War Paint

I covered my vallaslin with war paint, dark blue angled lines and dots to hide what I was by birth, a Dalish elf stolen from my people and raised by the warriors who killed my kin. Flames flickered as I looked myself over in the river. I looked Avvar, a shieldmaiden, warrioress. I would do my clan proud and bring honor to the gods.

The winds of the Frostbacks had been whispering war for moons, their tongues telling tales of warriors gathering in the east, under the banner of Tyrrda Brightaxe, to wage against the golden king Thelm. I cared little for their quarrel; I wanted only the chance to fight, to prove myself as worthy.

“We don’t have to do this,” a voice murmured to my right. I glanced over to my clan-brother Gunnir, who was roasting fennec over the fire. He’d painted over half his face, his dark hair braided intricately through the middle and shaved close on the sides. He was brutish where I was slender, hard where I was soft, and though we were not blood, he had grown to be my best friend.

“I thought you wanted to fight,” I replied simply, adding the finishing touches to my face and letting my pale hair out from its binding. I had braided my bangs like a crown, but left the rest flowing. My hair was finer than the shemlens’, and could go longer without washing or braiding.

“So badly you wish to prove yourself to Hakkon,” was all he said, staring stoically at his kill.

“And you do not? Is that not your right, as Child under the Sky?” I asked, mocking him. Most of my life I had grown up as unworthy. I was not Child under the Sky. I was not favored by the gods. I couldn’t lay claim to my Dalish history, either. I was truly an orphan, with no history, no ancestry.

“We do not need to join Tyrdda Brightaxe to prove ourselves,” he replied. He tossed a bit of meat to me.

I knew he was right, but it didn’t matter. As soon as I’d heard of the war growing, I knew I needed to be a part of it. I needed to fit somewhere, like a puzzle piece flung to the sea finally returned.

“Perhaps not you,” I said. I strapped my leather and furs around me, and grabbed my stave from the riverbank. Drums pounded from the mountains before us; tonight they would be feasting before setting off to the lowlands. “It’s time,” I half whispered, but I knew Gunnir heard me. He placed his quiver and bow over his back and stamped out our tiny fire.

“Are you ready, Ellana Lavellan, Child of the Forest?” he asked.

I kept my gaze on the fortress ahead, on my future, on my honor. “I’ve never been more ready for anything in my life.”

***

Our first obstacle was getting around the guards. We knew if we presented ourselves as Avvar without a banner we would likely be killed on the spot, assumed to be spies from Thelm’s camp. Guards usually gave little worry as to what to do with intruders. We had no nomination to be part of Tyrrda’s army; our own clan of Wolfbrook had opted to stay neutral, which was as close to traitorous as could be in the eyes of the Avvar.

Would we have to kill the guards? Bribe them? Climb over the walls? We spoke of all three, readying ourselves for anything.

But as luck would have it, we would have to do none of these things. As we rounded the corner, crouched down, sneaking quietly, all that greeted us at the gates were the loud snores of one guard, his war paint smeared, a horn of mead hanging from his hand precariously.

“And a drunken fool for a guard,” Gunnir scoffed.

I stuck my tongue out at him playfully. “Never let your guard down,” I cited.

It would have been easy enough to just sneak in past the guard, but that was not the Wolfbrook style. After ensuring he was quite asleep, I spotted a water bucket near a tied-up horse, the edges frothy and green from grass spit. I placed the bucket on a ledge above the guard’s head, using Spirit magic to create a tie that would cause the bucket to spill over his head as soon as he stood up.

Snickering, we entered the great hold in the mountains: Skyhold, newly discovered by Tyrrda Brightaxe as the base of her people.

I stood back in awe for a moment as we entered. Something about the place spoke to me, deep inside, as if a small tingle were zipping through my body.

Gurrin looked at me quizzically. “You all right?” he asked.

I shook myself from my thoughts and nodded, pushing forward. The hold was deep in celebration, a last party of sorts before the march began. Drums and voices rang out, fires blazed, and meat sizzled on spits.

We made our way through the courtyard, through various camps of soldiers and mages, rogues and warriors. Each camp was a different clan; some I recognized, others I didn’t. I felt a pang in my chest as I wished clan Wolfbrook had decided to pledge, how happy I would be if the rest of my family were here. Gunnir seemed to sense my emotions, and patted me hard on the back.

“Mother would have pledged, if Father wasn’t sick, you know that, sister,” he said.

“I know,” I replied with a grim smile. They would be angry enough knowing I had stolen the clan-heir to bring him to war without their knowledge.

“What’s the plan, now?”

I looked around, spotting an empty corner in the back. “We should set up camp over there, and just try to blend in,” I suggested.

Gunnir looked at me pointedly. “Don’t you think it would be wiser to announce ourselves as pledges?”

“And when they question where we are from, or notice the length of my ears, brother, do you think they will want to hear us, or rather sacrifice us to the mountain?” I countered.

“They’ll figure it out eventually,” he muttered to himself, but I wasn’t willing to listen. I hiked to the empty corner and began unloading my pack. We could worry about repercussions after we had landed many kills for Tyrrda Brightaxe. Surely she wouldn’t send away or sacrifice valuable assets to her army.

There were two camps near us. One was a rowdy clan from the bottom of the mountain singing songs and painting each other’s faces. The other was a simple tent, with a studiously quiet elf sitting at a table, scribbling on parchment. He was tall and lean, though his muscles were toned, and though he had elvish ears, his face carried no vallaslin.

My dread over being discovered was matched equally by my curiosity over him. I hadn’t come across an elf since clan Wolfbrook had taken me, and had never seen an elf who was not…Dalish.

As though he could hear my very thoughts, he looked over then, his gray eyes piercing mine. I could feel his gaze thrumming through my body.

“Andaran atish’an,” he said, bowing his head. On his lips a little smile played.

“Hahren,” I responded, using the little Elven I remembered.

I rushed back to setting up camp while Gunnir raised an eyebrow at me. I glared back, and he shirked away to start a fire.

But we would not be allowed into the hold so easily.

At the end of a particularly rowdy song by our neighbors, two brutish guards showed up at our camp, accompanied by the gate guard, whose hair and face was now drenched with dirty water. I struggled not to giggle as he glared at us.

“It must have been them. I would remember a knife-ear if we had one. They must’ve put a spell on me to make me fall asleep,” he sputtered, covering his arse. I looked over to our Elven neighbor, whose eyebrows were raised in apparent curiosity over what was happening.

“Explain yourselves,” one of the dry guards growled.

I stayed Gunnir with my hand. I got us into this, and I would do my best to get us through. “We are of Clan Wolfbrook, and wish to pledge ourselves to battle for Tyrrda Brightaxe,” I announced.

All around us, the crowd hushed to an eerie silence. All eyes were on us.

“We have no sponsorship from Clan Wolfbrook, which can only make you imposters from Thelm’s army. What kind of Avvar clan has a Dalish pledge? Come with us,” he said gruffly, grabbing me by the arm. “We have only one way of dealing with imposters here.”

My heart pounded in my chest and I looked frantically for Gunnir, who was struggling against the burly guard. Stupid, fool head! All I’d wanted was to prove myself, and all I’d gotten was our heads on pikes.

“If I may,” a smooth voice cut in, and I realized it was our Elven neighbor. “But I believe Tyrrda would prefer to judge these two herself,” he said.

The men seemed to listen to him, albeit begrudgingly. “Fine, then, bring them straight to Tyrrda Brightaxe, so she may execute them,” the guard announced to the cheers of the crowd.

I caught the gaze of the elf as I was hauled off to be judged, and I wondered if he stared back at me if he knew what he had just done had, in fact, saved my life.