The Last Warlord (Formerly That Which is Valued Most)

by deaconrayne1

As the Fifth Blight unfolds events are manipulated and conspiracies are born. The pieces are set and the game begins as Wardens and Champions, Templars, and Mages are all manipulated by a newly-revealed player. His morals ambiguous, his plan diabolical, and his genius undeniable, none but he knows how the game will end but all in Thedas shall feel its effects for all ages to come.

1. Chapter 1

That Which is Valued Most.

Dedication: Special thanks to Roo Bailey for her invaluable input on demonology, blood magic, and other arcane matters. And a big shout-out to my awesome editor Mandi J for all her input and support.

Prologue

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 about fifty years in age, 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.

"Little is unexpected to me, 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 heavy armor and 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 curse 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 especially 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 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."

"That's right; 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 if 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 the glass 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, they hold something interesting," he ran his hands over the cards, "A ram in a cage, 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 second 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," The elder of the two suppressed a shudder.

"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, a matter of hours."

"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.

"Absolutely. 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 bright enough to shine through his samite bindings and reflect 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 the corruption of the Blight."

"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 laughed, "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 from 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 1:20 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 still 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 hear that Andraste's followers used a similar encryption later in life against Tevinter," she cocked an eyebrow challengingly, "That won't be a problem for you, will it?"

"Not in the slightest," The man placed his hand over the book and held still. 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 proceeded to tie the Samite bindings over his eyes before turning 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 Nevarrite, giving them a purple 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.

"'Drachaen', please, I'm certain we've known each other long enough."

"As you say, Drachaen."

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

Chapter 1

The cat lazily entwined itself around the legs of the man sitting in the chair. Captain Sul gave a small smile and reached down to pet the animal. It purred ecstatically and rubbed against his hand. He straightened, adjusted his black uniform, "Report."

The assembled lieutenants exchanged looks before one, a Dalish elf by his markings, cleared his throat and stepped forward.

"Our Outrunners report that the last of the darkspawn are beginning to migrate from the field of Ostagar," Lieutenant Pellinore began, "Per your instructions, any survivors of the battle were found and collected. Their wounds are being treated and they will be fully debriefed upon their recovery."

"Continue to coordinate with the White Vanguard, ensure that these individuals are recovered enough to endure interrogation. I want their information and their support, preferably in that order. Remind those involved that they are no good to us dead."

"Yes, sir."

"Are the darkspawn continuing to take prisoners underground?"

"Yes, sir," the elf repressed a shudder, "We are getting reports that they are disappearing somewhere in the Hinterlands, near Valammar. We do not why there specifically yet-"

A high-pitched giggle broke the conversation, it quickly dissolved into nonsensical tittering.

"A vein, a vein of red and gray, built by the dead, kept by the dead and now the way home."

Several pairs of eyes, almost unwillingly, turned to regard the speaker: a diminutive humanoid creature with pale blue skin possessing of an androgynous beauty and an ageless veneer. Its eyes were completely blue save for pupils so contracted they almost disappeared.

Captain Sul turned more slowly to observe the gibbering creature and gestured, "Please, continue."

"The Taint, the Taint, The Taint, The Taint!" it stretched out its' body and arched its' spine until she was bent nearly in double, "We can taste it, smell it, we can hear its' crimson song! Here! There! Everywhere!" it quickly degenerated into babbling in a variety of languages that none, save Sul, understood.

"Thank you, Chirak," Sul nodded once and turned his bandaged eyes back to regard his lieutenant, "It would appear that there is an entrance to the Deep Roads nearby. Assign Sentinels to observe and began plans for a more permanent method of monitoring the location."

"Yes sir. And what about the darkspawn taking captives?"

A moment of consideration as Sul leaned back in his high-backed chair, tapping his finger lightly against his lip.

"Eighth day, we hated as she is violated. Ninth day, she grins and devours her kin," Chirak whispered. It wrapped its' arms around itself and began to rock back and forth. It looked up at Sul with those blank, blue eyes, "We can hear her singing, down down down down."

"I see," Sul said under his breath, "Yes, that would make sense."

"Sir?" Pellinore asked cautiously.

"Deploy a squad of Black Shepherds, make sure they are accompanied by at least two of the Grey Wardens. That should keep them from encountering the main body of the horde. Their targets are anyone that has been captured alive by the darkspawn and not yet transplanted underground."

"Should we attempt rescue?"

"Not unless it's approved by one of the Wardens, they should be able to determine whether or not a captive has already been tainted at range. I predict, however, that everyone captured by the spawn have already been corrupted."

"May I ask why, sir?"

"What reason would they have not to begin hastening their captive's corruption?" Sul stated simply. "This operation shall be solely focused on depriving the enemy of resources. Oh, and make certain that the Shepherds carry with them silverite arms and armor, augmented with the appropriate runes in case they should come into conflict with the Darkspawn…as well as vials of Quiet Death should that conflict go poorly."

"Yes sir, though I recommend that we have our forces step up production in Emprise de Lion and The Approach, if we are going to continue to engage the darkspawn."

"Recommendation noted, Lieutenant, and already acted upon: the order was sent to Orlais before we arrived at Ostagar as well as orders to harvest more Arcanist and Lunatic's Deathroot to supplement our stores of Quiet Death and other concoctions.

The elven lieutenant nodded, "Ma nuvenin, ma Hahren," he placed his fist over his breast and bowed his head.

"Ma serannas, Lieutenant Pellinore," Sul replied, nodding slightly and the elf stepped back to stand amongst his fellow officers once more.

"Lothering?"

A female dwarf, her gray hair cut short and a tattoo marking her as casteless branded on her face stepped forward,

"Birds just got back, the place is done for. The Horde will be there by dawn at the latest."

"Can they be delayed?"

The dwarf scratched her head and spat, "Get a couple of rock-crushers out there, sap the place all to blazes, yeah, by a few hours at least."

"See to it."

The dwarf woman bowed and exited the large tent.

"What news from within the village itself?"

A non-descript human woman stepped forward. She had dark hair and was dressed like a peasant.

"You were right, sir," She reported in a crisp, even voice, with a thick Tevinter accent, "There was a Qunari imprisoned in town, he hadn't been there long. There was also reports of a young red-haired woman in the Inn. Locals says she's been making claims that she see received a vision from the Maker."

A faint smile crossed the Captain's lips, "Of course she has. And the third objective?"

"A family, sir: an older woman, and three siblings, an elder and a pair of twins."

"Continue."

"My information tells me that the family patron, now-deceased, was at, at one point, a respected mage. We have reason to believe that the female twin is also a mage. Her brother was at the battle served under a 'Captain Varrell' and has only recently returned to assist his family in escaping. The eldest sibling seems unremarkable except that apparently she is good with knives, sir."

"An assassin?"

"I don't believe so, sir, not with any formal training at any rate."

"I see. And the remaining Grey Wardens from Ostagar?"

"The man and the woman arrived in Lothering earlier, accompanied by a dark-haired woman we believe to be a Chaisnd Witch along with a mabari hound. What they are doing in town is unknown, though I could return if you wish sir and find out."

"No, that won't be necessary, the Horde is advancing and I have no interest in losing one of my better infiltrators. I take it your cover remained intact?"

The woman smiled broadly, "Y-y-y-yes sir," she said in a mock stutter with a thick Fereldan accent, "I j-j-j-just asked milord Warden's if they could h-h-h-help with maybe getting some traps?"

Captain Sul nodded his approval, "Well done, report back to your unit," The woman hesitated and Sul arched one eyebrow, "Something further?"

"There is," she began hesitantly, "a child."

"Explain."

"His mother was slain by wolves; Goodwife Sarha, she was a friend."

"And you wish to honor your friend's memory by adopting her orphan?"

"Yes, sir."

"I cannot guarantee the boy's safety."

"Yes sir, but respectfully, who amongst us can guarantee safety of anyone?"

Sul pursed his lips then nodded, "Very well, I'm sure one of our knights is in need of a page. His well-being then is your responsibility. I assume you understand the gravitas of that?"

"Yes, sir, thank you, sir." The woman handed him a bound scroll, snapped a crisp salute and departed.

Captain Sul turned his attention to the remainder of his lieutenants: "Break camp and prepare to depart, I should like the majority of our forces to be gone before the darkspawn arrive."

"Yes, sir," the assembled men and women saluted and departed.

"Sir? If I may?"

Captain Sul nodded and the Dalish lieutenant stepped forward.

"Respectfully, Captain, shouldn't we keep a closer watch on the Wardens in Lothering? Given their importance."

"Your concern is noted, Lieutenant. Calm your fears, though, I already know where they're going after Lothering."

"Sir?"

Sul stood up and made his way to a large table adorned with a map, "See for yourself," he gestured, "Lothering is here. Here and here," he pointed, "are the wilds, infested with darkspawn. And here, towards the North, is the Horde itself. Therefore there is only one logical destination," he tapped a place on the map, "Here: The Imperial Highway."

When the Captain explained it like that, it seemed absurdly obvious. Pellinore colored slightly under his markings.

"Although…," Sul frowned as he at the map.

"Sir?"

"The report from Lothering, what is the name of the family that was being investigated?"

The lieutenant cracked open the green and red seal of the phoenix on the parchment and unrolled it, scanning it quickly, "Ah—yes, sir. The name is….Hawke."

"Of course it is," Sul said under his breath, "Bring me parchment and ink."

Pellinore hurried to fetch the supplies. Captain Sul took pen in hand.

The Hawkes fly south of Lothering.

He affixed it with his seal and handed it to Pellinore.

"Deliver that to the ravens."

"Yes, sir. What is the destination?"

"The Korcari Wilds."

The young lieutenant frowned, "Just 'The Korcari Wilds' sir? No name?"

Sul smiled to himself, "Don't worry, it will get to who it is intended for."

Pellinore saluted and turned to leave.

"Captain!" an out-of-breath runner panted, "Our sentries in the Wilds are under attack!"

"Fenedhis Iasa!" Pellinore spat, "Send up the flare and have our forces retreat immediately, prepare to—"

"Belay that order," Sul held up his hand, "And send for Ravenna and Pentaghast."

"Captain-"

"Let's see what we have," Sul slipped a ring on his finger and waved it over the map. A low hum filled the air as he removed the samite bindings from his eyes, his glass shard eyes gleamed eerily, flickering lights danced within them as he stared at the map.

"Interesting," he peered at the map, which was humming incessantly in a low tone that made Pellinore's back teeth vibrate, he turned to address the elf. "Who is in command of that unit?"

"Sergeant Rutherford, sir. Of Honnleath."

A faint smile crossed Sul's lips, "Very well," he nodded satisfied and replaced the samite bindings around his eyes as a pair of people approached at brisk pace. The woman was tall, copper-skinned, with streaks of grey through her dark air. She possessed a dignified air, which contrasted with the brightly colored tattoos all over her body, gold amulets draped over her throat and on every finger and she was preceded by the scent of tea.

The man, by contrast had was squat, with short hair, dark robes with a crowned skull emblazoned upon it, and a severe expression. He smelled strongly of cinnamon and pitch.

The dark skinned woman bowed, "Saludo, Mi capitan."

Sul tilted his head, "Lady Ravenna."

"Make it quick…" the other man barked.

Sul arched an eyebrow at the other man,

"…sir," he finished sullenly.

"Cas."

The other man stiffened, "Casper Pentaghast the third," he corrected haughtily.

"Sir…," Pellinore leaned in and whispered to the Captain just loud enough for everyone else to hear, "…if you prefer, I can summon one of the Sanguinaries to assist instead?"

Sul repressed a smile as Casper's expression slid into outrage and he opened his mouth to protest. The Captain held up a hand, "Peace, Casper, now is not the time. Your services are required."

"Well, obviously!"

Ravenna rolled her eyes at the other man and shook her head, "How may I be of service, Capitan?"

Sul lightly touched the ring upon his finger and whispered something, closing his eyes.

Panic. Short of breath. Sweating through my armor. Riders. Heavy Armor. Barding upon pale horses with dark manes.

Sul reopened his eyes and smiled tightly, "Templars."

Mages and Dalish exchanged alarmed looks as Sul picked up quill and parchment. He wrote quickly and handed it to Ravenna.

"Deliver this to Sergeant Rutherford. You'll find her being pursued by Templars near Ostagar, in the Korcari Wilds."

The woman bowed her head, "As you say, Capitan," she turned to face the short man standing next to her, "Well?"

Casper glared at her, "Fine, you old witch!" he snarled, relenting. He brought his hands together and spun them together, a swirling green orb of light formed producing a high-pitched whine. The ball of light became a spinning blur. With a flourish, he released the orb of light where it cascaded over the woman.

She flinched as the glow washed over her in waves, "Mierda, I hate this part. Like needles and pins!"

The glow faded and Casper exhaled hard, "Right. I'm leaving, I need a drink," he stormed off.

"Casper."

The man stopped at the Captain's tone; a bead of cold sweat running down the back of his neck.

"Remember who you are. Remember where you are. And remember who I am."

Slowly, Casper turned and met the other man's veiled gaze, there was a beat and then the man bowed deeply at the waist, "Forgive me, my captain, I forget myself."

The Captain held the other man's gaze through the bindings a long moment then he nodded, "Dismissed." Casper saluted and hurried away. The Captain turned his attention to Ravenna, "Well?"

Ravenna moved her hands, they blurred, leaving a trial of afterimages in the air. Her entire body vibrated as she blurred to face Sul opening her mouth to speak,

"Verywell,micapitan,iamreadytoleavebyyourcommand!"

Sul took a moment to process the accelerated speech and wordlessly handed over the scroll to her, her hand blurred out and snatched it from him, nearly tearing it. She spun and dashed forward, leaping into the air, there was a burst of black smoke and a large raven flew away from in a black blur.

"Will the orders reach them in time?" Pellinore asked the Captain.

"I would not have dispatched them if I believed otherwise," Sul assured his lieutenant. The pair made their way back to the command tent. Pellinore seemed to be struggling with something, "Speak freely, lieutenant," the Captain said softly.

"Sir, you know I would never presume to question your orders—"

"Peace, Lieutenant, I have no interest in unthinking slaves; Demons, the walking dead, and golems would suffice if I did," Sul turned to face the younger man, "What I want, what I need are quick, creative minds who can think, reason, and most of all, believe," the pair resumed walking, "We are at war, lieutenant, we cannot afford the luxury of having minds so limited that they cannot expand or adapt to change. Blind obedience and mindless subservience are what the Orlesian Chantry, the Templars, and the Circle of Magi prefer. Those under my command are held to a higher standard."

The pair entered the tent and Sul turned on the other man, "Never be afraid to ask questions, it is the only way to gain understanding," he turned to face outside, "Perhaps if the Orlesian Chantry had not forgotten that, its destruction would not be necessary."

"Yes, sir," Pellinore nodded, "What commands did you issue to the Outriders?"

Sul gestured at the map, "I instructed them to split up and dismount and then proceed southwest on foot as quickly as possible, while keeping in sight of the Templars."

Pellinore frowned at the map, "Sir, southwest leads directly into the bogs. There's nothing but marshland. Won't they be run down?"

Sul smiled faintly, "We shall see," he moved to the far side of the tent and took down a book, "Tell me, Lieutenant, what do you know of history?"

"Ah, little, sir," Pellinore said, looking surprised at the sudden shift of topic, "I've never really been very interested or had the time."

"Consider generating both time and interest," Sul lightly caressed the cover of the book and gently opened it. He ran his fingers down the page for a moment and presented it to Pellinore.

"'History of the Inquisition' circa one-forty Divine," he handed the book to him, "Have you heard of the Inquisition of old, Lieutenant?"

"No sir, I can't say I have," Pellinore replied, too confused to say anything else.

Sul's expression became scornful, "Unsurprising, as the majority of its history has been suppressed by the Orlesian Chantry. Too many 'inconvenient truths' for their liking."

"Yes sir," Pellinore answered, frowning at the repeated use of the phrase 'Orlesian' Chantry.

Sul's expression lightened, "Before their submission to the Orlesian Chantry, The Inquisition was a force for good. Motivated men and women of all races and creeds who saw the need for change in the world and set about effecting that change," the Captain scoffed, "I find it a supreme irony that those that were heralded as heroes in their age had their legacy erased by the very institution that they fought to protect."

"This Inquisition became part of the Chan—Ah, the Orlesian Chantry, sir?"

"Yes and no," Sul conceded, "The majority of the Inquisition became part of the Orlesian Chantry in 1:20 Divine at the signing of the Nevarran Accord," he paused and waited.

Pellinore started and shook his head, "I'm sorry, sir, I'm not familiar with that either."

"You should be, Lieutenant, perhaps I will loan you a few tomes from my library."

"Ah, thank you sir, but I'm afraid that I'm not very good at reading."

"Are you not? Well, that is something we shall have to remedy. But I digress: with the signing of the Accord, the Inquisition became the military arm of the Orlesian Chantry. The Circles of Magi and the Order of the Seekers of Truth followed soon after."

"The…'Seekers of Truth'', sir?"

"A poorly-kept secret amongst the Orlesian Chantry; a sect of Templars considered to be the pinnacle of their order; all-knowing, all-seeing, and incorruptible," Sul shook his head, "Much like the Templars, it failed both in principal and in execution,"

"Sir—"

"But what does this have to do with the current situation?"

"Yes, sir."

"Consider: it is the unfortunate nature of most collectives, especially religious or military organizations, to stagnate over the years: new ideas are ignored or suppressed in favor of the safety of the tried and true traditions. They cannot adapt to a changing world and so they work to inhibit that change by whatever means possible."

"Why, sir?"

"Fear," Sul answered coldly, "Fear of losing their power, their place, their privilege. They fear the unknown," his tone became colder still, "And what they fear, they hate and seek to destroy. And so they fight tooth and claw against any form of change or progress, regardless of the cost to the rest of the world. They are weak and they are cowardly."

Pellinore swallowed and nodded, the intensity of the Captain's words and tone struck to the bone, "And in regards to the current situation?"

Sul shook his head and Pellinore got the distinct impression that the Captain would have been rolling his eyes, if he still possessed them, "Strategy, lieutenant and an unwillingness to deviate from that which has already been established. In this instance, the strategy of the Templars to travel in full plate mail, complete with Orlesian Coursers into battle."

"Orlesian Coursers. Sir?"

"Horses, lieutenant, from Orlais. They are considered the preferred breed of their Chevaliers. Former and failed Chevaliers make up a significant portion of the Templar Order's command structure. They bring with them their history, their lineage."

"And their horses!" Pellinore said as something clicked.

"Just so."

The Lieutenant frowned, "But sir, I don't understand, why are their horses important?"

Sul shook his head and said nothing.

An hour later, a cheer rose up from the camp and Pellinore nearly jumped.

"You asked why their choice in horses mattered, Lieutenant?"

Pellinore scanned the crowd and his jaw fell open.

"Fenedhis lasa!" he swore.

"Because they are heavy," Sul finished.

Being led by the jubilant Outriders arrived a procession of chained Templars, coated in mud and detritus from head to toe. The Templars raged and spat and hurled insults at their captors as they were dragged towards the command tent, many of them coughing violently. At least one vomited up a great deal of dirty water and mud.

Barding, Plate mail, Horses…and it slowly dawned on Pellinore. He spun on his commander, "You had our forces lead them into the swamp…," he turned to face the bound Templars again, "…and they sank."

"Adapt or die, Lieutenant," the Captain said quietly, "There can be no alternative. Now, shall we welcome our guests?"