them an icy look of warning. They stopped dead in their tracks. “Aye, that’s what they say.” He kept a steady grip on Ric’s shoulders. Ric, for his part, knew that look. He pat Shaw’s forearm with his hand.
The rest of Shaw’s party began to grow uneasy. He made them swear to trust him but- -
“Well, I don’t care a nug what they say. I knew you would never betray good King Cailan, and certainly not the men you served with in the army.” Ric looked over Shaw’s shoulder to the rest of the party, gave them his least nervous smile.
“Is this him? The one you grew up with?” A younger guard- barely more than a child- did not heed Shaw’s warning glare. He stepped forward and rested his hand on his pommel, nervous.
“Aye, boy, I am, but if you want to keep that hand, I’d take it off the sword.” Slow and low, the color draining from the boy’s face. Shaw focused all of his intensity on the upstart, but Ulric stepped in.
“He’s right. We’re standing down.” Ulric took a step back and Shaw’s hands fell. He turned to his men. “These men will go unaccosted through the city. I’ll send word to the others- - -”
“But ser!” Bold, for a runt. Shaw saw potential in the young guard, but that would have to wait until after the Blight, if any of them survived. “We have six guards here, we could- - -”
“I saw this man take down a dozen thugs when he was younger than you, and you are no where near the fighter he was back then. Stand down.” Ulric turned to face Shaw once more. “You’ll be fine in the city, the older guards know the Wardens wouldn’t have turned.”
“Always were sweet on me.” Shaw’s arms were crossed again, his smirk enough to make Ulric roll his eyes.
“I’ll meet you at the Gnawed Noble after sundown. Try not to get into too much trouble before then.”
“Good to see you are stupid as ever, if you think that’s possible.”
“Prick.”
“Arseface.”
It was much the same inside the city. Half the city remembered him, it seemed. None gave them trouble, except for the odd veteran of Ostagar too blinded by Loghain’s legend to see what was really happening. No matter. They were dispatched easly enough.
The Wardens avoided the main streets- and a number of alleys. He spoke more, laughed more. Their business took no time at all with him guiding, but as the sun sank- -
“I’m heading to the tavern. Don’t wait up for me.” Unlike the stoic bruiser, who rarely drank at all other times and generally disliked crowded rooms- especially when the patrons were wont to be belligerent.
Some of them chose to join him, though he gave them fair warning that he and Ric would mostly be talking about old days. ( Shaw so rarely talked about anything that wasn’t relevant to what needed to be done at that moment- a chance to see more of his past was probably exciting. )
“Edwina, love, you look as sharp as the day I left.” Smiling, a rare one that showed glimmers of teeth.
“Linshaw Frain! Maker’s breath, you are an image of your father. I heard you died at Ostagar.” The tavern owner did not look shocked to see him.
“You also heard I entered the city at the south gate this morning at ten bells. Come off it.”
“As handsome as your father, but as mouthy as your mother, I see.” She crossed her arms and huffed, but turned her cheek to Shaw. He gave her a quick peck below her rouge.
It was the first good night since Ostagar, though Shaw felt like he had undergone the Joining once more when he woke up the next afternoon. ( His good humor did not last long after they left the city once more, though he made no mention of being homesick. )
@quiprava | this is a bit of a mess, but here are the letters I drafted for that ask.
Shaw’s hand was surprisingly crisp and legible. One may not expect the brute to be as literate as he was, given his upbringing. Shaw was of the opinion that a sharp mind and ability to communicate clearly won just as many battles as a blade. There was occasionally a stutter in the slant of his letters when he switched hands, and he had a bit of a flourish to how he did some of his letters, but everything was practically serviceable and straightforward.
The first letter he ever sent Soren was during the Blight. A single line- Mage: We’ve held the pass. - L.F. - sent during the first time the three Wardens were separated since Ostagar. Mage held the same disdain in its cold lettering as it did when Shaw addressed Soren as such in person. They intercepted word that Loghain’s men were moving towards a vital encampment of Redcliff’s knights and noncombatants. Their demands elsewhere meant unless they split up, they could offer no aid. Shaw knew the best course of action, but he didn’t like it in the least. Alistair stayed with Soren and the rest- better to protect than lead an assault- and Shaw took a small contingent force to the choke point. He turned the gut wrenching worry of being away and turned it into fury. Loghain’s men didn’t stand a chance. ( Fury and grief. Shaw had known them once. )
While Shaw’s unease never let up, it became thus established that he was the one to break off and lead other expeditions when required. His experience and ability to hold his own was a factor- and perhaps giving Soren a break from his surly nature was another. His letters were terse and to the point- addressed simply Mage and signed with his initials. Often dotted with backhanded reports of information or expression of how he disagreed with a choice Soren had made, they were perhaps worse than Shaw actually being there.
What were you thinking? was a common question posed. We survived, but barely. I hope this is worth it for you. Venom clear in his words, but he always triumphed over what Soren asked of him.
It might be revealing that he never sent Morrigan a letter while he was away.
After the Blight, letters to the Warden-Commander looked much like letters to anyone else. Short and plain. Always delivered by his beloved Gideon instead of another raven, yes. And, perhaps, a few lines longer, if one inspected closely. No longer utterly antagonistic- Soren was Shaw’s commander now, not just some clever mage he was stuck facing impossible odds with.
Warden-Commander Amell:
Rain has slowed our progress, the roads barely usable. This letter reaches you from a crossroads southeast of Redcliff. We have opted to not cross Calenhad by boat; reports of Darkspawn to the northwest. I intend to pursue.
I have encountered a number of eager young blades wishing to pledge to the Wardens. They were instructed to stay and rebuild their home, though I did drop hints to the ones with the most potential where you would be. If they are clever and resourceful enough to know what to do, they may yet prove worthy.
Congratulations on the Arling.
-Senior Warden Frain
What cannot be seen is how many drafts Shaw went through to get there. Set to flame, all of them.
(Consumed by the fire, a half sheet of paper with the omitted words.
I’ve sent word to Alistair that the roads are shameful and no wonder Orlais thinks we’re backwards. It’s his responsibility as king to respond to this petty gripe and that if he expected me to take him seriously as a ruler, I’d accept his apology in the form of him personally bathing my horse when next I went to Denerim.
Hopefully he’ll laugh.
One of the boys reminded me of you. He had a bloody lip and the same steely look you get when you’ve set your mind on something. I told him to stay in Redcliff and gave him no indication of how to find you or if you were accepting recruits. I fully expect him in Amaranthine by the end of the month. He might even beat you there.
My kin are from Amaranthine. I am happy to be away from it and you. I do not know when I will return from Weisshaupt. I may not at all. )
Only the important information left in. He’d rather not waste such an important man’s time, after all. He’d rather not show weakness, was uncomfortable with sentiment, especially concerning the blighted maleficar. He was just a soldier under Soren Amell’s command. There was no need for sentiment.
When worrisome news came to him, he sent what little advice he could on the limited information he received. At one point after long silence, he sent Soren a letter of the same tenor as he did during the Blight. Mage: I expect you intact when I return to Ferelden. - Frain
When Shaw thought of moving from the room across from Soren’s, the same worry rose from the pit of his stomach. What if I’m too far away? What if something happened? Once settled in the Keep, Shaw found little reason to be too far from Soren. He felt partly responsible for the disasters that happened when the Wardens first came to Amaranthine and he was not keen on the idea of it happening again. His letters were more frequent when he did part and if there was extended silence from Soren, he fretted.
