9:30 Dragon

I give you that which I value above all in this world.

Flemeth closed the door, resting her head upon it. For a moment, ages of weariness bowed her shoulders as her parting words echoed in her memory.

And then she caught a scent and her eyes opened, gleaming and dangerous.

"I don't suffer trespassers lightly," She stated, "Less so those who see fit to enter my home unbidden."

She felt more than saw the man's smile.

"Nothing enters the Wilds without your knowledge. I should thank you for disabling the most lethal of your wards."

Flemeth turned to face the man; he stood just over six feet, possessing gray hair and of and appeared to be middle aged, as humans go. He was of solid build with a leanness to him that lent the impression of a predatory animal. The dimly lit confines of the small hut cloaked the remainder of his features in shadow. A dim light flickered from a long pipe.

"I am not amused," Flemeth replied coolly.

"No, but you are curious or else I would be dead."

The old witch gave a short laugh, "You presume to know me so well?"

"I only presume to know that you do not exterminate that which may prove useful, which is why I am still alive."

Flemeth's face relaxed slightly, "Are you hungry? My daughter was making stew before her unexpected departure."

"Unexpected for her?" The man stepped into the light, "Or for you?"

A pair of long white strips of fabric crossed over his eyes at an angle, concealing them from view. The remainder of his face bore the weight of his years well, marked only by slight lines around the mouth and presumably his eyes as well as well as streaks of gray in his dark hair.

"Little is unexpected, but every now and then life manages to surprise even an old crone like me."

"I'm sure. Though if you would be so kind…dispense with the illusion. It's distracting and the 'harmless old hermit woman' countenance does you little credit."

"There are times, my friend, when there are more important things than credit but very well," Flemeth raised her hands above her head and brought them down. Her drab robes were replaced by purple mail accentuated by an ornate headpiece.

"Better?" She ran her metal talons through her long white hair and peered at him with yellow eyes: the only feature that had not changed.

"Thank you. It was giving me a headache."

Flemeth reached out and touched the man's temples, tracing the outline of the lengths of fabric that masked his eyes.

"Are the visions getting worse?" She asked with a touch of matronly concern.

The man smiled slightly, "Yes, but Vyrantium Samite is working much more effectively than the others. Things are not quite so…bright."

"You see too much, old friend."

"A burden we both bear, wouldn't you say?"

Flemeth laughed, "Come and let me make us some tea. I have a blend of elfroot and Prophet's Laurel that should be of some assistance."

"Prophet's Laurel? I was under the impression that it could only be found in Orlais."

"There is a small grove of it to be found to the north along the coast, if one is willing to brave the giant spiders and constant rain."

"Or you could simply have acquired the seeds and grown your own."

Flemeth smiled again as she poured the tea, "I'm glad to see that not all of my lessons were wasted on you."

"'Whatever you give your opponent is what they will use against you,' " The man sipped the tea, "A lesson on the dangers of overestimation."

"Yes, though I'm not certain I took the time to thoroughly educate you on the dangers of underestimation."

The man put the cup down on the table.

"You want to know why I'm here?"

"Yes, I do."

He gestured with his head towards the door, "'I give you that which I value above all in this world', he quietly quoted her words from minutes before, "that was an especially nice touch."

Flemeth sipped her tea quietly, "I thought so."

"Has she been made aware of your…unique predilections?"

"Ha!" Flemeth crowed, "Are you certain you are not Orlesian, so adept at decorating your words in flowers and ribbons?"

"I shall speak more plainly then: is your daughter Morrigan aware that she may be used as a vessel in the near future?"

"Now then, that will depend entirely on whether or not you lived up to your end of the bargain."

"Of course I did. I learned long ago that it is unwise the fail one's obligations to you. Tell me, do the Dalish still tell such fierce stories of your wrath, Asha'bellanar?"

"I particularly enjoy the part about leaving the dismembered remains of those who displease me dangling from the trees," She shook her head wryly, "As if I do not have better things to do."

"Not to mention that you would not pollute the trees so."

Flemeth raised her cup in acknowledgement and took a measured sip, golden eyes boring into the man's face, "Speak plainly."

"The tome you requested has found its way into the Grand Enchanters office, as you specified. It could hardly be more conspicuous. I imagine the man would be most vexed by its presence."

"Bah! The old man will have more than that to vex him if the rumors of abominations are to be believed."

"And what manner of rumors are those?"

"They are the sort that one does not share with charming, devious former students," she smiled broadly, "As if you should be anything else."

"I am what you taught me to be."

"Of course you are. What a mage you would have made."

"Would I have been an asset to you, or a liability?"

"As if you could only be one or the other."

"Too true, but to return to the point—"

"Yes, do please humor an old woman."

The man with the covered eyes stared in her direction for a few moments with an air of quiet amusement before proceeding, "No doubt once it is discovered the forgery will send young Morrigan into a frenzy of self-righteous indignation at the thought of being consumed or possessed or whatever her imagination concocts, against her will."

"Silly girl, I thought I had taught her better than to make such rash assumptions."

"You did, but the manuscript is especially convincing."

"Of course it is. You wrote it."

"At your behest," The man's lips curled up in amusement, "You truly have her convinced that you simply 'lost' a priceless tome of lore somewhere to be absconded with by some fool Templar as if it were a random trinket?"

"Oh yes, my performance was quite convincing. I must have ranted and raved about that silly grimoire a half dozen times."

"You did not overplay your hand?"

"If I did, it was by necessity, to get through that hard head of hers."

"And to make certain that it never occurs to her that anything valuable enough to have you in such a state over its loss would have sooner been destroyed than fall into another's hands."

"Just so."

"Then I'm fairly certain your daughter's reaction is likely to be volatile."

"I should certainly hope so," Flemeth scoffed. "No doubt she'll inspire one of her companions to come forth and slay me so that she may be protected."

"One of the two Grey Wardens I take it? The man? He has a potency to him."

"Maric's boy? No, his fate lies elsewhere."

"You were known to the good king, were you not?"

"In my own fashion, yes. I tried to warn him about treachery. It was a warning he failed to heed.

"And foresight becomes hindsight. Yes, I've been informed of Calian's overtures towards Celene. Loghain's response was predictable, if nothing else."

"Do you believe the Teyrn is aware of all aspects of the relationship between his son-in-law -well, former son-in-law- and the Empress of Orlais?"

"If he had been, he would have slain the fool himself rather than feeding him to the darkspawn."

"You did not hold the former king in high esteem?"

"I do not believe in fighting battles that one cannot win," He gestured with his cup, "Another lesson I learned at your side."

"Indeed."

"Ostagar was a foolish waste at a time where they can hardly be afforded."

"Ostagar was a means to an end. A crucible, necessary to not only propel events forwards in the direction they must, but ensure that those who are crucial to its success were tempered as needed to endure the way ahead." Flemeth explained as she refilled their cups.

"You're speaking of the Cousland girl, I take it?"

"Yes, she has already been through one fire already."

"So I heard. Rendon Howe," The man's tone suggested unparalleled disgust.

"If you spit on my floor, young man, I will make you clean this entire hut with your tongue."

The man swallowed and spoke, "My apologies. The man revolts me."

"Yes, I remember. You never did have much fondness for the Howes."

"Certainly not the current generation. Wasn't there a Grey Warden amongst their ranks at one point?"

"Yes, and if I'm not terribly mistaken, another shall rise," She smiled thinly, "Apparently nobility skips generations."

"I'm still surprised, and more than a little appalled, that Rendon thought he could get away with it. As if he could attain that much favor that quickly and no one would have noticed."

"I take it he is dancing to Loghain's tune?"

"The Couslands' greater standing and vocal support of Cailan made them a target in Loghain's schemes, as did anyone who does not share his hatred of Orlais."

"The motivations of men can be bewildering."

The man snorted indelicately, "As though it's difficult to understand why Loghain would loathe the Orlesians, given what they did to his wife."

"I remember once seeing a portrait of them together when they were young, like lions with black manes," Flemeth commented thoughtfully.

"I imagine Anora's golden tresses and fair features made her most distinguishable. The rumors as to how she acquired them are curious indeed."

"Only curious for those who do not have eyes to see. One cannot spin gold from coal."

"True," the man sipped his tea. "Still, never underestimate the power of denial."

"Or regret, for that matter," Flemeth replied quietly.

"I defer to your expertise on that matter," the man sipped his tea thoughtfully, "So, assuming Morrigan dances to your tune and sends the Wardens back here to do away with you-?"

"My Morrigan can be unpredictable, but only in the most predictable of ways. One way or another, I will be dead."

"Or at least appear so. To what end though?"

"I've thrown enough stones into the river; I need time to sit back away from prying eyes to watch where the ripples go."

"So, what will your next move be?"

"That remains to be seen, though perhaps you would be willing to lend your vision to an old friend?"

The man put his cup down, "Oh, anything for an old friend," He gently unwove the cloth from his eyes and placed it neatly folded on the table.

He possessed no eyelids and inserted into the sockets of his eyes were shards of multicolored glass. A latticework of scar tissue emanated from each wound and it surged and flickered with traces of energy. He reached into the folds of his coat and removed a small wrapped bundle.

"I see you're still a sentimentalist," Flemeth indicated towards the item in his hands.

"It came at a great price. I always tend to keep such things close to my heart," He slowly unwrapped the bundle to reveal a set of black cards which he slowly fanned out in front of himself in a single, practiced motion.

"What do you see?" Flemeth whispered.

He reached out and turned over one card.

"It's a crossing; filled with bears and spiders and wolves feasting on a pasture of red hair built on the graves of dead kings."

"I know the village, please continue."

He turned over several other cards, "Lambs to the slaughter for the most part, but there are three cages that hold something interesting," He ran his hands over the cards, "A captive bull, a red-breasted nightingale captured in a rose bush, and," He turned over a final card, "hawks."

"I see," Flemeth purred, leaning forward to scrutinize, "Tell me about these hawks."

"There are four: two shall fall into dust, a third into darkness…."

"And the last?"

The man frowned for a moment longer.

"Glory," His fractured eyes looked up from the cards, "And they will need your assistance."

"When?"

"Shortly. My sentries have reported that the darkspawn have almost finished hauling off the corpses of the slain in Ostagar."

"Pray that they are dead. One does not wish to be taken alive by the darkspawn,"

"Any of my forces that are sent into their territory carry just two vials of Quiet Death: one for any survivors they find and one for themselves should it become necessary."

"Prudent," Flemeth nodded approvingly, "How long until the horde consumes Lothering?"

"If they are not delayed; sooner as opposed to later."

"And I assume your forces are nearby?"

The man nodded, "Outside Ostagar with Outrunners in the Wilds and the Hinterlands."

"Then have your forces delay them and I shall see to the safety of our nest of hawks."

"And the one other item?"

Wordlessly, Flemeth walked to the other side of the hut to a small chest. Whispering a few words, the lid glowed for a moment and then opened. Reaching in, she removed a large object that glinted red and caused the air around it to hum.

"You're…certain about this?" Flemeth asked cautiously as she eyed the object with grave apprehension.

"Entirely. The effects of this material have been most promising."

"By' promising', I assume you mean panic and madness?"

"Which is precisely what I require," The man took the object from her and examined it, the red light reflecting against the glass shards in his eyes. "Where there is magic, there is life. And where there is life…" He ran his fingers over the edges of the idol, "…there is power."

"So you plan on going through with this insanity?"

"A change is coming, and I shall be its herald."

"And if that change has to come on the broken lives of an entire world?"

"Sacrifices must be made," The man gestured towards his eyes.

"Perhaps you have sacrificed too much, my friend."

The man only smiled and turned his attention back to the artifact, "It's an excellent fabrication of ancient Dwarven relic. I'll see to it that it finds a home in the Deep Roads, and when the time is right it'll be 'discovered' and no doubt brought back to the eager masses."

"And then…?"

The man simply held up his hands, "Change will happen."

"On your head be the consequences, old friend."

"How like a cloistered sister you sound, parroting the words of their mewling Chant of Light."

The old woman cackled, "Very well then, go and do what you please, as you always have." She gave him a steady look, "You know, I could simply kill you and spare the world your antics."

The man tied the wraps back around his eyes, "You could, but you won't."

"Will I not?"

"Of course not. You want to see what happens next."

Flemeth smiled like a hungry predator.

"I absolutely do," She reached into her robes and removed a tattered book.

"Here," she handed it to him, "A gift to an old friend."

The man, having finished rewrapping his eyes and putting the cards away, examined it.

"'An accounting of the signing the Nevarran Accord'," He ran his hands over the book and gave a slight but satisfied smile, "Circa one-twenty Divine. Very impressive."

"It was written by a knight errant whose name escapes me," Flemeth offered a grin that suggested she was the cat that had just eaten the last canary in Thedas, "but who went one to be a member of the original Inquisition and later a founder of the Templar order. I understand that they teach according to his words even still."

"The Templars have certainly proven resistant to change."

Flemeth snorted indelicately, "An understatement and a behavior that will cost them dearly in the future," She gestured at the book, "It is encoded, I'm afraid, based on a language that died before the Second Blight. I recall that Andraste's followers used a similar encryption against Tevinter," She cocked an eyebrow challengingly, "That won't be a problem for you, will it?"

"Not in the slightest," The man opened the book carefully and ran his fingers across its pages. His brow furrowed in concentration for a moment.

"Interesting, the Templar order has indeed changed little. A fundamental understanding of their most basic schools of thought is certainly…useful," His brow smoothed and he put the book down on the table, "I'll decode the minutiae later."

"You're welcome. Now, I must see to it that both the remaining Wardens are proceeding along the necessary path and then I will turn my attention to the village," The old woman leveled a grave expression upon her companion, "If we lose The Wardens, the rest of Thedas might well follow."

The man exhaled a final cloud of smoke, "Then we shall see to it that we don't lose them."

Flemeth nodded, "Very well. Now, time is moving and we are standing still. Awaken, my friend."

The man opened his eyes.

"Captain Sul?" A level voice called out from the darkness, "How was your sleep?"

The man rose and turned to regard the Qunari woman sitting next to his bed. She was tall, as were most Qunari, and possessed a full-figure that was mostly concealed in the robes that she wore. Her horns curled back on themselves and were tipped with Stormheart, giving them an emerald sheen. In her hands she held a tonic, a large book and a supply of quill pens and ink.

"Productive, Atiya," He drank the tonic and grimaced at the taste.

The scribe opened the book and readied herself for orders, "What is your command, Captain Sul?" she asked in the perfectly even tone those like her were known for.

"Summon the council. We have work to do."