who made you like this? @ loghain!
LOGHAIN GROWLS, LOWLY. his features rippling in what could only be described as a deep scowl.
flames from the fire he had recently built, and currently tended to, reflect against his silver armour as he hovers on one knee above it. a trophy of an orlesian kill, taken from the famous battle of river dane. his face is still mildly speckled in dried blood, which crackled beneath his wound expression. satisfied with the roar of the flame enough to sit back on the half-rotted log. wrist dangling from his knee.
who made him like this? that was seemingly a simple answer. the orlesians, maric.. himself. indeed what, was the better question. it was the question he hears, anyway.
what had made him like this? closed off, hardened? taciturn and unfriendly, as he's been so aptly described by his own soldiers? harbouring such anger that festered beneath the skin like a disease, all tempered steel and arrows sunk into fleeing backs? swords thrusts, twisted into flesh and spilling blood? many things, is the honest answer. more and more piled, one on top of the other, for decades.... and while it would have only taken one instance, the truth was it had begun long before that. forced as a child, born under orlesian rule, to watch the worst of the occupation. his neighbours whipped to death by chevaliers, forced out of their homes. women assaulted in as many ways as you could think of, amidst the dirt oswin roads.. his own family burdened by the weight of taxes they could never hope to pay, with a mother and father worrying over the security of their once quaint future.
however, the first instance that had really began to harden the flesh of a knitting wound over his pain, was the loss of adalla. the first loss to the orlesians, which was followed by his parent's farm. and then, his mother... he still sees her when he closes his eyes, in fact. feels the ice-cold fingers, very literally, and hears the accented laughter as they forced him to watch what they did to her. an event he had once been able to remark about, albeit very infrequently. used as a jab used for protection. a verbal weapon. quick to shut those up who were apt to comment on his demeanour. remembers he'd said it to rowan, when she'd inquired about his lack of manners. but now? he'd prefer not bring it up, at all. at least until he was next forced, by his consciousness.
in the silence of watching the flame, his prominent brows have lowered over his pained eyes. jaw in a dull ache at the way it pinched.
"you don't want to know." he states clearly, biting. though when he speaks next, it loses some of its edge. instead, naught but husky, and sad. "trust me."
TAKE ME BACK TO EDEN. @elliscousland.
