Three paces away, five o'clock.
I turn just in time for my shield, instead of my skull, to take the heavy blow of the hurlock's spiked mace. It's weighty against the wood, heavier still when my arm forces the angle of its weapon away to provide an opening for my longsword to sink deep into its blighted flesh. A shriek rips from the creature, turning into a wretched gurgle when my blade twists in its chest and the hurlock's limbs go slack before it slumps to the ground in a pile of foul meat and ragged scraps of leather.
Eurgh. Even after so long being a Warden, there isn't anything about them that gets easier to stomach. Particularly the smell.
When I pull my sword from the hurlock's corpse and lean against a crumbling stone pillar, my breath doesn't come as easy as it did this time last year. I wish I could be surprised. I knew long before I ever heard the first haunting notes of the Call that my days were numbered; the only thing skill earns a Warden is a brief stay of execution and more of the wretches dead on the end of their blades. Time has given me enough perspective to find something worthwhile in having had as long as I did, but I'm not saint enough to say I wouldn't take a few years more if offered.
It will be worse in the weeks and months to come, if I'm not dead by then. Maker, I hope I'm dead by then — if I end up a ghoul, I'm going to be pissed.
As the taint builds in my veins, so does my sense for where the darkspawn are; it has been there since first I drank from the Joining Chalice, but this is different. Starker. Less direction and more lure. A heightened awareness of the wretched creatures, and with it, the knowledge they are just as aware of me. Join us, join us, join us, my blood thrums, and I dread the moment when I will want to listen.
Pushing away from the pillar and my thoughts away from their grim bent, I adjust the guige of my shield where it sits around my neck and continue through the lyrium vein-lit passageways. Another mile or five east and I'll hit Valammar, I think, but it doesn't much matter at this point: dead darkspawn is dead darkspawn. Shite, it's times like these I wish I had that Stone-sense the dwarves claim to have, because it's all bloody tunnels to me. The prices we pay for being tall enough to reach the top shelf.
The distant clatter of battle echoes off the carved rock walls ahead, and I drop into a ready stance before moving forward in a slow prowl. The clamor rises louder with each step: metal hitting metal, wood splintering under heavy blows, and beneath the guttural growls of darkspawn, the cry of something distinctly not. "Stone-cursed blighters!" comes a female voice, and then a laugh heady with the rush of battle. "I've eaten nugs better at fighting than you, you clay-brained whoresons!"
I've already narrowed it down before I round the corner. It's either another Grey Warden or one of the Legion of the Dead, and dwarven at that, judging by the cursing. Whoever she is, she's certainly spirited, I'll give her that.
Dropping down the approach of what used to be a bridge a few Ages ago with a scrape of gauntlets against stone, I find myself behind the source of the voice: a dwarven woman in Legionnaire's kit, introducing the business end of a labrys into a genlock emissary with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for children being left unattended around an entire cake. Thick brown hair pulls back into a braid that falls to mid-back, a few of the shorter strands at the front falling over her face in loose waves made damp by sweat. Her muscled arms bear tattoos — in the light of a flickering torch, I can catch glimpses of the thick, blocky designs dwarven arts favor, swirls connecting scenes of battle and skulls where they span across her biceps and beneath her armor. And the way she moves…
Andraste's arse. Would be just my luck to get stabbed because I was ogling some woman's rear like a mabari eyeing a roast.
Moving in to slam my shield hard enough into a hurlock's jaw that I can hear a crunch, I move in with an ease born of playing backup to countless of my fellow Wardens over the years. I've met a few Legionnaires in my day: even without the protection against the taint that Grey Wardens have, they're every bit as skilled as we are, though in a different way. A Warden lives as though his next day may be his last; a Legionnaire lives as though he sorely hopes it will be, and he intends for it to be the stuff of legends.
"Room for one more, I hope?" I shout over the din, parrying the blow of a genlock's serrated sword with a practiced sweep of my longsword before sinking it into the meat of its clavicle.
Amber eyes take in the blood-flecked griffon etched on my shield and the blue and silver of my armor when she turns with the swing of her axe. A smirk cuts through her full lips, and her attention turns back to the darkspawn in front of her. "Only if you can keep up, Warden," she returns with a laugh. When we step into pace with one another, it almost feels like a dance.
When the last darkspawn falls and the cavern goes quiet save for our heavy breaths, the dwarf leans the haft of her axe against the stone floor and pushes the stray strands of hair from her face with a gloved hand. There are a handful of shallow scratches and the beginnings of bruises blooming where her Legionnaire's armor gives way to her exposed throat, but they seem more nuisance than serious injury. I can see now a tattoo that sits beneath one eye, its blocky design shaped almost like an S. Casteless — I recognize the symbol from some of the dwarven Wardens I've met. "Not bad, topsider," she says, raking her gaze over me with an appraising look. "Atrast vala, Warden. Name's Tirzah, and it's an honor to be sharing a battlefield with one of your lot. What brings you to our little old Deep Roads?"
There's no point playing coy. It's the fate of all Wardens, and the Legion of the Dead know a thing or two about fate and dying. "My Calling has come. I am not… severe, yet, but it is definite; I cannot deny it. I intend for it to be a good death."
A flash of sympathy crosses her face. In the dim tunnels of the Deep Roads, a dead man meets a dead woman: she condemned by the life of one of the Legion of the Dead, and I by the darkspawn taint in my veins. Tirzah thunks a fist against her chest in salute and bows her head. "You have my respect, Warden, and my thanks for joining the fight. Wherever you're heading, I have a feeling you'll meet your end with as much glory as the best of the Legion." She casts another glance over me, and the corner of her lips twitches in a crooked smile, showing a hint of dimples. "Care for some company along the way?"