Great grey mountains of cloud were marching towards Ostwick across the Amaranthine Ocean, yet the sky above was clear and the afternoon was warm in the steady sunlight. The stirring salt breeze was refreshingly cool. Ruan Trevelyan barely felt it through the visor of his helm, the thick padded jacket and plate of his armour. His body sang with euphoria as it flowed through the forms of the greatsword. The searing ache in his muscles and sinews had long since faded. "The pain is an illusion," his instructors had been fond of repeating, "the blade is real." He knew that he was pushing himself too far and that he would pay for his exertions later, but he needed to train; focus and forget. He was nowhere near as good as he had been only a year earlier, when he had left the Academie des Chevaliers. His breathing was uneven and wasteful, his forms sloppy. Just thinking that had broken his discipline. His focus wavered and his greatsword glanced off the wooden dummy's head and sent it clattering out to the side with a jarring that ran down his arm to his elbow. He yelled his frustration out and hurled the sword aside against the stone wall.

"I suppose that throwing your sword at the darkspawn would be an unexpected gambit, but what then? Head-butting?"

Ruan whirled around and was rewarded by a musical giggle . He glowered back in reply and unbuckled his helm to give the expression more force. "Hello Tamsyn." he greeted her resentfully.

"Hello to you too, little brother. How goes the the fight against the blight?"

"It doesn't. As you well know." He was far too tired and frustrated to deal with the teasing of his older sister. "If you just came here to laugh then you can find tumblers and fire-eaters on the muster ground." He pushed back his short-cropped and matted hair and leant down to pick up the sword. Tamsyn perched on the low wall on the edge of the tower and looked down at the field below the city's outer walls that had been transformed in a muster yard for several hundred troops. "Oh, I don't know. Your dance troupe seems to be quite amusing enough. I think the crowds would throw you a few coins." Tamsyn was almost as tall as Ruan, and had the same red hair and sea-grey eyes. Her voice was dry and crisp as she added, "Father would be so proud to see you putting your education to good use." Ruan said nothing in reply for a long moment. The pain is an illusion. The blade is real. He gave her a courtly bow, one he had seen wielded with as much maliciousness as any knife in Val Royeaux. "Why thank you, Sister. With any luck we will be able to do a passable courante at the coming wedding celebrations."

Tamsyn's smirk disappeared as quickly as if he really had struck her. For an instant Ruan saw the hurt on his sister's face and any satisfaction he might have felt withered. Perhaps he had spent too long in Orlais after all, he thought remorsefully. Tamsyn's expression hardened quickly. "It would truly be a sight to see you finishing something you started at last, Chevalier." she returned icily. Tamsyn would ever have the last word in any argument, it seemed, and she had found just the right spot to strike him with her barb.

Ruan stiffened and looked away, suddenly he was too weary to summon up any retort. Let the combatants retire from the field, bloodied. "I am not a chevalier." he replied with a hard, simple emphasis. Then put his head down and strode away. He was stepping down onto the staircase of the tower when Tamsyn raised her voice.

"I came here with a message." There was a tone of seriousness there which caused Ruan to turn back to her. "Revered Mother Thelois would like to bless your expedition herself. She asked me to bid you bring all who would travel with you to the cathedral this evening." Ruan raised an eyebrow. The afternoon was already growing old. "Tonight?" he asked doubtfully.

Tamsyn looked over her shoulder to the inner walls of the city and the three hills on which old Ostwick was built. The spire of the cathedral and the high tower of the Principia, the palace of Ostwick's teyrn, rose like rivals reaching to outdo one another from opposite hills that each took their names from their crowning buildings.

"There is no time at all like the present. All your company… and companions."

Ruan glanced from the high hill back to his sister. There was clearly more going on than she was saying, and he hated being kept in the dark. Yet he had to admit that some part of him was tantalised by the innuendo in the invitation. Despite the traded barbs, he trusted that his sister would not seek to do him harm; at least not knowingly. "Please take my thanks to her holiness. We will come." With that he nodded once to Tamsyn, and descended to the gatehouse below.

The muster yard resembled a fair more than it did a military encampment. Traders had been allowed to set up stalls around the field and somewhere music was being played on drums and a fiddle. As Ruan strode across it he tried not to notice the men rolling dice while their officer chatted to a pretty girl selling pastries and candied apples. A week ago he might have gone over, chivvied the men along with their training with a good humoured challenge and a few hard words and later upbraided their officer for his poor example. It was harder to ignore the gout of flame that erupted from a huddle of soldiers that whooped in delight as the fire-eater performed. He still felt derelict in his duty as he walked by, but the truth was that these were amateur soldiers who no longer saw the urgency or purpose to their discipline, and Ruan found it hard to muster arguments against that attitude.

Word of the darkspawn abroad in Ferelden had reached Ostwick weeks ago and the city buzzed with rumours of horrors and arguments about how to respond. Some said that the militia assembled here should sail for Ferelden to help crush the horde before it could become a new blight and spread to threaten the Free Marches. Others saw it as folly to send soldiers far away at a time of danger. For weeks the debate had simmered, and occasionally boiled over, from the taverns on the dockside to the Principia on the hill. Teyrn Henryk himself had made no declaration on the matter. However, many saw his failure to give permission to the militia to sail as signal enough of his opinion. As the son of one of the major noble families, Ruan knew full well that the teyrn was not the only power in the city, and so the revered mother's invitation had set his mind racing. Was this the signal that the militia would soon sail? Tamsyn's words had seemed to imply as much. It could just as easily be no more than a gambit in the high politics of the free city. Under the more-or-less watchful eye of the teyrn, noble houses, the chantry, guilds, merchants and even criminal fraternities jostled, cheek-by-jowl, for position and profit in the crowded streets between the twin walls of Ostwick.

A cheer from a group of men by the archery butts drew Ruan's attention, and there he spotted the man he was seeking. Conrad Evenrig was taller than many of the others around him, but he would have stood out among them in any case. He held his arms above his head with a grin and his laugh rumbled infectiously through the crowd. He exchanged the bow he was holding for a tankard and held that aloft too. "Well I'll drink to all of you who had the wisdom to wager on me!" and then proceeded to down the ale to more cheers. Ruan stood a few paces back from the crowd as the archer was slapped on the back and shook by the hand by the gaggle of admirers. While Ruan waited he surveyed the muster yard. One circle of plain blue tents nearby stood out amongst the festive atmosphere. Within the circle he could see a group of warriors drilling under the watchful gaze of a tall, dark skinned man in simple armour. Ruan also noticed that one or two of them were busy ordering and packing up their simple supplies. The rowdy commotion at the archery butts attracted the attention of the dark skinned man and he looked over, unsmiling, before turning back to his warriors. It was a brief moment, but it was enough to fill Ruan with embarrassment and shame.

"Roon! There you are!" the archer drew his attention back with a booming greeting. Ruan replied with a bow of his head "Here I am, my Lord Evenrig." Conrad had olive skin, unruly black hair and beard, broad shoulders and an easy smile. "My lord, is it?" he chuckled, "Maker save me, that means that you are mad with me."

"It would be terribly presumptuous of me to be angry with my commanding officer, my lord." Ruan replied.

Conrad smirked, "They do say that about you, you know."

"They also say that you are a drunken ass, so it's good that we don't put any stock in idle talk, isn't it?" at that Conrad burst into a belly laugh and Ruan couldn't help smiling back at him, Maker damn him. "Now I know that you are angry with me." Conrad slapped Ruan on the shoulder and Ruan allowed him to draw him into the group of officers and nobles. "Does that mean that I can't convince you to knock Luttrel over here on his ass for me? The man has wagered his finest horse that he can beat you." One look at Luttrel's eyes told Ruan that it wouldn't take much to put him on his ass at the moment. The evening was barely upon them and most of the officers were already in their cups. "Perhaps another time, my lord. Besides, I have something I need to discuss with you in private."

"Are you finally going to admit how much you love me?" Conrad grinned, and the others laughed.

"All the world knows how much love I bear thee Bann Evenrig," Ruan played along, dramatically lifting one hand and clapping his breastplate with his gauntlet, "Alas, you are promised to another!"

"Maker's mercy! Don't bring up the bloody wedding!" Conrad growled. "Come on then." he beckoned and started for his tent, "Away with you all!" he waved at the gathered notables, "I have matters of state to discuss and no more time for sport."

Conrad threw aside the the flap to enter his tent. Though only four years older than Ruan, he was the head of one of the wealthiest families in Ostwick. By virtue of his rank he had been appointed as marshall of the militia and his tent was the largest on the muster ground. There was a large table in the centre and space to assemble a dozen people around it. The device of House Evenrig, a boar and crossed spears, decorated a tapestry at the back of the tent. The same device was repeated in the embroidery on Conrad's velvet doublet, just as the Trevelyan stallion was etched into Ruan's breastplate. Conrad picked up a squat bottle from the table and uncorked it with his teeth, pouring some of the rich red wine into goblets and offering one to Ruan. Ruan took it without looking at it, "The revered mother wants to bless the militia." he announced. Conrad took a drink, sighed and slumped back into a high backed seat, "Wonderful. We'll all march up and down and say our prayers like good little boys."

"Tonight." Ruan added. "In the cathedral."

"What?" Conrad looked puzzled and rubbed his temple, "Did you tell me about this? I don't remember…" Here, with only the two of them present his voice was quieter, less confident.

"I am telling you about it. I only just heard."

"I don't understand."

"Nor do I. Not really," Ruan replied, "But she sent the message this afternoon. 'she wishes to bless our expedition'" he repeated. "Perhaps it is a sign that we will finally be allowed to sail for Ferelden?"

Conrad shut his eyes and rubbed his temple harder, "And the message said tonight? Do you trust it?"

"It was Tamsyn that brought it to me."

At that Conrad sat upright and looked up at Ruan. "Tamsyn is here?"

"She was. Briefly." Ruan replied, and saw relief and disappointment fight for supremacy on his friend's face. "Did she seem… well?" Conrad asked.

Ruan considered, and then shrugged. "She seemed herself. If that is what you mean. I think that we should take up the revered mother's invitation. It might be our last chance." Conrad frowned, knocked back the goblet of wine and sighed. Then he nodded. "Alright… can we get the men in order in time?"

Ruan took a drink from his goblet, then set it down. "Let's find out."

Almost an hour later, the camp was abuzz with activity. It had taken almost five minutes before the idea that the trumpet call was in earnest had sunk in. The frantic confusion that resulted still ruled the muster ground. Officers yelled commands. Those that were sober yelled commands that made sense. Some men still scurried around, searching for pieces of armour or weapons. Most of the units were now formed up. Ruan had buckled on a dress cloak over his armour, knowing that he did not have time to take off his armour and change into his house livery. His presence, apparently ready for battle, seemed to spur on those around him and slowly, painfully slowly, the company was forming up.

Finally, he found the time to approach the group of blue tents circled in the corner of the muster yard. Their occupants had already been in their battle attire and stood watching the display. Their leader was the tall man with dark skin and a shaved head. Ruan had been running through what he would say to this man for over an hour. He had a neatly trimmed grey beard on his chin and an old scar across his nose and cheek. The only adornment he wore was the griffon on his breastplate. "Constable," he began, "You have been patient with us and I thank you for it. I will ask one more indulgence of you. After tonight if we are not sailing with you to Ferelden, I can ask you to delay no longer." Warden-Constable Hector regarded him with a cool gaze and then looked over at the mustering troops. "Has your teyrn given you leave to come with us?" he spoke with an Antivan accent.

Ruan sighed. "Perhaps. My hope was that your presence here would inspire people to press him to do so…" he turned and pointed to the spire of the cathedral. "The revered mother has asked to bless our expedition. If your wardens were to lead our procession through the city, with her influence behind us… It is just possible."

Warden-Constable Hector met Ruan's eyes for a long moment. "Very well." he said at last. "I will give you this one evening, Serah Trevelyan. Then tomorrow we must go to our duty, with or without you."

Ruan bowed. "I can ask no more."

The sun was setting as the company marched up the Temple Hill. The Western sky was painted in the colours of flame and the wind was blowing cold and insistent from the ocean. There were only sixteen grey wardens, but they carried a banner at the head of the column; a silver griffon and chalice on a royal blue, and it streamed proudly before them in the wind. The people of Ostwick leaned out of windows and gawped in the streets as the militia paraded by. Perhaps it was that attention, or even the wardens' banner at their head, but Ruan noticed that the men marched with heads held higher; with more pride in their step. He wondered whether any of them were thinking on history as he was. Perhaps it was like this when Garahel rallied the Free Marches against the fourth blight? If even a quarter of his fellow citizens felt as he did, and they had the blessing of the chantry behind them, that might be more pressure than a reluctant teyrn could resist. If Ostwick marched, then perhaps Starkhaven, Tantervale and Kirkwall might join them? If the Free Marches could unite against the blight, that would be a sign that all Thedas could follow.

"Don't get carried away, Trevelyan." he muttered to himself in his sceptical voice, "Pride goes before a fall." Yet as he looked up at the sunburst banner hanging above the gates of the cathedral, as he listened to the beating of the drums and the call of the trumpets, faith was hard to resist.