Chapter Text
Emmrich brought the luve back to the office. "Thank you, Administrator Myrna."
Taking the device with both hands, she gave Emmrich a concerned smile. "I do hope you're feeling better soon, Emmrich."
Emmrich gave her a nod and a weak smile, then turned from the office ready to head back to class. It was then he heard the Principal's voice from the corridor ahead. He could see that he was speaking to a young man who was unfamiliar to him.
The round, bald pate of Principal Solas almost glittered as it reflected the light from the ceiling sconces, a vivid illustration of why the students referred to him as "Principal Egg". He wore a cream-coloured, long-sleeved shirt, a few shades lighter than his pallid complexion. It had a high collar, shaped to accentuate his pointed ears, and wrapped around it was a fawn-brown silken cravat. Matching fawn-coloured trousers, a dark leather belt and low boots completed the outfit, lending him an air of conservative authority.
"You do understand Trade?" said Principal Solas, his violet eyes boring into the youth standing opposite him. "This isn't particularly complex."
The young man, whom Emmrich surmised to be the same age as himself, stood passively, his eyes returning the principal's stare without a hint of comprehension visible on his face.
His dark-grey-and-black pinstriped short-sleeved shirt was immaculately pressed and well-tailored, top buttons open and its collar decorated with tiny silver crows at the very tips. A black leather belt featuring a silver crow buckle fastened his tailored, light-blue trousers, tucked into high, soft suede boots. He definitely had an eye for style and grooming, even if his styling was unusual by Preston High School standards.
Shorter in stature than both Emmrich and the Principal, the stylish youth had dark, thick wavy hair that, despite careful styling, still managed to incline upwards into a devilish point just above each ear. He had flawless, olive skin and dark eyes that at times seemed to flash violet. Yet the most striking feature of his face was a thick, dark moustache above a small, refined goatee adorning his chin.
Emmrich was both impressed and envious all at once, his hand briefly coming to his own bare chin in self-consciousness as he walked to where they were talking.
"The cafeteria's down the hall, to the right and downstairs," continued the principal.
"Excuse me, Principal Solas, but would this be a new pupil?" asked Emmrich.
"Emmrich, this is Lucanis," he replied. "Would you please show him where his locker is?"
Principal Solas handed Emmrich a small keystone on a lanyard. The keystone had a number carved into it, indicating which of the warded lockers in the seniors' hallway the stone would open.
"Certainly," said Emmrich, tapping Lucanis on the shoulder gently. "Come along, this way."
He led Lucanis towards a bank of lockers, coming to a stop in front of a red door with a number that matched the keystone.
"A word of advice," said Emmrich, his voice lowering to a more conspiratorial tone. "I strongly recommend you have a care in these halls. There are quite a number of ne'er-do-wells who roam in packs, stalking their prey." He reflexively glanced sideways, in case Johanna was lurking nearby, before continuing. "Just last week, I was approached by one such band of ruffians, insistently pressuring me to join them — no doubt they'd heard about my proficiency in the use of the staff."
Lucanis' face was a blank.
Emmrich waved the keystone at the locker, then pulled the handle to open the door. He handed the lanyard to Lucanis. "Do you take the coach to school?" Emmrich asked.
"No," said Lucanis with a thick Antivan accent. "I ride my bike."
"Really? How marvellous! What kind of bicycle do you have?" asked Emmrich.
"It's a Sledgehammer," said Lucanis, pulling his bike from the student bike racks near the school entrance.
Emmrich had made it through another school day, the ending of which had turned out to be far more interesting than he'd anticipated whilst standing on the front lawn that morning. The Emmrich in Johanna's headlock wouldn't have thought it possible that just a few hours later he'd be admiring the bike of an unexpected new companion.
"Remarkable!" said Emmrich, staring at the bike, his eyes wide with wonder.
Lucanis' bike was the latest release from the Redcliffe Foundry, famous for their sturdy mountain bike designs. It was the Firedrake limited edition, featuring distinctive orange and black livery, large wheels with all-terrain tyres, front and rear cable brakes, a very comfortable leather seat and some optional extras that Emmrich had never had the chance to see on a bike before. He squatted down to inspect the Sledgehammer more closely.
"Is that genuine silverite alloy in the frame that I can see? Oh, and you have the model featuring air suspension, and the extra pegs for standing over the rear axle! Superb. These welds are exquisite, such craftsmanship! You are indeed most fortunate to have such an impressive steed!"
Attached to the seat post was a small flag which unfurled and fluttered when caught by a breeze. It had been finely embroidered with Antiva's golden drake, guarded by the wings of black crows.
Emmrich stood up, placing one hand on his hip and the other at his chin as he often did when he was pondering an idea. His glasses had slid down his nose a little, and he now peered over the top of them at Lucanis.
"Have you ever experimented with the aerodynamic potential of such a wondrous piece of engineering?" asked Emmrich.
Lucanis looked at him with mute incomprehension.
Emmrich readjusted his glasses, reconsidered his audience and rephrased the question.
"Have you ever taken it off any 'sweet' jumps?"
Instead of catching the school coach home, Emmrich walked with Lucanis towards his house. It seemed that Lucanis had not yet taken his bike off anything higher than the gutters that ran along the streets of Preston. Emmrich put forward the strong argument that if a bike had air shocks, the least they could do was to ensure that they functioned in accordance with the manufacturer's specifications — not that the calmly adventurous Lucanis needed much convincing.
Lucanis' home was a little more modest even than Emmrich's, with cream stucco walls and a terracotta tiled roof. Brightly-painted statues of Clothilde of Crechy and Hector of Nevarra were placed either side of the front door, inviting the Blessings of the Maker for those living there. After a search in the toolshed and the backyard, they found enough old bricks and a broad piece of sturdy, flexible wood to fashion into a ramp on the footpath out the front.
"Ready!" called Emmrich from his position standing by the ramp, eyes fixed on the landing area, prepared to take measurements. By his estimations, the bricks they'd strategically positioned under the jump should be more than enough to support both Lucanis and his bike.
A few houses away on the footpath, Lucanis sat straddling the bike. On Emmrich's signal he began to pedal furiously towards the ramp, until his front wheel touched the incline. He coasted up to the top and pulled up on the handlebars for extra elevation as he launched into the air. Both wheels off the ground, he was airborne for just a second before the front wheel hit the ground and the air shocks did their work.
Emmrich began muttering to himself as he took notes in his binder. "Planar coordinates for the ramp lip, takeoff angle, estimated approach velocity, now a simple quadratic equation to map the parabola and determine maximum vertical elevation…" his voice trailed off as he finished his calculations then he snapped his binder shut.
"Impressive!" he called to Lucanis, who was cycling back around towards him. "You achieved approximately three feet of vertical elevation that time!"
Lucanis came to a stop, dismounted, and thrust the handlebars towards Emmrich with a grin, his eyes flashing brightly in violet. "Now it'sss yourr turn," he said, his voice sounding different, a little more gravelly than it had been before.
"Oh," said Emmrich, swallowing as he reluctantly took the bike from Lucanis.
While he did want to experience the thrill of riding the Sledgehammer, he found the thought of going off a jump on his inaugural ride mildly terrifying. He was beginning to doubt that his estimation of the ramp's sturdiness would still hold true given his much taller frame. However, he also didn't want his potential new friend to think he was a coward, especially after Lucanis had already risked himself in the pursuit of Emmrich's research.
Emmrich set off on the bike before his common sense had time to disagree. In a contest between his fear of injury and fear of rejection, the latter had easily won.
It didn't hurt that the Sledgehammer was easily the best — and most expensive, as he kept reminding himself — bike he'd ever laid hands upon. He tried to absorb every detail of it as he rode, if only to stop thinking about what was to come. Once he'd ridden far enough away to make his approach, he turned the bike and started pedalling as fast as he could towards the jump.
His front wheel hit the ramp, which instantly collapsed beneath him. The front wheel collided with the stack of bricks supporting the ramp, locking the hub and throwing him forward out of the seat with the impact. The bike's momentum carried it violently over the bricks, Emmrich's feet skittering and stumbling wildly as he tried in vain to slow himself and the bike down, before coming to a stop.
Groin-first, straight into the bike's handlebar neck stem.
"Pubis!" Emmrich gasped.
All breath left his body with a strangled groan as he doubled over in pain. He dropped the Sledgehammer to the ground, unable to hold it any longer as his hands moved protectively to his crotch and his knees collapsed inward beneath him.
Lucanis stood with his thumbs tucked in his belt, mutely immobile, just watching. Had Emmrich been able to see anything past the white spots in front of his eyes, he would have noticed Lucanis' eyes change colour, from a violet flame back to their familiar dark brown.
Harding was sitting at the writing desk in the lounge, the rhythmic scratching of her quill on the coarse paper of her notebook providing a syncopated backbeat for the poetry she was writing. The words flowed from her lips as easily as they flowed from her pen as she rhymed aloud.
"I love the way your sandy hair," she said, intoning each line with earnest poetic expression, "floats in the air. To me it's like a lullaby. I'm just flying by, oh, so high, like a kite tied to a stake." She started to hum a tune to herself as she continued writing.
Emmrich stood in the corner of the kitchen, leaning against the countertop next to the cool room door. His thoughts were clearly elsewhere as he gazed off into space. It had been a hard day and he was bruised from both Johanna's abuse and the incident with the Sledgehammer. In his hand he held a glass of sweet, cool, red berry juice cordial, sipping from it occasionally — if a little too loudly — as he tried to drown out the sound of Harding's incessant humming and poetry. He still hadn't forgiven her for refusing to help earlier that day.
Aunt Isabela strode purposefully past Harding and up the two steps into the kitchen, coughing loudly to clear her throat. A strikingly beautiful woman, although a little weathered from the sun and salt of many years at sea, Isabela had long, wavy, freshly-dyed brown hair which was caught back under a blue bandana. She dressed casually in functional blue leggings under long boots, and a yellow short-sleeved shirt embroidered with a cute, round-eared bear in a jaunty sea captain's bicorn hat.
"How was school?" Aunt Isabela asked Emmrich, opening the door to the cool room and reaching in to retrieve a container from the shelf nearest to the door.
"It was, somewhat predictably I fear, undoubtedly one of the worst days of my life," said Emmrich.
"Well, I want you to go see if Manfred wants some of this," she said, waving the container she'd retrieved from the cool room at Emmrich before placing it loudly onto the counter. An untouched grey and white fish and vegetable casserole sat in a congealed and unappetising layer in the bottom. The moment Aunt Isabela's hand moved away, a fly that had been attracted by the smell began buzzing lazily around the dish, though even it seemed hesitant to land upon it.
Emmrich closed his eyes and tilted his face upward and away from the sight, letting out an almighty sigh of dramatic exasperation. He wondered why it always fell to him, the vegetarian, to do these kinds of tasks, as if it wasn't already disgusting enough.
"Couldn't Harding do it? She's been here at home, bone-idle all day!" said Emmrich indignantly.
Harding ignored him, the continual drone of her intent humming not missing a beat.
Aunt Isabela glared at Emmrich, not wanting to hear any bickering from him today. "Look," she said in a tone loud enough to demand both Harding and Emmrich's attention. "Tonight, Aunt Rowan and I…"
Harding just kept humming her romantic poetry.
"Harding, LISTEN!" snapped Aunt Isabela.
"What?" whined Harding, looking up from her notebook at her aunt, seemingly oblivious to anything that had been said.
Aunt Isabela continued, "Tonight, your Aunt Rowan and I are planning to visit some old Lords mates who're in town from Rivain, and we won't be back 'til late tomorrow. We're running low on meat." She looked at Harding. "So I've asked Sandal Fedic to come over tomorrow to take care of it."
"Will he bring any eggs? Vegetables, perhaps some pulses or legumes as well?" asked Emmrich.
"Knock it off, Emmrich!" growled Aunt Isabela. "Make yourself a dang yam and jam slam!"
"Very well, I shall!" he snapped, voice a sullen huff.
Making ready to leave, Aunt Isabela reached for her broad belt which was resting on the kitchen counter. It contained all her personal essentials, including her pair of Lords daggers with their bejewelled golden hilts. Clashing together, the daggers made a bright, jangling metallic sound as she fastened the belt around her hips. "I'll be back tomorrow," she said, then strode out of the front door, closing it behind her.
Emmrich looked around the now quiet kitchen, feeling a little hungry but not really ready to make a sandwich. He saw that the lid of the wooden container where they kept fried flatbread chips had been left slightly ajar, perhaps after Harding's lunch earlier that day. Hoping for a quick snack, he slid the lid open all the way only to find the container completely empty.
It was bad enough Harding had refused to help him, bad enough that he had to go to school while she was able to stay home, but for Emmrich, this was just too much. He spun around to face Harding who had returned to humming annoyingly while writing her poetry. Emmrich's eyes sparked green as his magic began to rise unbidden along with his frustration.
"Looks like you had a simply wonderful day, Harding!" said Emmrich, voice laden with sarcasm, arms akimbo. "You've stayed home, eaten half the cheese, all the flatbread chips, and just left the box empty as someone else's problem!" He waved a hand at the lid of the box, using his pent-up magical frustration to slam it shut loudly.
Harding looked up from her notebook. "Emmrich, don't be jealous that I've been writing poetry and chatting to babes on the luve all day," she said, lifting her chin in smug defiance just so she could look down her nose at him. "Besides, we both know I'm training to become a Hall of Valor fighter."
"Since when did this ambition rear its ridiculously misshapen head, Harding?" scoffed Emmrich. "You can't possibly be serious, you don't have the kinds of reflexes such a thing would demand. Demonstrably so!"
"Try and hit me, Volkarin," challenged Harding.
"I beg your pardon?" said Emmrich, uncertain he'd heard her correctly.
Harding repeated her challenge, mocking him with a sneer. "I said, come down here and I'll show you what happens if you try and hit me!"
Emmrich decided that he'd had enough, putting his glass down on the counter. "You're such a dolt," he said, stepping down into the lounge to accept her challenge.
This was by no means the first time an argument between them had gone past the point where words were effective and only actions could settle it. Harding clearly enjoyed picking fights with her younger sibling and Emmrich had learned early on that it was better to get the fight over with quickly before they could seriously hurt each other.
Harding stood up from the desk and quickly jumped up the two kitchen steps, bringing her eye-level with Emmrich's shoulders.
"Let me see what your best move is!" said Harding, pushing at his chest.
He let her push him a few times, then made an attempt to push her shoulder in retaliation. She blocked it with her arm, then slapped him across the head, hard, repaying him with interest for his failed attempt.
Emmrich sighed, and looked down towards his feet.
Harding's hand began to twitch nervously, as she tried to anticipate Emmrich's next move.
The front door ward made a small bell chime to indicate someone was at the door. Both their heads immediately turned towards the sound. Then they looked back at each other reaching a stalemate, with neither wishing to be the one to admit defeat and answer the door.
Emmrich flinched first. "Perhaps I'll go get it then, shall I?" he said, his voice sounding defeated.
At this, Harding's shoulders relaxed visibly, and Emmrich saw his opening. He slapped Harding's cheek sharply and quickly with his left hand.
It made what he felt was without a doubt the most satisfying sound he'd heard all day.
"Ow!" said Harding, rubbing her cheek. Before she could retaliate, Emmrich sprinted off to answer the front door.
Emmrich pulled open the front door, and stepped onto the doorstep, pulling the door mostly closed behind him. He looked up to see who'd rung the doorbell.
He froze.
Maker, he thought. It's her. She's here. Why is she here? She's not meant to be here. Is she?
Of course she is, his subconscious mind reassured his sleeping self. She's here now and this is precisely where we want her to be. It's right where she's meant to be.
Before him stood possibly the most beautiful girl he'd ever been this close to.
Her hair, the same colour as the sweet, red berry juice cordial he was partial to, was swept across and up into a single ponytail at the left side of her head. She was dressed in a red, short-sleeved, high-collared blouse with gold stripes and trim at the sleeves and light-blue trousers. The whole outfit clashed incongruously with a hot-pink belt pouch, but that only added charm to her obvious awkwardness, as she stood much as he'd stood in front of the class that morning, trying to disappear.
He found it hard to ignore the aching, nagging feeling that he had seen her before, somehow he even knew she'd smell of sweet chocolate, bitter coffee and soap-over-sweat; mud, steel and… blight?
She's beautiful, he thought, gazing into her large, brown eyes. Maker's breath, she's looking at me!
"Um, hello," she stammered, before her eyes dropped abruptly down to the door mat.
"Would you like to look like this?" she said, apparently addressing Emmrich's shoes where they stood on the doorstep, as she thrust a hand forwards holding a thick piece of paper.
He reached out a hand to take it, bringing it closer to see what it was she'd given him.
It was a beautifully detailed watercolour portrait of a young woman, posed in a glamorous way — just a little seductive without being scandalous. The woman wore bold, striking makeup to accentuate her beauty in a most flattering way and she was surrounded by billowing gossamer fabrics that gave the impression she was standing in the wind. Sunlight shone from behind her, casting bright highlights into her wispy, blonde hair.
Ponytail girl was waiting for his response.
Emmrich blinked. "Well, no, obviously. This is a girl."
She ventured a nervous look upwards towards Emmrich not quite sure what to do with his response, but she was committed to continuing her sales pitch anyway, "Because for a limited time only" — she took a steadying breath to settle the quaver in her voice — "GlamourColours by Rook are 75% off."
Ponytail girl has a name! he thought. Rook. He was enjoying the sound of it rolling around in his head. Rook, Rooky, Rooque… Rooklyn.
Rooklyn. Like a puzzle piece, the name clicked into place somewhere deep within his slumbering mind.
Then he realised she was looking at him again with those deep brown eyes, waiting for him to say something.
"I already get my hair cut at the Cuttin' Crypt," said Emmrich, immediately regretful. What in Thedas possessed you to say that? He chided himself. Fantastic, now she thinks you're just some addle-witted bumpkin who was too rude to pay attention to what she was saying!
He felt his face start to redden, yet prayed Rook wouldn't notice.
"Well, maybe you'd be interested in some home-woven handicrafts," said Rook earnestly.
While Emmrich was answering the door, Harding sat down heavily on the couch in the lounge room, thumbing through the pile of letters, flyers, catalogues and more that had been delivered to their letterbox that afternoon. Aunt Isabela had a habit of signing up for any mailing list that offered discounts — the old habits of a Lords of Fortune treasure hunter in retirement now expressing themselves through the hunt for bright, shiny discount coupons, rare limited time offers and two for one deals.
A printed flyer on bright yellow paper fell out of the pile and onto the floor.
Harding picked it up, instantly transfixed by the bold woodcut of a muscular, tall elven man with dark skin, flashing eyes and a bandana on his head. The way he'd been posed, it looked like he was pointing right off the page at her, a speech bubble drawn next to his mouth which appeared to be shouting in a very strong, masculine way, ordering her to "TRY DAV-RUN-DHO TODAY!"
Harding rubbed her cheek where it still stung a little from Emmrich's slap. A bit of cross-training sounded like the best idea she'd heard in ages. The bold block-print text of the flyer leapt off the page as she read on excitedly:
I’m Davrin, founder of the Dav-Run-Dho Self-Defence System.
After one week with me in my Crucible, you'll be prepared to defend yourself…
…with the STRENGTH OF A WOLF! (This was illustrated with a woodcut of Davrin, with a large, slavering wolf in a headlock.)
…the REFLEXES OF A LYNX! (Davrin dodging a claw slash from something that looked like an overfed, angry cat.)
…and the WISDOM OF A MAN! (Davrin again, but now with a long beard and halo, sitting cross-legged on a rock.)
COME DOWN TODAY FOR YOUR FREE TRIAL LESSON!
CALL: F X N 3 W X Q 4
… and in fine print at the bottom of the flyer, which nobody would ever read, including Harding:
Davrin and "Dav-Run-Dho" make no warranty as to the suitability for purpose of our self defence system for defending against darkspawn, wild animals, magic users, blighted dragons or ancient elven gods. Strictly one free trial per person.
Harding had barely finished reading and the luve was already in her hand. She immediately began punching in Dav-Run-Dho's voke from the flyer — the series of invocation runes to place a call. She quickly smoothed her hair and tapped the activation rune.
A chance to train for free with someone who looked like he really knew what he was doing? What an opportunity!
Rook had strapped three boxes of her handicrafts onto a small collapsible hand cart that she was using to go door to door. She unstrapped the top box and carefully opened the lid. It was full to overflowing with a mixture of brightly-coloured woven straps, wraps and bookmarks, ribbon-wrapped hair clasps and combs, small felted nug charms and plump knitted creatures.
She turned back to Emmrich to continue her sales pitch. "In here we have some hallabraid rune wraps," she said, holding the box up for his inspection. "A must-have for this season's fashion."
Emmrich's sleeping self again threatened to wake in puzzlement. Handicrafts? he thought. Really? Rook — Rooklyn, he corrected himself, happily rolling the sound of her given name around in his head again — is the least likely person to knit that I've ever met! I've never even seen her so much as look at a spool of thread.
His subconscious mind soothed him again. Of course she can sew. She's a Watcher, she has to sew, part of the requirements! She probably just does it when we're not around.
He realised that she was staring at him, waiting for a response again.
"Hallabraid wraps?" The words began to tumble in a babbling stream from Emmrich's mouth as he raced to fill the awkward silence he'd left. "Oh yes, I have many of those after attending Dalish camp in Arlathan. Such a pretty location, quite lovely. So many trees, caves — and the ancient Elven artifacts in the museum were incredible!"
Rook looked like she was on the verge of defeat. "Well, is anyone else here? I'm trying to earn money for university." The way she said the words it was clearly a painful admission of circumstances that she'd have preferred not to make.
Harding's raised voice carried clearly through the half-open front door.
"Your mum goes to university!" she said, with a smug little snort of self-congratulation at the timing and quality of her barb.
Rook glanced nervously towards the door as the words hung in the air between her and Emmrich.
Her face crumpled.
A scrunched frown failed to hide the devastating impact of Harding's words. Abruptly, she shoved the box of handicrafts at Emmrich, forcing him to catch it, before she turned and sprinted awkwardly across the lawn and away down the street.
Emmrich had stood frozen on the doorstep, passively watching as she collapsed and fled. All he knew now was he felt a sudden burning desire to go straight back inside and slap Harding again.
Still holding the box, he looked down, realising that in running off, Rook had abandoned her handcart leaving all the rest of her wares on their porch.
Emmrich sprang with an unusually sure grace from the top of the front stairs, clearing them completely and landing easily on the lawn with a small jog, before beginning to stride purposefully across the front lawn. In his hands he held the casserole dish that Aunt Isabela had asked him to deal with.
"Manfred, you overstuffed sofa!" he called. "Come get your dinner!"
A braying grunt from the fenced paddock next to the house answered his call, as Manfred raised his head in recognition, the halla's sparkling green eyes fixed firmly on Emmrich as he approached. He was tethered to the paddock fence by a long guide rope attached to a halter, and for a halla looked a little more rotund than average — a clear sign of being spoiled. More than anything, he needed a good brushing down, as patches of brown dust where he'd been lying down clung to his white coat.
"Manfred, please eat," implored Emmrich, reaching over the fence to offer him a large spoonful of the casserole.
Manfred sniffed before flinching in disgust.
"Please eat the food," he said, continuing to try to place the spoon under Manfred's nose.
Manfred kept turning his head away, whinnying in protest.
"Manfred! Eat the food!" he exclaimed, flinging the food off into the paddock in frustration.
Emmrich bristled at feeling compelled to keep offering food when Manfred was having none of it. He was not above malicious compliance, however. He began spooning the casserole directly onto the ground, one spoonful at a time, earning a grunt from Manfred with every wet thump of the food hitting the dirt. Manfred may not eat it, but microbes would make short work of the disgusting mess and at least he could say he tried.
Chores complete, he turned and headed back to the house. Rounding the corner, he found Harding, who had changed into a short-sleeved muscle shirt, training pants and sweat bands, busy at the front porch. It appeared that while he'd been feeding Manfred, Harding had not been idle.
She'd fetched the wicker farm cart with the large wheels that they used when Aunt Isabela's buggy wasn't available. It was the only practical way to transport supplies to and from Preston's main street over the three miles of dirt and uneven roads. Harding had put a couple of cushions in the bottom, folded the steering arm back into the cart itself and attached a long rope to the front axle — the other end of which she was presumptuously securing to the seat post of Emmrich's old and very well-used bicycle.
Manfred grunted loudly.
Harding turned around at the sound, wiping her hands clean on her pants as she met Emmrich's gaze without a hint of self-awareness.
"It'd be nice if you could pull me into town," she said,[1]
Emmrich pedalled as smoothly as he could, compensating for the drag and instability of the load behind him. The tow rope between his bicycle and the cart where Harding was seated was taut, and she helped by trying to steer the cart to match him. Fortunately they'd reached the paved roads of Preston having put the worst of the dirt behind them, but it was still hard going for Emmrich.
Part of him still couldn't understand why he was doing Harding this favour after her refusal to help him earlier in the day and her embarrassingly awful behaviour towards Rook. But he just couldn't harbour a grudge towards his foster sister, though — while they drove each other mad as siblings could, they both understood that other than Isabela, they had no one else who cared. It may not be blood, but their shared circumstance let them cling to each other and that mattered more than anything else.
Eventually they reached the main street, Harding yelling loudly for Emmrich to pull over outside a building with a gaudy red and white painted facade. A large painted wooden sign hung above the door that read "DAV-RUN-DHO" in bold red letters, accompanied by a caricature of Davrin doing a flying side kick. There was an OPEN sign visible in the door, and in the front window was a large poster in the same block-print style of the flyer which Harding had read so eagerly before:
WELCOME TO THE CRUCIBLE!
Home of the Dav-Run-Dho Self-Defence System
Come and Try TODAY!
They stowed the bike and cart down the side of the building. As neither of them fancied walking the three miles back home on foot, Emmrich cast a protective Broodmother ward over it. Should anyone with sticky fingers take a fancy to their transport, they'd be rewarded with the monster's ear-piercing scream and the terrifying illusion of a swarm of darkspawn answering her call.
Harding could barely contain her excitement, rushing to reach the door handle first. She pulled the door open, making a small bell jingle in response, and they stepped inside The Crucible.
They were ushered into a brightly-lit room by Davrin's assistant, who motioned for them to sit on the floor, near several others who were already waiting on the mismatched, colourful rugs. The front wall was lined with large mirrors to aid instruction, while mattress-like cushions sat against the back wall, presumably for practicing falls. Along the side wall were heaving trophy shelves, their gold cups, ribbons and tall statuettes of figures in martial arts poses lending an unspoken credibility just by their presence.
Above the mirrors in pride of place in large block-print were the school's principles:
I shall observe the tenets of Dav-Run-Dho
I shall respect Davrin
I shall never misuse Dav-Run-Dho
I shall be a champion of freedom and justice
Grey Wardens flags of all sizes hung proudly on the side and back walls. It was the unusual "Griffins and Stripes" pattern, featuring fifty white griffins set against an azure field in the corner, flanked by twelve azure-and-white stripes, one for each region of Thedas where the Order had served through the ages. The stripes stood for open ranks to all Thedosians, with the fielded griffins a reminder of solidarity in sacrifice through the Joining.
That very same flag had obviously inspired the outfit of the man who entered the room to stand before them.
Davrin was a tall, imposing figure - a broad-shouldered, well-muscled elf with dark skin, dark eyes and a prominent scar above his right eye. His ears stood out from his head, emphasised by the way his dark hair was trimmed short, close to the scalp on the back and sides. He was clearly Dalish from his Vallaslin, but Emmrich couldn't quite make out which god it represented.
He was dressed head-to-toe in the Griffins and Stripes. On his head, an azure-blue bandana dotted all over with white griffins and secured in the back with a silver clasp. His name had been embroidered onto a navy-blue shirt, cut in a low v-neck shape which exposed enough of his toned, muscled chest that Harding turned pink. The shirt was tucked into a pair of loose-fitting, high-waisted baggy trousers modelled on the flag, one leg dedicated to the stripes and the other the griffins. Soft black suede boots that looked like they'd be perfect for kicking anyone who had anything to say about his clothing choices completed the outfit.
He strode to the front of the group and began to pace the room like a caged lion as he spoke.
"My name is Davrin, and if you study with my eight-week program, you will learn a system of self-defence that I developed over two seasons of fighting in the…"
His hands balled into fists and he struck a pose, flexing his biceps. "Hall of Valor!" he said dramatically, holding the pose just long enough for it to make everyone uncomfortable.
He relaxed his arms and paced for a moment before continuing. "It's called…"
"DAV-RUN-DHO!" he said loudly, posing again for an equally awkward moment.
The audience stared at him, unblinking.
He resumed pacing the front of the room. "I need a volunteer," he said, pointing randomly at the group without a glance.
There was a silent pause during which the group sat frozen, not wanting to move lest they be picked, then Harding slowly, reluctantly raised her sweatband-adorned hand.
He turned to Harding and pointed. "Okay, you'll do. Come up here."
Harding got up to her feet and started to come to the front of the room where Davrin was waiting. As she approached, he moved to stand opposite her. "Bow to your sul'amelan[2]," he said, pointing to the floor.
She made a small bow, just lowering her head and torso a little in respect. It was not enough.
"BOW TO YOUR SUL'AMELAN!" Davrin bellowed at her.
She faced him, giving him a more deliberate bow of respect.
"Okay," said Davrin with a nod. He faced Harding from a side-on fighting stance, trying his hardest to look her in the eyes which was only made far more difficult due to their relative sizes.
He raised his fingers in a pointed gesture. "Now, I'm gonna give you one chance," he said. He turned to the group,"One chance, people."
He turned back to Harding. "Give me your best shot," he said as he brought his fists up protectively in anticipation.
This is it, Harding thought as Davrin's fingers began to twitch in fighter's anticipation. She set herself up, standing side on to him in her favourite stance, then turned her face away from him so as to conceal the intention of her next move.
Then she committed, dropping down low and spinning on the spot, hands braced on the floor for support as she circled her right leg all the way around, trying her hardest to leg sweep Davrin before he could realise what she was doing.
Unfortunately he had the as-advertised reflexes of a lynx, and leapt over her sweeping leg before slapping her loudly on the back of the head as she was spinning past him ineffectively. As Harding stood up again, she brought her hand to her face where the slap had stung her.
Emmrich tried hard not to smile. Twice in one day, how delightful! Perhaps towing her here had been worth the effort after all.
"All right," said Davrin, his voice filled with the roughness of adrenaline. "That was pretty good. Okay."
He gave Harding a moment before continuing.
"Now, watch this, everybody," he said facing her with both arms held out low towards her. She turned to face him.
"Grab my arm"
She grabbed his left arm.
"The other arm."
She swapped hands.
"MY other arm," he snapped with growing frustration.
She grabbed his other arm. Satisfied, Davrin continued. "Now watch this," he said waving two fingers towards the group. "I'm just gonna break the wrist and walk away. Break the wrist, walk away."
Harding swallowed, starting to regret putting her hand up.
Before she could react, Davrin's open palm hit the back of her wrist with a loud slap as he sank back in his stance. "Oww!" she whined, recoiling from the blow as she pulled her hand protectively to her body, rubbing at the sting on her wrist.
"Okay. It's just that simple," Davrin said to the group as Harding looked dejectedly at the floor nursing her hand.
"Now, I want you to kick me," his hands and feet twitched in readiness as he squared off against Harding again. "Come on. Kick me."
Harding, still looking at the floor from the last blow, made a slow, low effort attempt to kick him in the shins which he hopped back and blocked with his shin.
"Okay, do it again."
She put in a little more effort but still didn't want to look him in the eyes. Once again, he skipped and blocked her kick.
"Do it again."
She put in a little less effort for her third kick, and after he blocked it, she looked him in the eyes, which earned her a resounding slap around the side of the head.
"Ouch," she whined, rubbing her head as her gaze returned to the floor.
Emmrich tried even harder to keep a straight face. Three times in one day? he thought. What a day of unexpected splendour!
"Okay," said Davrin, turning to the group. "You'll block it every time." He pointed to the floor and looked at Harding, "Have a seat."
Harding's eyes never left the floor as she returned to her seat next to Emmrich. He looked across at her as she sat cross-legged on the rug, and for just a moment he felt a twinge of guilt for the schadenfreude he'd been enjoying so thoroughly. He pushed a whisker of his healing magic towards her sore wrist, with so light a touch that she wouldn't notice.
Davrin returned to pacing in front of the group again.
"Now, in addition to what you just saw," he said, "if you study with my eight-week program, you're gonna learn these things."
He stopped pacing and turned to face the group, feet spread wide. With his arms folded over his chest, fists tucked behind his arms to make his biceps look even bigger, he was the very epitome of masculinity packaged in very loud pants.
"First off," he raised his fingers in the aggressive, pointed gesture he liked to use when he wished to be heard, it underlined his words as if they digging into an enemy's pressure point. "Dav-Run-Dho, we use the buddy system."
Emmrich's ears pricked up. This was the first thing Davrin had said so far that he felt was genuinely interesting.
"No more flyin' solo," Davrin continued, making deliberate eye contact with everyone in the group in turn as he made his point. "You need somebody watching your back AT ALL TIMES!"
Emmrich nodded in agreement, his attention fixed firmly on Davrin's words. With people like Johanna lying in wait for him at school, he could certainly use someone to watch his back, that much was certain.
"Second off, you're gonna learn to discipline your image. Do you think I got where I am today because I dress like Prince Florian here?" Davrin pointed straight at Emmrich, still dressed in what he'd worn to school that morning, looking crumpled and unkempt after a very physically strenuous day. Emmrich glanced sideways and gulped self-consciously under his gaze.
"Take a look at what I'm wearing, people." He proudly held out the sides of his Griffin and Stripes pants to show them in their full Warden glory. "Do you think anybody wants a roundhouse kick to the face while I'm wearin' these bad boys?"
Emmrich shook his head. While he wasn't entirely sure what a "roundhouse kick" was, but it certainly didn't sound pleasant and after what he'd seen today, he certainly wasn't about to ask Davrin for a demonstration.
"Forget about it!" said Davrin, pacing again. "Last off, my students will learn about self-respect." As he said the words, his tone growing more quiet, he stopped pacing and faced the group, bringing his hands together in a martial salute, his right hand a hard, clenched fist, enclosed by the softness of his open left hand.
He released the salute and started bellowing again. "Do you think anybody thinks I'm a FAILURE because I go home to BELLARA at night?"
He pointed to a portrait on the wall of a dark-haired elven girl, a gentle smile rose from her cheeks right up to her bright almond-shaped eyes, thick hair caught up in a practical bun atop her head, except for a few stray wisps around her pointed ears. She was flexing her bicep for the portrait to show off an Elvhen gauntlet artifact that she wore proudly.
"FORGET ABOUT IT!" bellowed Davrin, drawing the group's attention back to him. He swallowed as he prepared for the final part of his pitch.
"Now, for only 300 gold, you can sign up right now… for my eight-week program," he said, bringing his fist into his open hand again to close out the introduction.
Harding and Emmrich exchanged a knowing glance.
As they set off back home through the late afternoon sunshine, they passed rows of neatly-tended gardens in the leafy, tree-lined streets of the innermost parts of Preston. Their unusual mode of transport couldn't help but attract a few lingering stares from time to time. Harding was only too glad to wave and smile to onlookers, as if a dwarf being pulled around in a cart by a gangly young man on a bike was just as commonplace as a noblewoman passing by in a horse-drawn carriage.
"Well, that place was a rip-off," said Harding.
Footnotes
[1] Yes, I know that technically Harding should be towed while on skates. I did toy with that, but even though the movie ignores the 0.8mi of dirt road that's clearly between their house and Preston, there's no way Preston, Nevarra would have paved roads that would make skating on a road a reality. So she gets to ride around in what amounts to a wicker baby pram, much like the rolling chairs of old.
[2] sul'amelan (n.) — teacher, one who imparts knowledge [Project Elvhen: An Elvhen Lexicon]