#shieldmaidenoftheavvar

[mageoutcast]

shieldmaidenoftheavvar

aeonarescapee

    "I already told the guardsmen that I did not start that fight. It was entirely that dwarf's fault for running his mouth so loosely."

[abitterveteran]

burn my dread // shieldmaidenoftheavvar

It was rare that Loghain was indecisive, but as it stood now, there were two completely different paths that he could walk, and he needed to decide which one to take.

Maric no longer needed his assistance. He'd served his purpose to the Rebel King some time ago, and now that they had successfully found the resistance forces his unwritten contract to Maric was null and void. Loghain was dragged through hell and back, and he had the choice to stay and let that continue or return home to the ashes and dust that remained of the camp he left behind. Perhaps there were survivors still--ones that picked up the mantle after his father's passing. He needed to return to give his father a proper burial, as well as tend the others who perished in the flames. It was what his father would have wanted now that Ferelden's king was in safe hands, he believed.

He was caught between a rock and a hard place. On one hand there was a friend, and a forbidden interest holding him within Maric's army, but on the other there was a sense of familiarity, and a life far more simple in comparison.

With his neck bent, Loghain stared down upon his own feet in the dim lighting of his canvas shelter. He fulfilled his father's wish, but now what? A grimace stretched across the expanse of his face as he lifted a hand up to press his fingers against his face, brow wrinkling in frustration. He was not his father; he found no honour fighting for the king, nor would he give his life upon being knighted. He didn't care for it. Loghain was a rogue, not a soldier, and the longer he stayed, the longer it hurt in the end. He needed to leave.

But if that was the case, why was he hesitating?

A frustrated set of calloused fingertips brushed against the plane of his forehead before pushing passed his hairline and into the dark tresses of his wild mane. His icy eyes closed, and with an exasperated sigh, he breathed a set of syllables belonging to a nearby maiden whose presence he could feel more than he could see.

"Aresta," the rogue called out, though his eyes remained low, "what would you do?"