Walking slowly through the corridors of Vigil’s Keep, Constans surprised himself to discover that he had become unwittingly lost; his mind had wandered in thought, and his feet seemed to have followed, unbidden. What had he been thinking of? Everything at once, it seemed. The newness of this place, the frequent questions and opinions directed to him by its residents, the confusion and lack of purpose that had dogged him since the moment he arrived. As he became conscious of this fact he felt compelled to examine it, to give consideration to its strangeness.
Until these past weeks he had been accustomed to a peaceful dullness, an absence of concern. The routine of work had encompassed his entire life, his labor a meditative act which cleared his mind and…
How unusual. He considered the next thought carefully, ruminating on the unfamiliar concept as one would savor a new and complex flavor. Yes, he decided. He had been… comfortable, in his life at the tower. Had he not considered this before? There had never been cause to.
Uncertain what to do with this revelation, Constans put the matter from his mind in order to trace back his steps to a location he recognized. He considered the sword that he carried instead, his gentle gaze resting on the insignia of the Grey Wardens inscribed roughly into the hilt. It was a greatsword, old but of acceptable quality, its blade dull and notched. In his effort to prove useful Constans spent much of the last few days doing simple work for the Quartermaster. Upon his request to borrow a sword, the man had laughed at him strangely, but had offered him his pick from a rack of weapons that had been decommissioned. Take it as payment, the man said.
Despite the weapon’s failings, it was his. He… owned it.
He reached a junction that deposited him into the great entry hall of the keep, bored guards flanking the solid and defensible doors that lead in from the courtyard. One of them, a woman whom he had never seen before, eyed Constans as he approached and stepped forward to intercept. “Mages are to be accompanied by a Templar at all times on business outside of the keep,” she recited suspiciously, taking in Constans’ robes and, with obvious confusion, the sizeable sword he carried.
This happened occasionally, and was no surprise to Constans. He had considered requesting a document of identification, something beyond his own word to explain his unusual circumstance, but had abandoned the idea when it proved difficult to determine whom he should seek such a thing from. “Please excuse me,” he began his own recitation politely, not for the first time. “I am not a mage. My name is Constans. I am the Tranquil whom accompanied the party from Kinloch Hold. As I am unable to cast spells it is not necessary to trouble a Templar to keep watch of me. I have no intention of leaving the courtyard, as it is my intent to make use of the training grounds. May I pass?”
The woman frowned, but waved him onward with obvious reluctance. “Aye. I heard something about you. Keep yourself in the yard and there won’t be any trouble.”
He nodded his compliance. The guard stepped back and Constans moved, blinking, out into the morning sunlight.
Sounds of clashing steel alerted him moments later to the presence of others out on the grounds; further inspection revealed them both to be faces he knew. Head cocked curiously, greatsword carried point-downward in both hands, he stilled to watch their progress with serene interest.