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tamingthemuseTitle: Redcliffe
Fandom: Dragon Age: Origins
Prompt: #422 Pyrrhic Victory
Rating: PG 13? R?
Warning: Sexual harassment
Word Count: 512
Summary: Bella can't wait to be done with her shift.
Note: Written at the last minute! Not edited!
The wind whipped through town, kicking up Bella’s skirts and reminding her of the coming winter. It would be a harsh one, but nobody worried. They would be lucky to survive until snowfall, never mind Spring. Last week, a veteran of Ostagar had come to the tavern and told everyone about the death of their king. He had gripped his ale and yelled until Murdock came to drag him away.
“They killed him,” he’d said, “The Gray Wardens killed him and now it’s all over.”
It made for a village full of reckless men and women, where long term plans were abandoned by the side of the road along with the too-heavy heirlooms of refugees.
With one hand, Bella lifted her apron to form a hammock. With the other, she gathered mushrooms from the sack out in front of the Tavern. There was plenty of room to store the mushrooms in the larder, but Lloyd was convinced that they would attract giant rats. She had been conspiring with Bevin to convince him to get a dog, but the old barkeep was a tough nut to crack. He did have a soft-spot for the boy, though. She’d told Bevin to stop dreaming of Mabari and argue for a nice spotted cattle dog, but the child had been raised on tales of heroic nobility and had his heart set on a war dog.
She was thinking of hounds when Tomas raced past, nearly colliding with a patron as he dashed up the hill.
“Hey watch it!” The man slurred, “Whatchu—hey!”
Tomas was already disappearing over the crest of the hill. Bella allowed herself a moment to admire the view—all that running was doing wonders for the fit of his pants—and then grudgingly admitted that she had tarried in the sunshine long enough.
*****
The Tavern smelled worse than usual. Or, that is to say, the patrons smelled worse than usual. A group of militia crowded the table by the door and bemoaned their sobriety. They hadn’t bathed since last night’s battle, and it was clear that they didn’t expect to remedy that oversight any time soon. It’s not that she expected men to bathe more than a few times a year or on special occasions, but these men were soldiers who smelled of urine, corpse gall, and despair.
“Bella,” one of the men at the table addressed her, “You can change his mind. We don’t have any money but you’ve got something he wants.”
“No, James, he only wants money.” Bella said, and the other men at the table laughed too loudly, just for the sake of it, as though she’d actually said something clever.
She wouldn’t do a damned thing to help get these men drunk. For one thing, she was hoping to go home early and paying customers would dash that. For another, as much as she sometimes hated them, she wouldn’t help her neighbors to fall on their own swords. If they got what they wanted, and it got them killed, it would be a pyrrhic victory at best.
Fandom: Dragon Age: Origins
Prompt: #422 Pyrrhic Victory
Rating: PG 13? R?
Warning: Sexual harassment
Word Count: 512
Summary: Bella can't wait to be done with her shift.
Note: Written at the last minute! Not edited!
The wind whipped through town, kicking up Bella’s skirts and reminding her of the coming winter. It would be a harsh one, but nobody worried. They would be lucky to survive until snowfall, never mind Spring. Last week, a veteran of Ostagar had come to the tavern and told everyone about the death of their king. He had gripped his ale and yelled until Murdock came to drag him away.
“They killed him,” he’d said, “The Gray Wardens killed him and now it’s all over.”
It made for a village full of reckless men and women, where long term plans were abandoned by the side of the road along with the too-heavy heirlooms of refugees.
With one hand, Bella lifted her apron to form a hammock. With the other, she gathered mushrooms from the sack out in front of the Tavern. There was plenty of room to store the mushrooms in the larder, but Lloyd was convinced that they would attract giant rats. She had been conspiring with Bevin to convince him to get a dog, but the old barkeep was a tough nut to crack. He did have a soft-spot for the boy, though. She’d told Bevin to stop dreaming of Mabari and argue for a nice spotted cattle dog, but the child had been raised on tales of heroic nobility and had his heart set on a war dog.
She was thinking of hounds when Tomas raced past, nearly colliding with a patron as he dashed up the hill.
“Hey watch it!” The man slurred, “Whatchu—hey!”
Tomas was already disappearing over the crest of the hill. Bella allowed herself a moment to admire the view—all that running was doing wonders for the fit of his pants—and then grudgingly admitted that she had tarried in the sunshine long enough.
*****
The Tavern smelled worse than usual. Or, that is to say, the patrons smelled worse than usual. A group of militia crowded the table by the door and bemoaned their sobriety. They hadn’t bathed since last night’s battle, and it was clear that they didn’t expect to remedy that oversight any time soon. It’s not that she expected men to bathe more than a few times a year or on special occasions, but these men were soldiers who smelled of urine, corpse gall, and despair.
“Bella,” one of the men at the table addressed her, “You can change his mind. We don’t have any money but you’ve got something he wants.”
“No, James, he only wants money.” Bella said, and the other men at the table laughed too loudly, just for the sake of it, as though she’d actually said something clever.
She wouldn’t do a damned thing to help get these men drunk. For one thing, she was hoping to go home early and paying customers would dash that. For another, as much as she sometimes hated them, she wouldn’t help her neighbors to fall on their own swords. If they got what they wanted, and it got them killed, it would be a pyrrhic victory at best.
