There was unrest in the Circle tower. Abominations ran wild and slaughtered many, ancient magical seals threatened to become undone, and the Templars were poised to kill mage and abomination alike.
This did not seem to hamper the Grey Warden's spirits.
"When I lived in the palace I had such a fine ax" began the son of house Aeducan to the newest addition to their ever growing band of warriors.
Alistair, who had by now heard this story more than any sane man should, simply groaned and rested his head in his right palm. Wynne, the latest victim of the tale to be, either did not hear him or ignored him. This would prove to be her undoing.
Lord Aeducan continued: "Truly there has only been a better ax in legends and long forgotten histories of the dwarven glory days. The head was perfectly balanced and sharp as Zevran's tongue. Made from the finest Silverite, it was". A spark shone in his eye. His brow was heavy with nostalgia.
"In the middle of the two massive blades was a jewel; a sapphire as big as my fist. Before I saw your night sky, I had not seen such a deep blue, and never have I seen one so beautiful a shade".
So far, Sten and Leliana had been the only one who had enjoyed the story, but one wondered if even they began to tire of it. Wynne's palms began to itch, as if to warn her of a danger she could not yet see.
The Grey Warden did not cease: "The handle was exquisite ironbark, traded for with the Dalish ages ago. When you held this ax, it was like embracing a lovely woman and sharing a fine ale with a dear friend. Ale at least, is one thing you topsiders have gotten right. Who'd have thought a drink made of grain could have such a splendid taste?"
The story seemingly over Wynne tried to focus on the task at hand. Leliana however, knew that Loktar Aeducan was not that merciful and prepared herself. "Oh Maker" she muttered under her breath. As it turned out, Leliana was now sick of that damn ax.
"The Final Light I called it, as the glint of the blades was to be the last thing my enemies saw before their death". An all too bloodthirsty smile settled firmly on his face.
"I carried that ax everywhere I was to carry a weapon or don armor. When the halls of Orzammar whispered of Loktar Aeducan, the warrior without peer, they whispered of The Final Light."
This had been the moment when Morrigan, who under most circumstances was rather taken with him, had told him in no uncertain terms to shut up or face her bountiful wrath. Like most things, this did not seem to cause him much hesitance .
"Alas, when I was banished she was lost to me. No doubt she was given to that bastard Behlen, or Stone forbid, thrown into the Deep Roads to become the treasure of a casteless scavenger or a cursed Darkspawn". The tone with which he spoke was rueful, as if he were discussing the passing of a loved one, not the loss of a weapon.
The party opened a door and found a group of spellbound Templars. Wynne regretted to face good men in combat, but she was secretly glad to find an excuse, any excuse, for her compatriot to shut his bearded trap. No doubt the Maker had a twisted sense of humor, because Loktar seemed unperturbed by the violence.
"You know, I do not so much mind being cast out of my home and becoming a Grey Warden as one might think". Wynne began to wonder if the dwarven kind had some arcane way of amplifying their voices, because she could hear him in the heat of battle just as well as she could before. Alistair and Leliana seemed to fight all the harder for it.
"I do not even mind saving this sorry nation from the Blight, even if it does smell like wet dog".
"It does not smell like wet dog!" Wynne indignantly interjected. To no avail.
"But I have yet to find a single decent battleax in all of Ferelden!" The thought seemed to grant him strength, for he beheaded his current foe with contemptuous ease.
"Swords you can make, there are even some fairly competent armorers around these parts, but damn you all, you can not make a blasted battleax to save your sorry hides!"
The last foe lay dead on the cold stone.
Leliana said some prayers for the fallen while their fearless leader casually removed the helm off a Templar and said: "Kind words are no more use to the dead, girl".
He replaced his helm with the new found one and tossed it to Alistair. "You can have that now. Now let us depart; we aren't completely covered in blood just yet".
"Is he always like that?" Wynne asked quietly.
"No," Alistair replied "usually he's just kind of a bastard. Though you'd never know that if he's trying to charm you. I like him more as a bastard. Consider it a hazing ritual, Wynne. You lived through the sob story, so you're part of the team now!"
"I suppose I am, Alistair. I suppose I am".