Andraste's Chevalier

Chapter 1- The Badlands

My name is Eratus Riverwood and at the moment I was kneeling over a ledge. I was acutely aware of how high I was. It wasn't any physical threat of course, so long as I could break the seal on the magically attuned feather I carried. Once broken, I would fall at the rate of a feather and land roughly with the force of one.

There were several other items on my person. Standard-issue Alliance plate armor. By virtue of being a Knight-Lieutenant, mine was made of mithril versus the usual steel. It made it lighter, durable, and less prone to being warped by sudden pressure which made it far more durable against warhammers and axes. Tied to my back was a simple shield, in a convex shape designed to redirect the force of blows away from the wearer, and a sword. On the hilt was emblazoned the iron fist of the Knights of the Silver Hand. The Holy order that all paladins to include myself were aligned to.

It was also mid-day in the middle of summer. Something that I was very physically aware of at that moment. Drops of sweat slithered down the confines of my armor. The sun's rays reflected off my visor, blinding me every time I moved. There was no wind to ease my suffering atop the plateau where I stood. Heat in and of itself was unfortunately ailment that the holy magic wielded by Paladins could not cure. I let out a soft sigh of frustration. I was vaguely aware this was contrary to the blind stoicism that the Knight's Academy attempted to brand into me. A technique done through years and years of thoughtless physical drills and mind-numbing ceremonies. How my old instructor would have blanched at this sign of weakness. Oh well. I guess the last three years of warfare did a lot to wear away those old markings, albeit with scars of their own.

I scanned the horizon again. It was mostly barren, cracked, baked yellow land for as far as the eye could see. The only notable features were the occasional buzzards that flew by, pillars of rock that sprouted out of the ground, and the mountain ranges separating the "good" lands such as Loch Modan, Dun Morogh, and the Kingdoms of the Alliance from the "bad" lands which is where I was dutifully on patrol. For the Alliance. I guess.

Satisfied that nothing had changed since the fifteenth or was it sixteenth time I looked, I turned around towards my patrol partner.

"Bluebeard, how are you not sweating in this heat?" I asked.

"Dwarven constitution lad. Why you ask. Is the weather bothering yeh?" he replied.

I narrowed my brows. The dwarf was sitting in the shade under a rock. A restful smirk on his face. He was in a comfortable position with his boots perched up on a small boulder. His mithril-mail shirt was undone, exposing a massive beer belly. His hands were running through the massive blue beard (dyed hair being permissible for dwarves and gnomes in accordance with Alliance regulations).

"Dwarven-constitution my asshole," I shot back.

"Now, now, that ain't how a Knight-Errant should be talking now ain't he? Didn't they teach yeh all those curtsies and corstoms in that fancy school for little whelpings?" he replied.

"It is customs and courtesies Bluebeard," I said. I didn't broach the topic of the knight's academy. I learned years ago not to try and debate the merits of formal education with someone who had 150 years of life-experience on me. Also didn't help that four years later, I had a hard time convincing myself there were a whole lot of merit either. To this day, I'm still debating what one of the instructors said about the positive correlation between memorizing the fifth tenant of the will of the Light and actual combat. Certainly, didn't help the first time I stared down a growling axe-wielding 7 foot tall green-skinned savage looking to turn my scalp into a belt ornament, or when the friendly-looking old man that always sat by the well suddenly lunge at you with a shiv, screaming "For Alterac!"