Backscene: Lost in the Frostbacks Who: Deidre "Dee" Aisli, Thren Canondais Where: Somewhere in the Frostback Mountains When: 9:40 Dragon; Nubulis (Early Spring) Summary: Inclement weather catches an inexperienced and unaware Thren Canondais as he tries to find Orzammar in order to return his father's ashes. Upon his collapse and on the verge of death, the Maker decides to send him a Good Samaritan who saves him in a very... unusual way. Rating: N. For Naked. But not that kind of naked.
Status: COMPLETED
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Dee Aisli:
The weather was about to take a turn for the worse.
She knew it when she arrived at the peak, a seasoned explorer enough to be able to at the very least notice how to sky shifts whenever things were about to get ludicrously difficult. She had spent the morning moving carefully around snow-covered stone, digging her mountain boots on clumps of shredded ice so ensure that she wouldn't make an unfortunate tumble downwards. Earlier, the sun was blazing, bathing light all over the blue-and-pearl expanses -- the reflection from such pristine colors threatened to sear her eyeballs in their sockets with their painful beauty. Mists swirled upwards with high-altitude winds, whipping at her cheeks and forcing blood vessels to rise up from underneath her skin and color the creamy arches. She prepared herself carefully for this trip, considering she was going to be alone, bundled up in thick furs, and trousers lined with wool.
Deidre trudged upwards on the slope leading to the cave that she had prepared for shelter, looking up at the endless, sapphirine canopy above her and shielding her eyes with a hand. She could see the low-hanging clouds, feel the wind pick up at every moment she spent outside of it. She knew there was a storm coming, something that certainly displeased her as this would undoubtedly delay her on things that she needed to do. She quickened her pace, hurdling over an outcropping of harsh granite and landing on the path leading further into the shallow crevice carved into the side of the mountain. She picked her way through the narrow passage carefully, keeping a firm grip of her line of rope, and absently feeling for the climbing hooks she had brought with her to ascertain that she had not lost them. If anything went wrong, they would be essential to her survival.
Nearing the cave mouth, she almost missed the body.
He matched his surroundings perfectly in terms of skin color -- dark, touched with bluish gray. It was more evident around the lips, chapped by his exposure to the elements. Judging by the way flecks of ice stirred at his collar by the faintest of breaths, she knew he was alive. He might not be much longer, but for the moment, he lived.
She didn't recognize him, even as she crouched on one knee to examine him a little more carefully. He wasn't a dwarf, and part of her wondered just what a human being was doing here, aside from herself, so far away from the only vestiges of civilization the remote location had.
The brunette removed her gloves, slipping quickly-chilled fingers past his collar to rest against the side of his neck to feel a pulse. She detected one -- barely thrumming against her digits, but felt regardless. She stuffed the articles of clothing back in her pockets, and maneuvered so she could roll the man on his back. Reaching over, she hooked her forearms under his armpits and looked down at his face.
She saw his eyes flicker and smiled. It razed a flash of brilliant white behind parted lips.
"Well, well. Hello there, stranger," she murmured, digging her heels into the ground and hefting him up and sideways. "Looks like today is your lucky day."
With that, she proceeded to drag him towards the waiting cave mouth.
Thren Canondais:
He felt her struggle with his weight and every few steps she was forced to stop. His back would settle against his legs and she would sign in frustration before hooking her arms around him again. His clothes were crusted with ice and they burned against his skin. Every jerk backward brought a new wave of pain, and Thren was just grateful that he wasn’t going to die face down, snow in his nostrils, with the wind whipping around him.
It wasn’t loud in the mountain pass, it seemed like the world seemed to be bracing itself against the oncoming storm. He tried to focus on the sound of her voice. She muttered as she pulled him: colorful euphemisms and sometimes gentle encouragements.
Thren thought of the two bedroom house in Redcliffe, it had been sparsely decorated, but each plank housed a memory. He wanted nothing more than to ease into his bed, see the ceiling over him, not the vast open sky. He thought of the years of contentment that he shared with his adoptive father. They often spent nights around the fire, reading or sharing stories. He tried to remember the rumbling sound of Podren’s voice or even the smell of the burning wood. His mind barely recalled the flickering orange cast. It hurt too much to think of the dwarf, and he only felt the cold.
He tried to remember the names of dwarven Paragons, the Chant of Light… anything to stay awake.
He thought of her face instead; her parted mouth, her red nose and cheeks. He remembered her dark hair as it fell over her shoulders in stark contrast to their dull, muted surroundings.
Thren wished he could have been more helpful, but it was all he could do to keep breathing. The world was hazed around him and when he slipped out of consciousness, his eyes were on the sky.
Dee Aisli:
She had been careful the moment she set up her shelter to keep the fire as far away from the mouth of the cavern as possible. It was a single, natural chamber, cut right into the side of the mountain and didn't go further than several feet into the rocky surface. It was deep enough to keep heat inside, which was a small blessing in of itself. The hearth crackled, she heard the small pop-pop-pops of the dry timber she managed to salvage beckon at her while she dragged her heavy find inside. His legs scraped helplessly on the hard, mineral surface underneath them -- there was no helping it. Whoever he was, he was young and fit, his musculature indicative of one who spent his days engaged in some kind of rigorous physical activity. He was too heavy for her to lift fully; bruising was certainly imminent.
The young Chantry girl made a note to apologize to him once he was lucid enough for treating him like a rag doll. She dropped him on the bedroll, ushering him as close to the fire as she dared. She hesitated once her bare hands touched him -- he was cold, icy to the touch. If it wasn't for the occasional glimpses of activity behind his heavy-lidded gaze, she would've thought him dead. When fingers found the latches that kept his clothing in place, she paused. Indecision crossed her features.
She had seen this done once, in another expedition which ironically took place in the other side of this very mountain. At the time she thought it unusual, but it might be the only way she would be able to ensure his survival.
But...
Deidre sighed, and looked down at the nearly unconscious man. "Well," she told him conversationally, as if she were talking about the weather outside. "This is going to be extremely awkward."
Deep down, she was hoping he was so far gone that he wouldn't remember anything whenever he was awake.
Button, after button, after button until they were all dismissed from service. She worked quickly to strip him of his clothing, impatience marking her movements as she cast iced-over fabric to the side. She ignored the clawing sensation of mortification somewhere deep within her -- at eighteen years old and raised by the Chantry, all she knew about naked men was the fact that she shouldn't be within range of them. She had seen plenty of bare flesh in her travels -- she had witnessed Chasinds in their natural environs over the summer, the bare and rustic wear of the more indigenous natives of Southwestern Thedas. She never touched any of them, however, making this entire experience rather novel with its share of...difficulties.
To her credit, she managed to keep her eyes open as she worked, once the last piece of his clothing had been discarded. Hazel irises slid downward, homing in on the white scar standing out over bronzed skin along his chest, twisting sideways to his inner hip just along the ridge of his...
She groaned inwardly, tilting her head backward and flashing the cavern's ceiling a baleful look. "There's no end to it, is there?" she asked, a dry remark delivered to an omniscient but absent god.
There was no need, she decided, to strip him of his smallclothes, if not just for the purposes of preserving her sanity. She braced her arms over his shoulders, and with a grunt, rolled him bodily over his chest. Unfortunately, she knew peeling away his ensemble was only the first part. The next parts of this entire enterprise was going to prove even more daunting, but like every other thing she had accomplished in this life, once she made a decision, she followed through with it. She decided, for instance, to save his life -- hence, she was going to do so no matter what it took.
And no matter how embarrassed she became.
She tilted his face sideways so he could breathe away from the fire. Setting her jaw, she stood up and started discarding her own clothes. Furs were bundled to the side and saved for later. Trousers, boots, and the layers of shirts that she wore underneath were tossed carelessly to the side. Goosebumps mottled her flesh, feeling the chill seep in from the outside world. Even now she had too much pride, clinging onto her signature bravado and relentless moxie, to shiver visibly. Dressed in nothing but her own underwear, she looked down at the stranger's bare back and groaned some more.
"Maker, the things I do," she muttered under her breath. She dropped on her knees, over the bedroll, sliding over the young man's body and settling herself over him. Her arm reached for the furs, dragging and tossing them over the both of them and curled her arms around him. Her cheek rested against his right shoulderblade, hearing the distressingly faint heartbeats through his lungs.
"You can't sleep," she told him. Despite the appearance of intimacy in their positions, her voice was level and instructive. "Keep your eyes open and listen to my voice. If you sleep now, you'll never wake."
Thren Canondais:
("You'll never wake.")
Her voice sounded leagues away. It swirled through and around him, and he tried to grasp hold of it.
("Listen to my voice")
He tried and fought against the grasp of the Fade. He refused to just slip away, to phase out of this world without truly having been in it.
She seemed determined to keep him alive through will alone and he nodded, though he doubted that she saw it. It was a meaningless gesture; she was determined to do what she wanted, his consent or no. He expended the energy anyway.
He focused on her skin against his and it tethered him to reality. There was no defining moment where perception seeped back within his reach, but it rolled against him.
She refused to let him go, this stranger, a woman who owed him nothing. Her body shook as it adjusting to his frigid skin. Her hands were firm around his arms and around his shoulders, but he could feel her hesitance the first time they passed over his back. Through his haze, he noticed more of his surroundings, and was grateful for the cave overhead. It grounded him and he didn't feel so lost. His skin pulled from her warmth, her hands fumbled at his waist for a moment, before slipping upward. He should have felt more awkward, stripped by a stranger, her flesh against his own, but he didn't. There was nothing sexual about this, and there was no room for modesty in the face of death.
Body heat was a universal Ferelden fantasy, he knew now the foolishness of sexualizing this, of all things. His skin came alive under her hands, but it prickled painfully. The blood began to pump back through his arms, his legs. His body tensed wildly against the pain, clenching in his bicep, pulsing down his spine. His body began to shiver under her minstrations.
It fought to stay alive.
An hour ago, he'd been willing to give up. The moment she pulled him into the stone walls he'd been content to give up. That was the moment he felt shame.
"Tell me something?" His voice was quiet, the chords struggled. He hadn't spoken to anyone in nearly three days. She understood that he was trying to say something, and shifted closer. "Tell me something." It was louder this time, but the words were tinged with the strain.
Dee Aisli:
Tell him something.
The sensation of relief that assailed her at hearing him speak was potently visceral, her unsure form growing lax against his. She didn't lift her head, monitoring his heartbeat from where he laid. It seemed stronger, somehow. While he shivered underneath her, her palms rubbed vigorously over his back in an effort to open up the pathways where blood could rush through and keep him tethered to reality. If there was anything she knew how to do, it was talk. It wasn't surprising perhaps that she instantly delivered on his request the moment he had stopped speaking.
"I was in Solas, two years ago," Deidre told him. "Just north of the Silent Plains and at the midpoint between Nevarra and the remains of the Tevinter Imperium. It was part of a Chantry-funded expedition -- details I'm not privy to tell you, so you'll have to take my word for it that I was there. The evenings tended to be a little eerie, considering that the venues south of its borders were aptly named. I was sixteen, then, and I remember wondering to myself just what had happened so long ago that rendered an entire area on the map so quiet. It was unnatural, the silence -- the land stretched for miles. The atmosphere was dry and the earth was arid. Certainly the complete opposite of where we are now, I suppose."
She closed her eyes at that, digging deep in the recesses of her memories to sort through the myriad of images within. It was a conscious effort to find the specific period in which she spoke of, diving in the kaleidoscope of color to reemerge back to a place where the the days scorched one's skin and the following nights froze it. Sixteen and relatively new to the world still, already testing her mettle on harsh terrain in an effort to seek out lost pieces of the past.
"So you can imagine a place like that is rife with dark stories," she continued. "I remember one of the Brothers sitting with us by the fire. I was one of the three acolytes they included in the caravan, and I remember huddling in with them while I listened. He told us that local superstitions told of a spirit -- one of a dead child that was supposed to be born as part of a set of twins but died in the womb. The locals believed that a spirit is its most vulnerable in the point between the Fade and the reality we know now. It can be brutally influenced by human emotions despite being of a nature that should by all rights be above them. Anger, aggression, sadness... it can twist the spirit into something else entirely -- something more malevolent. And then it tries to force its birth, usually through its twin that had been born alive."
A small smile hooked upwards on one corner of her mouth. "I remember going back to my tent at night and looking up the canvas wide-eyed. It wasn't as if I was afraid, I was relatively certain I was an only child, after all. Rather I wondered if such stories were true, and if they were rampant around the local area, then surely there must have been strange accounts that had been recorded to breed the superstition and embed it in the culture. I was younger then, but I found it fascinating."
Thren Canondais:
Her voice was quiet, restrained, but her tone betrayed her. Her passion for knowledge and observation was hopelessly transparent.
He nearly chuckled, but the hiccup was lost in his shaking torso. She sounded like she wanted to line pages of journals with her thoughts and careful observations. He could easily picture her, eyes wide, soaking up every word, every story. She relayed them faithfully, weaving it respectfully, embracing the superstition and not condemning it.
She was an unimaginable creature. Savior, stranger, academic.
Thren wondered if he'd be a footnote in a journal, detailing her most recent adventure. Tripped over the near corpse of a man in the mountain, had to postpone my lunch with the Reavers until tomorrow.
He wondered what she knew of the Chasind. They were looked down upon, usually feared or dismissed. He found peace with them, their strength and spirit was difficult to explain, but he thought that she could. Observe and seek to understand, find truth and awareness in the face of legend and superstition. Her respect would win them over. He wanted her to hear the stories and see the faces of the people he has known and loved. They had hundreds of stories that could simply go untold, hundreds of stories that would quicken her heart or even turn her stomach.
He didn't know how old she was, but knew she'd never have time enough to see everything that she wanted to see.
She grew quiet. He should have offered encouragement moments ago, he knew enough about women to know that remaining silent when women were revealing passions wasn't the best route. He shuddered as he opened his mouth, and fought against the tremor. "I'm sure that you- you did." He moved his arm to pillow beneath his head.
"There is a story, the Chasind called him Yupor." He forged on. "... he took on the visage of children missing in the marshes... a hundred years ago this clan would-" He shuddered. "They would veil their children when traveling." He wanted to tell her, but the trembling was fierce. "I'll tell you about him sometime."
Dee Aisli:
"Aaaaaah, got stories too, do you?" Her tone was light, etched with a hint of a smirk that Thren couldn't see with the way she had positioned him on the bedroll. In many ways it had been defensive; forcing him to lie on his chest would prevent him from using his hands in doing anything that she would object to. While the more logical and strategic parts of her mind knew full well he was in no condition to do much of anything but breathe, that he was completely at her mercy should she deign to take whatever openings she wanted, the instinct to be cautious clearly won. The urge to lift her head was overwhelming, to better peer at the back of his head with an amused expression glinting along the verdant flecks of her gaze, but she didn't. She had to monitor the beating of his heart, and while she was no healer (and not even close), she knew enough from past experience what to look for in terms of his present condition.
He shuddered still, but she recognized it as a good sign. She had been told before that the condition of a body was grievous whenever it stopped shivering in the cold, that death would be inevitable unless the victim was warmed sufficiently. By now, heat from her own figure sprawled on top of his was amplifying his own, reaching his refrigerated core along with the degrees that the flames nearby provided. She tugged the furs tighter around them both, listening to him speak. He mentioned the Chasind, and with the fire blazing nearby, she remembered...
A kaleidoscope of color swam dizzily in front of her eyes. Every shape she could determine within the searing spectrum was veiled with smoke. The acrid smell of burning herbs close to her face stung her nostrils, and while the rest of her body felt laden with an indeterminable numbness, it did its work to rouse her out of unconsciousness. She felt an unnatural chill in her bones; it contrasted with the fact that she was bathed in sweat. Her heavy-lidded gaze fell on the figure hunkered down in the nearby fire, red-gold tongues dancing like serpents over the strange and rustic landscape. Its light shone on gray-silver hair -- a tangled nest framing a wizened face with a broad nose. Pale irises gleamed through the dreamy mist. The clacking of dried bones rattled from the array dangling around her neck....
"The Chasind are wild, but an interesting people on their own," Deidre replied. "They revere their healers quite a bit, if I remember correctly. You will have to forgive me, as it's been a year since I've encountered any. But yes, tell me sometime, when you're more lucid. I don't know how long this storm will last. It could end tomorrow, it could fade in a day or two from now. However, you should conserve your strength. You can sleep in a moment, once your heart starts beating the way it should again. I'll let you know when."
She would make good on her word, allowing him to sleep when the moment was right. Once he had fallen into the mists of slumber's discourse, she finally lifted her head to look at him. She exhaled, suddenly exhausted, and finally detached an arm enough so she could rub her eyes. While part of her was satisfied that she had managed to pull a dying man from the brink, the day was hardly over. He would need to be monitored still, but at least she didn't have to keep herself on top of him for hours on end.