All Crossed Rogues

(*) - An Asterisk denotes a few words from Arthur, a guy I know who talks too much, at the end.

Disclaimer- Bioware and EA assume direct control of all intellectual property. They know this hurts me. They will destroy me if they must.

Down by the riverside's,
Bound to be a better ride,
Than what you've got planned.
Carry a gun in your hand.

Look around.
Leaves are brown,
And the sky is a hazy shade of winter.

The Bangles- "Hazy Shade of Winter"*

Prologue

The End of It All

9:41 Dragon
31st Haring

Tevinter Imperium
Valarian Fields

The celebrations had been going from the early afternoon well into the night, with dozens of revelers dancing and drinking and lighting small fires to sing songs by as the sun's light dissipated from the sky.

It was the last day of the year, and Putter Smith was certain it was also the best.

An outside observer that night, out there amongst the thigh-high stalks of oat and wheat and rustling reeds of the ever-brown Valarian Fields would think that this was because he was very drunk off the pinkberry wine and high on quickroot. They'd be mistaken, though, as Putter Smith was a bandit by trade and was always drunk or high or both, even when plying his trade on some unlucky merchant caravan or an unwary group of travelers.

They might also think that Putter Smith's best day was due to the bare-breasted tart straddling his waist and giggling as they lay together on a grassy knoll, trading sloppy, breathless kisses. But they'd be wrong in this as well. Putter Smith was not an unattractive man. He possessed a tongue slick enough to coax a lass out of her clothes and a mind sharp enough to sense the oncoming presence of a husband or father. Due to these traits, Putter had known the touch of many a wanton maiden and had survived long enough to spread tales of the secrets they held in taverns across the expanse of the Tevinter Imperium, much to the enjoyment of the other patrons.

No, the only person who truly could've known why Putter Smith was so blissful was several yards away from him, nestled comfortably in a ditch at the base of a hill. He was drooling into the dirt, sleeping peacefully as a lowland mutt urinated on his boots His name was Clause Vilhelm. Clause was a traveling minstrel who had, several months prior, saved Putter from a group of mercenaries looking to slit his throat over a dice game gone wrong. Putter had managed to cheat them out of a half-dozen rolls before one of the extra die he carried had tumbled out onto the table after too vigorous a roll. Clause, having watched from the beginning of the game, had interceded on the bandit's behalf as blades were drawn.

Through a series of intricate lies involving the Imperial Magi Lawbook, a plan to assassinate a wealthy Rivaini noble and even a well-worn, professionally forged letter of diplomatic immunity from the Black Divine himself, Clause managed to convince the brigands to not only let Putter go, but to relinquish a substantial amount of coin as well. Upon leaving the tavern, the two immediately began to argue over whether or not an Imperial Magi Lawbook even existed, with Clause swearing repeatedly on his mother's grave that he'd read it cover to cover once while imprisoned in the capital. They were inseparable after that day, bonded over three ideals they shared above all else; firstly, happiness was the most important thing in the world. Secondly, money was the key to happiness. And thirdly, that other people's money was the best kind of money.

Within the next few months of traveling together, Clause had instilled in Putter the fourth ideal that had set him free from a life of regret. That other people's money could be obtained without bloodshed. And once he'd embraced this notion, Putter, who'd never truly enjoyed hurting anyone that hadn't been asking for it, had discovered within himself a kind of buoyancy that lifted the heart and put a spring in his step. Before long, he'd admitted to Clause that what he wanted, what he truly wanted more than anything (except, of course, for money), was to go home. To return to the hills and slopes and wide open plains beneath the rising mountainous peaks of The High Reaches. To Valarian Fields, just west of Minrathous, where his mother and his sisters and his cousins still lived. He wished to hug his sisters and apologize to his mother for being such a shit. To spit in his father's ashes and get belligerently drunk. To fight his cousins in good ole' hand to hand fisticuffs and to pass out inside of a pretty girl with four rosy cheeks, all of them bare to the open sky.

Clause, unwavering in his friendship, had led Putter home, unwilling to listen to his fears of an angry mother and unforgiving sisters and tales of cousins with disturbingly well-sharpened pitchforks. And on that thirty-first of Haring, the last day of the forty-first year of Dragon, they had arrived. Putter's mother, overjoyed with the return of her only son, had not been angry, and had cried as he apologized. His sisters readily forgave and hugged him with such ferocity that Clause had wondered if they might've been trying to squeeze the breath from him. His father's cheap, copper urn showed the signs of neglect that can only come from a life spent as a bastard of a man, and when Putter spit vigorously into the remains, Clause had the distinct impression that he hadn't been the first to do so. The end-year festival had already begun and before long Putter was merrily drunk and had both pummeled and been pummeled senseless by his many cousins, all of whom were quick to offer both drink and bawdy tale to the minstrel.

And now, under the stars on a beautiful, windswept series of hills and valleys, Putter was home and happy, drunk and high, and if Clause were awake he would know from the look on Putter's face that this was not only best day of the year, but the best day of his life. Clause also would've kicked the dog with the surprisingly large bladder pissing on his boots.

As with all good things, though, there comes an end. This end was not quite what Putter had been anticipating as he rolled the farm girl onto her back, removed that last of her clothing and stared hungrily at her naked, wanting body. This end was abrupt and cold, red and terrifying.

First came the wind and the rain. It was the beginning of winter, so there was always a delightful kind of brisk air to the mornings and nights, but given their position between the mountains and the sea beyond Minrathous, Valarian Fields had never known a cold front during this time of year, and certainly not the bitter chill that suddenly swept in from the east. What was truly odd was the rain that came with it. It was warm, the fatter droplets seemingly almost burning hot.

The naked girl flinched beneath him as the wind and rain hit her all at once and he noticed several wet, red flecks on her breasts and face. Drunk and worried, he lazily swiped a finger along her cheek, the red coming away on his flesh. The farm girl reached up and ran her palm along his bare chest in much the same manner. At first he thought she'd misinterpreted his touch as more intimate, until he spotted the look of confusion on her face. He looked down at his chest. He was covered in the same droplets of red. Had someone nearby tossed a half-full cup of wine? He brought his finger to his lips.

He tasted blood. Nearby, a girl screamed. Then another, farther off in the distance.

Something snapped in Putter's mind and he came out of his drunken haze. He stumbled from the girl, finding his balance and rising to his feet. Putter spotted her skirt and picked it up off the ground, throwing it at her. "We're under attack," he said, wincing as he stuffed his erection back into his pants, forcing it to rest alongside his thigh as he quickly retied the leather bands at his crotch.

The farm girl got up, fear in her eyes. "What do I do?"

"Run home! Warn anyone you can and get to safety."

She watched him a moment longer, hesitant. Putter grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her gently. "Go!"

Nodding, she turned as a second gust of cold wind hit them, her grip on her skirt seemingly a reflex as she ran naked through the stalks and reeds into the dark of night.

Putter shivered in the cold. "Clause?" He called out. There was no response beyond the random screams of the other revelers and the growing howl of the wind.

The rain, hot and slick, picked up in its intensity as Putter scanned the dark valley around him for any sign of threat. There were shouts of confusion, farmers calling out to each other and the intermittent sounds of grass and reeds being trampled beneath feet. No grunts of attack, no whistle of arrows. That's when Putter began to notice how wrong the rain felt. It was thick and sticky… and it smelled of metal.

Putter looked down at himself once more. He was now covered in wet red fluid, as if he'd bathed in blood. He ran his fingers across his flat stomach as the rain continued to pelt him. The red rain that tasted of...

They weren't under attack. It was raining blood.

"Putter!" The voice came from his left. He turned, fist raised fearfully as Clause danced out from the shadows, equally bloody. "The fuck is going on?"

Putter opened his mouth to respond. Before he could, the sky opened up above Minrathous, several leagues to the east. A red light shown upon the city. The two men turned their glances towards it and the bellowing howl that came from the sky sounded like the death rattle of the Maker himself.

Both men knew what this was. It wasn't hard to recognize the end of the world.

ARTHUR'S NOTE*

Just to be clear on this, Paul Simon wrote 'A Hazy Shade of Winter', and it was originally performed by Simon and Garfunkel. I note that the lyrics quoted in the intro are to 'The Bangles' because of one simple reason. They changed the lyrics.

More distinctly, they changed the lyrics and, therefore, the meaning of the song, and it is this meaning which I wanted to link to the opening of the story.

The change noted here is in the line, 'Carry a gun in your hand,' which was originally, 'Carry a cup in your hand.' Paul Simon, in the original, was remarking on the changing of seasons, the passing of time and the melancholy that comes with this. On the other hand, The Bangles version can far more aptly be construed as apocalyptic or even post-apocalyptic, losing a lot of Paul's emotional depth, the 'springtime of life,' but adding a level of gravity to the literal loss of seasons and time, rather than a figurative one.

Their version is, in fact, one of my favorite 'end of the world' songs, especially the almost violent build-up in the last forty-five seconds. It can be sensed/interpreted that something massive is coming, like the mighty fist of an angry god ready to strike, and just before it does, the song ends abruptly, leaving the listener in suspense, were they to be taken in by such a notion.

Still, had the lyrics remained the same, only the tone changed, I would've attributed the song to its original creator, Paul Simon, no matter how I felt about the tonal change from folk rock to, well, 'rock' rock.

Just saying. Paul Simon is awesome. Respect.

Finally, special thanks to my Beta Reader, Skeasel.