Username + ID: yuroshi 917768
Name: Alistair (the Grey Warden)
Prompt:
Running was not his favorite thing, not anymore. That wasn’t to say he wasn’t good at it, no, he knew that he was quite amazing when it came to moving quickly. He knew when it was time to move carefully and quietly, each step carefully placed to move briskly but silently, lowering his chances of being caught whether in pursuit or being pursued. He could also easily recognize when he was near-caught, as well, wasting no time to switch from a careful movement into a full-intensity sprint, every part working in tandem with single-minded focus to just get there as fast as possible. He was agile, too. He knew that not everyone could match his prowess when it came to, well, movement really. Fast, able to be stealthy, quite adept and jumping, more than confident in his ability to climb and grapple—Alistair had the best of it. So no, it was not that he was bad at running, his skills and experience led him to be not the best but more than mediocre, surely. He just didn’t always love it so much anymore. But really, could anyone blame him? He wasn’t really old in his own opinion, but he most definitely wasn’t young anymore. So without purpose, you wouldn’t see him running anymore. He’d found—more like made—a place for himself, quiet and gentle, maybe sometimes chaotic but it was his and it was home. So no, he wasn’t always on the run anymore, not like he was when he was younger.
Today, though, he was running again. He had been for a while now, in relentless pursuit of the others—eight of them today, to be precise. He was familiar with some, but not all, thought it was clear that the others had formed bonds with one another over time even if he hadn’t been there to see it. Through hard effort and heaving lungs he’d managed to chase down all of his targets, over and over again… until the tides turned. Now, he was no longer the hunter, but the hunted. Unlike when he was running down the others, being pursued was more than a matter of just speed. His head start on them lasted only his mental count of 30 seconds, and he could even imagine the sing-song voices of his pursuers, down to the way the seconds would run faster and faster in that teasing way as less than a minute passed. For the first 20 seconds, a simple dead sprint, but the last 10 were dedicated to a stealthier run. Being caught was inevitable, but that didn’t mean he needed to make it easy for them.
Whenever they get close, he moves again. Sometimes as simple as looping around the obstacle he’s behind at opposite sides of his pursuers, sometimes burrowing down motionless into bushes, sometimes climbing the nearest tree (they rarely remembered to look up), though he wouldn’t stay in one spot because between so many of them, someone was bound to remember. He ran himself ragged, hearing his hunters begin to pant and slow with exhaustion as well. Satisfied, let himself drop from the branch he was clinging to, and beginning to walk back in the direction he came from… only realizing he made a mistake as he noticed four sets of eyes lock onto him. He tensed, preparing to leap off for one final sprinted chase, eyes locked onto the smallest of his pursuers when—
S L A M
The breath escaped from him as a body rammed full-force into his middle with a triumphant squawk, and he let the move force him to the ground as the rest of his hunters raced towards him. He was well and truly caught.
“Well done, kits.”
… okay, even in his own head, he could admit that he made that whole thing sound quite dramatic, considering the actual situation…
Letting out a laugh as he laid bonelessly at the bottom of the dogpile, he continued to shower the littler ones with compliments. When it was for things like this, a strange mixture of hide-and-seek and tag (only strange in that it almost always ended in a dogpile), he found he didn’t mind running at all. Even when an old competitive streak or even just the laughter of the kids working through a challenge caused him to push a bit harder, so his bones would groan protests, he had to admit that he enjoyed this. After the beginning of his life spent largely on the run—running away from an old identity too dangerous to keep, running towards those in danger to try to rescue them—these days where he was running purely for fun, to keep the kits entertained? He couldn’t help but love them.
Extra:
In a kingdom where magic exists, but having it is either a sentence to be part of the king’s army or seen as one of his enemies, Alistair was blessed enough, or perhaps cursed enough, to be born with an ability of his own. In activation, it is quite simple: he can protect himself, nullifying damage that he might receive through, well; magic. As a young boy he had no initial intention to show this off nor even knowledge of his own ability, just thinking himself rather resilient. But when he ended up miraculously unscathed after an attack caused his home to fall on top of him, it was clear something supernatural was at play. At first, he joined the King’s Army with no issue or complaint, no longer having any reason not to, and he served them valiantly. And yet despite his relentless attempts to protect others with his own body, he did not always succeed. Here he learned something new about his power… in that it seemed to grow stronger for every soul he failed to save. Unfortunately, he was not the only one to realize this. One of his superiors learned this as well, and began to deliberately partner him with those whose powers she deemed were “useless” before sending them all on dangerous missions, hoping they’d fail. This was Alistair’s breaking point. He’d always been a knight of sorts, whether that was branding sticks in make-believe battles as a small child or protecting innocents, but he was not foolish. He knew there was no way to win the fight against his comrades, and so he fled. For many years he was on the run, narrowly escaping the others’ dogged pursuit as he grew and changed, hair fading color as their memories of him also faded. His flight ended with a death he convincingly faked, though he wandered farther until he reached the place he now calls home. Older, wiser, he is now content and settled in this space where he is more than happy to simply take care of and teach the younger generations. In a way, through this he also keeps them safe. And if he just so happens to stumble upon little ones discovering their own magic, and teaches them a thing or two to make sure they’re not forced into a fight they don’t want to join… well, that’s a secret between him and his ghosts.
