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“The time has come!” Pa bounded through Lace's bedroom door like a dwarf-possessed. He had a horrible habit of never knocking, despite his daughter's countless pleas for privacy.
Startled by the sudden interruption, a ten year old Lace bolted upright from her bed, the novel in her hand slid to the shag-pile rug below. “Pa, this better be good!” She truly hated being torn from her adventure stories.
“You're too young to sass me like that!” He complained. “Right, I take it you DON'T want a puppy then...” A wry smiled tugged at his lips, as he pretended to about face and leave.
A fire had been lit under her arse. She scrambled to her feet, desperate to intercept him. “No, no, I'll be the best daughter, promise!”
Excited would be an understatement, the mere thought of having a mabari to call her own whipped the young dwarf into a frenzy, much to the exasperation of Ma. “What have you done Wilfred, putting ideas in her head?” Rosemary chided.
It all started at the dinner table a few months prior. Pa had just returned from a long trip in Amaranthine, but instead of regaling his captive audience with stories of taxes and tariffs, he wordlessly slumped over his plate of unmentionable pie. Ma instantly regretted asking what was wrong, when the copper-bearded dwarf grumbled endlessly about their 'mabari-less household.' Apparently, he was a “laughing stock,” and “any self-respecting Ferelden can brag about the size of his beast.”
Lace often scoffed at the weird notions people held about her country. Particularly those bemoaning Ferelden's 'bland,' 'beige' food. Once, she came close to relieving an Orlesian merchant of his genitals when he dared to ask - “why do you people eat like we're still besieging your cities?”
For all the thinly-veiled prejudice however, one stereotype would always hold truth.
Fereldens love their dogs.
Hells, they'd put one on the throne if they could!
Lace Harding was no exception in her reverence for the canine-kind.
That afternoon, Pa took her to a barn on a nearby farmstead. Farmer Padraig's bitch Gunhild had given birth to an extensive litter of ten puppies. Normally, these would fetch a hefty sum when sold. Whether wanted for companionship, livestock protection or war, pups were always in high demand. This time, the Hardings could have theirs for free; after all, Padraig still owed Wilfred a favour for working miracles down at the market. “I'll let your lass have first pick,” he promised, shaking his hand over a gentleman's agreement.
The soft light filtered in through the barn window, basking the interior in a warm glow. Leant against hay bales, both men stood at the sidelines, as they eagerly awaited Lace's decision.
Initially, it was no easy feat. Individual dogs were indiscernible as they amassed together at their mother's teats, clumping into one giant ball of squirming, tawny-coloured fur. Poor Gunhild looked exhausted, as the pups suckled frenziedly. They'd need a lot of nourishment if they were to grow into the menacingly large, ferocious war hounds most outsiders considered them to be.
From her periphery she sighted a tiny, umber-coloured pup, separate from the others. It ambled along, legs splayed out in an awkward gait. Lace was enchanted from the very first whimper.
“Nay lass, you don't want that one. Tis the runt!” Padraig bellowed.
“Go for the biggest!” Pa chimed, as he wildly gesticulated to his favoured one. “You know what runt means, right?”
Oh, I know very well, Pa!
Memories imposed themselves like uninvited guests; a cacophony of choice insults from her past.
Pint-sized-freckle-face.
Ginger flea.
Dumpy-dinky.
Runt.
Of course Lace was tall, by dwarven standards, not that Redcliffe's youth knew that. Being the only dwarven child in a community of bored, birdbrained humans was often trying, to put it mildly.
Edging closer to the pup, Lace saw something kindled within those amber eyes the others could not. Fire. “This is the one.” She affirmed, ignoring her Pa's crestfallen face.
It didn't matter what anyone else thought, together, they'd show them all.
A few weeks later, the Harding household grew by one, and Lace and the pup became inseparable. Farm chores, hikes, dinnertime, bedtime; the pup tagged along everywhere. Technically, Ma forbade the latter, but Lace found a way to conceal her in an oversized nightgown; passing off the whimpering as either hunger pangs or trapped wind.
Night-time trespasses aside, something else irked Mrs Harding. The fact that in all these weeks, the pup remained nameless. “Lace, honey, just call her Brunhilda and be done with it.”
Lace recoiled at her mother's lack of taste. “Ma, you can't rush these things! Names are powerful! They define who you are!”
Rosemary gave her daughter a withering look. “Yes, because you've clearly proven how delicate and demure you are.”
That night, Lace stormed off in a sulk, slamming the bedroom door behind her. A small whine from her chest tempered her anger, as did the amber eyes staring up in an unfiltered expression of pure innocence. Her frown turned upside down, and she scooted over, allowing the pup to snuggle next to her on a stack of cushions. Perhaps Ma was right, she considered, if the pup was to join their family officially, it should have a name. It couldn't just be any old name though, it needed to invoke power, authority, beauty and poise, all at the same time. This was no easy feat. An exasperated sigh escaped her; the creative juices refused to flow. Maybe her epiphany would come tomorrow.
Resigned to some leisurely relaxation, she grabbed a book from a teetering stack in the corner. Hazel eyes studied the cover, it looked melodramatic, as all her novellas tended to be. The title, 'The Lady's Behest' hung in an elaborate cursive font above the image of a cloaked, rapier-wielding woman. Lace enjoyed the Antivan novels the most. All the intrigue, the gore, and something else Lace was far too young to comprehend. Pa would return home from his travels carrying them by the sack-load. Thankfully, Ma knew too little of their content to ever chastise him.
Freckled fingers turned the page, as she settled in for a night of swashbuckling adventure:
“Ermano, if I can even call you that any more, you traitorous swine!” With a searing stare, Lorenzo held the deeds to the burn of candles; the parchment that bound their souls, reduced to a pile of ash.
Antonio watched on, his face a picture of stoicism. He had no regrets. Money, titles, honour, he'd gladly give it all to hold his precious tesora once more. His senses remained awash with her memory. The taste of sangria, when their lips met; the scent of oud from the perfume she wore. They were destined to be together. Lorenzo, a mere mortal could not defy the will of the Maker.
As he turned to leave, the wrath of the blood moon cast its scornful light, ensnaring the study in a red haze.
“Tonight this ends, Pendejo! ” Lorenzo hissed, knuckles turning white as gripped at the hilt of his dagger. Vaulting over the desk, the lithe noble descended upon Antonio like an eagle swooping in on its prey.
Quick-witted, Antonio rolled to cover. His desperate eyes searched the room for a makeshift weapon. Little did he know, he'd find his weapon, in dwarven form.
In a shimmering shower of colour, the stained glass window smashed, marking the arrival of his saviour. A hooded figure loomed over on the desk, readying an ornate rapier. In his primal rage, Lorenzo lunged towards them, only to find the tip of the blade pressed against the bobbing apple of his throat. “Think again.” The commanding voice of a woman called out from under the darkened hood. Both men found themselves entranced.
“¡Dios mío!” Antonio exclaimed in wide-eyed wonderment. “Who are you?”
The cowl fell to the ground, and the men gasped; sight overwhelmed by the dazzling visage of feminine power before them. One hand pressed to her hip, she shook her head from side to side, allowing her luscious locks of auburn hair to pool around her shoulders. “Oh me?” She teased, “I'm only Contessa Lucia Camondo de Almaçan.”
Just as Lorenzo and Antonio were captivated, Lace too was mesmerised. So much, she'd forgotten to exhale, nearly toppling over in the process. Eager eyes re-read the lines over and over; something within the prose was beckoning to her, and she was willing to spend all night in search of it. Next to her, the soft snoring of Contessa drew her attention -
Wait, that name! IT'S PERFECT!
“MA! MAAAAA!!!!”
Novella in hand, Lace ploughed through the bedroom door, and her voice grew louder with each incessant 'Ma.'
All of Redcliffe awoke that night. The night Contessa was born.