Disclaimer: Dragon Age belongs to Bioware.
A Moment
There were no victory shouts or celebratory cheering. There were no congratulations for a battle hard won.
What there was, at least at first, was profound silence. As the world came back into focus, the smell of magically rent atmosphere and death returned. The groans of the injured venting their pain soon followed, while sensations of falling ash and a stale breeze seemed like an afterthought.
The remnants of a ragtag army, united first by a common goal and now through battle, stood quietly and watched the Grey Warden standing beside the felled dragon that had terrorized them only moments before. Blood, both tainted and not, pooled beneath their feet as they waited. In that moment, battle weary and splattered in gore, the factions of Ferelden stood together in peace.
Human, elf, or dwarf; mage or templar; Andrastian or polytheistic; none of it mattered. For in that rare moment they all shared one common trait that trumped any difference in race, class, or belief system. That trait was evident in the breath that filled each set of lungs atop Fort Drakon: they lived.
No one knew more than those present, those gathered around the Warden, that there were no victors in quelling the Blight. Only survivors.