UNBOUNDHere on Unbound, our plot follows four different timelines, set throughout the canonical history of the Dragon Age. The events following Trespasser, the time of the Inquisition, the rise of the Champion of Kirkwall and the quest of the Warden against the Fifth Blight.
And So is the Golden City blackened
With each step you take in my Hall.
Marvel at perfection, for it is fleeting.
You have brought Sin to Heaven
And doom upon all the world.
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13 Haring, 9:18 Dragon
Free Marcher, technically, although Malcolm has no sense of nationality himself.
Gaella Lachlann - Older Sister - Chevalier
Brienne Lachlann - Mother - Human
Elleros Garalan - Father - Elf-blooded
Warrior He has strong rogue qualities
Tattoo of a black ring with an inner blue ring then inner yellow ring between his shoulder blades.
A gnarly, knotted scar on his left thigh.
A series of puncture scars on his right calf from when he stepped in a trap when he was a boy.
Very tall - Malcolm is difficult to miss.
Lefthanded - may not seem like a big deal but it is when he wears his sword on his right and draws his bow with left.
Red Lyrium: His nails are growing as claws and he looks deathly with red veins and silvering eyes, from which a trail of hardening skin turning into crystals are sprouting. Malcolm looks less like he might mutate into a beast and more like he will perish beneath the strain of carrying the lyrium disease.
Memory Loss: His lucidity comes and goes. He’s struggling to remember some basic things from his childhood: lullabies, what his father looks like, the name of his first dog. It's particularly potent after a nightmare, and he takes time to recover.
Nightmares: Frequent due to stress. They are less about the horrors he's faced and more about what he's afraid he’ll become: a lunatic (much like his former mentor), a savage, full mutation, and even his own death.
“You look almost like a proper little woodland sprite,” commented Knight Corporal Thomas Ferguson.
Malcolm glanced down at his gray and olive clothing, not quite sure what a woodland Sprite should look like exactly, but wanting to commit the appearance to memory if he looked the part. Dirt-dusted clothes and tattered at some of the edges and more than a couple of tears from snagging brambles and thickets. He pulled a dried, curled leaf clinging to his woolen sleeve. It crackled between his fingers as he ground it into fine pieces.
“If ye say so, Ser,” he replied, the burr in his voice contrasting against the other man’s smooth, rich tone.
“He’s a bit too skinny, Mac.”
“Aye. For now. But look at his bones and jaw. He’ll be growing into them yet.”Mac’s wisened blue eyes smiled as his lips curled beneath his gray mustache.
“Hm.” Thomas squinted in suspicion but resigned any other opposing thoughts about Malcolm’s stature in favor of looking at the grizzly four legged panting beside him. “You can't keep the dog.”
“That’s not the boy’s fault,” Mac defended, even as Malcolm opened his mouth to explain Bear’s presence.
“How do you suppose that?”
“He tried. Tied up the wee beastie after it yanked from his father’s hands.” There was nothing really wee about Bear. The dog’s near shovel-sized head came to Malcom’s waist, easily a height for him to rest a hand on. Mac was giving the fluffy hound an impressed appraisal. “Chewed right through. Tracked us down within three hours. I dare you to separate that dog from the boy.”
“I’ll care for him, Ser. I have since he was a pup. Bear’s nearly eight anyway, so he dinna have so long to live.”
The Knight Corporal pinched his lips to one side. He looked at Mac, who shrugged his big shoulders and offered a semi-smile.
“I ken you’re in there, Jerana!” yelled Malcolm. He wondered how much of it the mage heard, what with Bear braying something vicious next to his ear. She barked both deep and high-pitched, dipping in place and her tail beat the air. Being bigger than her father before her, Malcolm struggled to handle her strength with one hand while kneeling. “Come on out now! No need for all this!”
Bear barked and whined, antsy to be released. Hearing no answer, Malcolm glanced at the phylactery in his palm. It indicated Jerana was nearby, pulsing a bright color. She had to be in the abandoned farmhouse. She had to be uncooperative.
“Let’s see how your hound really does then, Malcolm,”
“Releasing the dog!” Malcolm declared, loudly, when he faced forward once more. Behind him, he heard the other three Templars inhale nervously. Loosening his hold, Bear shot forward with only the sound of paws on grass, miraculously quiet. Malcolm ran after her, his soft leather soles helping him be as silent as Bear.
Glass cracked and wood groaned as Bear scrabbled and forced her way through the narrow opening. He heard her snarling as he dashed by, going for the door, followed by panicked feminine screaming,
Then, a tingle in his spine.
The door splintered when he drove his shoulder into it. Malcolm reached out, to the other thing, and brought it to crash down upon the direction of Bear’s fierce growling and piercing human howling.
He’d drawn an arrow before he’d rounded the corner. Bear had Jerana’s arm pinned between her teeth. “Bear, heel,” he commanded. “Loose! Heel!”
By the second command, she responded, leaving a bloody mangle of an arm as she trotted to Malcolm’s left side. “I told ye, Jerana,” he said, regretful. “It didn't have to be this way.”
Maker’s sweet and loving Bride, he was freezing. And if he was freezing, he couldn't yet be in hell. Unless this was hell’s cruel way of being ironic, condemning a man to a numb nose and stiff fingertips, never to be warm again.
With a sniff, Malcolm squinted his eyes open, seeing the white and blue of the snow encompassing him. Blanketed and cocooned. Like the time he was a boy with his leg in a trap. His head was ready to split. Malcolm had a vague memory of being struck on the head, in his sweet spot. He closed his eyes and he moved his arms, trying to sense them enough to get them under him.
A weight shifted off the middle of his back. It whined and wriggled up his side, nosing at his arm.
“Bear,” he rasped between cracked lips. Groaning, he shift and rolled onto his side, snow crunching and shifting around him. The burly, brown-coated dog crawled against his chest and he hugged her as she whimpered, but her tail hit his knees. Malcolm burrowed his face against her fur, sheltering in the warmth.
He wasn't sure when he came to again. This time it was because his stomach growled something fierce. Mumbling indistinct words of complaint, Malcolm shifted onto his hands and knees, disturbing Bear IV. She lead the way through a snow enclosed crawl space, likely dug by her, and he emerged to see a setting sun. Staggering, he rose to his feet and dragged his feet to where the mountain pass slipped down to the valley.
Haven was gone. Malcolm panted, holding his side, which was panged for some reason he couldn't quite remember.
The orange glow basked the carnage of half buried broken trees and snow swallowed bodies, their silver armor pieces glinting yellow and red. Bear was busy scratching vigorously behind her ear. Malcolm sat heavily on his heels, his cold leathers creaking, and massively grateful he’d worn furs as he examined the snow covered landscape.
“We’re free,” he whispered to Bear.Then, with dry humor. “Just had to pretend we were dead, aye?”
This is Angel’s fault but I do not regret this.
Malcolm’s a pretty okay dude. Friendly enough, loyal enough, skilled enough. He’s mostly concerned people seem to be more attentive to him because of his accent.
He’s a former hunter and tracker, former Templar, and currently very angry at his former leaders and sort of hunting down Red Templars as a way of life/hobby. A bit renegade. A bit rogue. I look forward to him meeting other people.
But an incomplete app ain't it.
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