Solaryn Mahariel

The roiling black and red sky slowly churn overhead as the dragon's head comes thundering down upon the roof. The darkspawn pause, their sudden dread almost pitiable. Everyone is silent. Mahariel looks up and at Alistair and winks. She then looks back to the archdemon as she raises the blade high to come thundering down upon the dragons head to make an end. To make an end to everything.

This could have been avoided if she had been more convincing with Alistair, but there is nothing for it, save that he had offered to take the blow himself. She isn't about to allow that. Even if she lived, where would she go? She wants no place in the order that has torn her from her people, nor amongst the people that so willingly let them take her, and what sort of fit would she be amongst humans? Or dwarves? She could wander, but there would be no purpose in it. It goes too far to say that she wants to die. To say that she doesn't care, that does her justice. From the future she wants nothing, eternity in comparison…

There is promise in that. Hahren Paivel always said that Falon'Din guided the fallen to the spirit land in the beyond.

The air around the blade ripples as it soars straight and true towards its mark in the dragon's neck. She thinks about Tamlen as it falls. The early days spent in an absolute bliss so long ago, she misses those. Maybe she will know something like them again soon. That would make her happy. She knows the others, especially Alistair, will be hard hit by her loss, but they will heal. Everyone will heal, and then it should all be easier for them.

A lock of hair falls in front of her eye as the blade, death rendered steel, flies into the monster's neck to steal the last of the life from it. The spirit of the Old God tries to force it out but she stands firm, holding it down as the spirit tries with ever increasing panic to cast out the blade. It is futile. The resistance abruptly stops and there is the briefest moment of absolute stillness. She smiles.

One elf dies, one king lives- a fair trade.

She isn't sad.

Marvane Amell

The light plays off the dark bald head and cool brown eyes as he kneels before the altar, praying. He is normally the type to keep his faith internalized, but with the landsmeet so near at hand, that is no longer enough. A faith in the wrongness of his adversaries has guided him ever since leaving the tower, but that faith is no longer there. He cannot simply brand Loghain a villain to be put down. The man has won Marvane's respect, and this complicates things beyond measure. To dispatch a simple villain is easy, to stand against a foe that is not only respected, but understood, that is many times harder.

The Hero of River Dane...

He convinced the man's own daughter to turn against him, but he himself would rather not oppose the man. There is irony in that. He thinks about the true plan, to use Anora to gain support to oust Loghain only to put Alistair on the throne anyway. And here he is praying to the Maker to make that course easier, what a model Andrastian is he...

Still, it is something to draw comfort from. He realizes the hypocrisy in praying to the maker to help him defy his teachings, but by the same token acknowledges that such a thing is necessary for the greater good. Surely there is a redeeming quality in that? He isn't convinced by his own question, so he adds another layer to his prayer. He now prays for the maker to aid him in doing what is necessary, and then to forgive him for it.

He wishes there was another way, but even if there were it is too late to change the course of events. He doesn't want to stand against a man he respects, but that is what he must do. He wonders if anyone else in his position ever found commitment to their selected courses this hard.

A hand on his shoulder startles him and he looks up, the tattoo over his right eye apparent to see. He is looking at Alistair, who asks him if he is ready to head to the landsmeet. He says he is, but he is and has been a terrible liar.

Meghren Aeducan

Blood soaks into the stone. He wasn't even aware stone could do that. Pathetic for a dwarf, in all honesty. None of this is his concern though. Trian is dead. Trian is dead, and nothing points to who killed him. That meant one thing and one thing only- a setup. There was only one person he suspected of that- Bhelen. Bhelen was in the deep roads with Endrin. That meant they would be here soon.

He wants to run, to hide. It's not that easy. One cannot just turn and run when faced with such reality as this. He never liked Trian, but neither did he want this. He needs to move, he knows this. But he won't. He can't. He's there for only a brief time before he hears it:

Hurry father, before it's too-

Silence, Meghren looks up. He sees it in Bhelen's face. He did this. Then it occurred to him what Bhelen meant by it. Bastard. Clever fratricidal bastard. Meghren did not play in the game of politics. This did not hinder his ability to see a brilliant play. He respected brilliance. He detested Bhelen.

Endrin is kneeling beside him, he looks up into the King's face. He sees the pleading look in his eyes, but cannot give answer. He has always been stoic, and that cannot change. Endrin looks at the body of his dead son. By the ancestors, what happened here?

Meghren too looked at Trian. A knot formed in his stomach. Yet still he was expressionless. He's dead. He said simply.

Endrin shakes his head and looks at him. Tell me this isn't what it looks like.

He looks Endrin in the eye. His own words are entirely insufficient. I assure you it isn't.

There is a brief discussion. Gorim affirms his statement, both of the scouts lie and say he is the killer. Looking at Bhelen he is not surprised. He can see that his brother is trying not to smile. How long had he been planning this? Not that it matters now. He looks back down at Trian. Whatever the plan, it is working. He would not be surprised if he was already convicted of the charges against him. He is curious what Bhelen intends the sentence to be. Something permanent, no doubt. Probably death. He knows that is what he would do. If he were Bhelen, that is. He isn't.

He is chained and ordered to stand up. He makes himself two promises. First: his father will know his innocence. Second, and less important: If he lives, Bhelen is going to die.

He doubts he will have the chance to see either of them through. That is entirely outside of the point.

Faren Brosca

The Angel of Death card, the game is over.

Faren looks at Isabella and smiles as he lays down his hand. Well, technically it isn't. She stares at it, incredulous, as she lays her(his) cards on the table. Those... those are my cards!

Faren smiles even more as she stares at his hand, incredulous. She goes on to say that she doesn't know how he did it, but she is impressed and will teach him her skills. Faren can feel the disbelieving stares of his companions as well. Winning feels good. He decides. Back in Dust Town he rarely ever knew the feeling, mostly because he was Beraht's lackey. Best part? He doesn't need to give his winnings to that cave tic. Yep, winning feels good. Almost as good as the truth of how well his skills have served him since he first went topside as a Grey Warden. Oh, if Rica and the others could see him now!

He comes to an abrupt decision he sees no harm in. I'll tell you how I did it.

She raises an eyebrow. And...?

You made it easy for me. He pauses for effect. We ran out of ale, you were the only one drinking. I had the advantage. That was the first rule of being in the Carta, always be more alert than your opponent. I could see you going a little bleary-eyed-you still are, by the way- and decided to take advantage of that. My cards were terrible, so yours had to be better. First rule of living in Dust Town: if you don't have it, someone else does. The only thing that matters is if you have the stones to take it. Or was that his father's rule? Doesn't really make a difference. He shakes his head and continues. Anyway, when you were distracted wondering if Alistair would give you a tumble, (he won't) I simply took your cards and gave you mine. Simple.

You're quite a talented thief, then. She remarks.

True.

She smiles despite her obvious annoyance at his arrogance. And you knew my cards were better... how?

He leans in and laces his fingers together. If you're going to stack the deck, you should really be less obvious about it.

She raises an eyebrow again. In any event, we should get to it. Think I might avenge my pride at the expense of a few marks on that handsome face. Artfully done scars are very sexy.

He chuckles. I have a rook tattooed on my forehead. You think I care about a few cuts? She looks puzzled. Apparently you've never played a game of chess, or lived in the Orzammar Slums. He explains. He does wonder sometimes where Leske got the board. That, and where he learned the rules.

Alaris Surana

That is your offer? The poor lighting forces Alaris' face into a very dark and foreboding visage, the tattoos upon it only adding to the effect. Not that it is bright at the best of times, but this hardly should be considered comforting.

It is. Replied Caladrius. Even you have to admit that it's better than resorting to barbarism, mmm?

A fury is present behind his eyes as he replies. This is your offer to a man whose people have been oppressed for countless years, and spent his life in the circle, a cage little better than what I've heard Tevinters do to their slaves?

Oh yes, that is my offer. It's all that is economically feasible, I'm afraid.

Caladrius doesn't recognize the tell tale signs that his adversary is nearing the edge of his restraint. Tell me then Caladrius, how you expect me to decide in what order I should abandon the principles of my life. The words are cold, biting, not at all dissimilar to the man who speaks them. A dark man to look at, and very hard to see the good nature behind him.

Oh dear, is it to be violence then?

A savage grin pulls across the elf's face. Against you? Oh yes. I'm going to enjoy this.

Caladrius is not worried. The four are outnumbered, even if the elf and the black-haired woman are mages. This should be easy. The elf leaps over the railing and suddenly explodes into a swarm of insects that flies to the nearest man and quickly reduces him to nothing. Caladrius pales. Maybe not so easy.

It is a short fight. Afterwards the swarm of insects pulls itself back together and reverts to its natural state. I hate it when you do that. Remarks Alistair. Alaris doesn't reply. Leliana begins offering thanks to the Maker, citing some canticle or another. Do shut up. Alaris says bluntly.

She looks taken aback. I thought you said-

We've been through this before, Leliana. I do believe in the Maker, I do not believe in the chantry. An entity that kills in the name of a name is not truly a holy institution.

There is no response, Alaris looks at the dead slaver. He is glad at the mans end. It's fitting. The Maker may wish for forgiveness over retribution, but in this case retribution is the more akin to justice. Were it his choice, he would have done more. Some men merit more than death in penance for their crimes.

Ilmaren Tabris

You are refreshing to be around, you know that?

Ilmaren looked into Morrigan's sharp golden eyes. Oh? How so?

You don't moan insistently, you're somewhat intelligent and I don't want to vomit whenever I look at you. She said airily.

Ilmaren tried hard not to laugh. In other words, I'm not Alistair. He looks over his shoulder to make sure Alistair is still far enough back not to hear.

'Tis true, you're not.

Well, never you worry. That won't change. I was born handsome, I have a lot of common sense and I have more than enough tricks in my bag to turn squalor to paradise. One could not bear living in an Alienage their entire life without at least a few tricks. He thought meditatively.

You've said it before.

Well, then I won't repeat myself a third time. Is his answer. He wonders how the others are doing. Cyrion, Shianni, Soris. He does not envy their position. There is certain to be an uproar in the alienage after what had happened a few short weeks ago, maybe even a revolt. He hopes nothing like that will happen, but conditions had been ripe for one when he left...

He thinks about that. As much as he dislikes the humans that keep the elves caged there, given the choice to go back in time, he wouldn't change a thing. Fully aware that his past made him who he is, he would gladly leave it be. He may have grown up in squalor, but it had not truly been so terrible. Now here he is, something so much more than he ever thought he would be. He owes it to the surrounding depravity that until recently had defined his life. Yet, by the same token, he wishes such a background on no one else. If he ever finds himself back in Denerim, he will prove to the humans that elves are worthy of respect. And then the Alienages might come to an end.

In becoming a warden, he has already taken the first step to that goal.

He turns his head to look further down the road. For now he'll have to be content with dispatching these bandits outside the looming village. Lothering, is it?

Nalia Cousland

She stares at Howe. Howe glares at her. She is standing. He is not. Her eyes are a fiery blue. His are an icy and vaguely surprised brown. Honor is her highest virtue. He doesn't know what that is. She is fair and gentle to her friends. He is ruthless to the men he manipulates. She is living. He is dying. She hates him. He hates her. Mutual hatred is the absolute limit of their commonalities.

There is so much she wants to demand of him- so much she wants to know, but there simply is not time. More than anything, she wants to know why. Why this asp betrayed his friend and killed her family. Why he has done any of the terrible things he has done. But she is denied this chance, as the man seems dumb while he stares up at her. He barely musters the strength to speak his last words.

Maker spit on you. I... deserved... more.

And now he is dead. Nalia's hand turns white on the Keening Blade as she looks at the corpse. She almost restrains herself, but then decides that she simply does not care. She furiously cleaves off his head with a single swift stroke and it rolls across the floor. It falls into a drain and a soft splash is heard some moments later. The wailing ethereal pitch the blade cries when swung echoes around for a long time. When it finally subsides she closes her eyes and a single tear rolls down her cheek. Yes, yes you did.

She could have that man's head again and again until the Maker called all the world into paradise, and he would still deserve more. She had never known hatred, not until that night at Highever. She had always tried to show mercy, until now. Standing there in the silence, aware of the fraying nerves of the other three, it occurs to her that the two never exist simultaneously. She pulls a filthy rag from a small pouch at her waste and cleans the sword without opening her eyes, aware of the faint chill and humming that emanate from it. Perhaps that is for the better. She continues cleaning it long after it glimmers in the dark. It is uncertain on what criteria she deems it suitable to be returned to its scabbard.

As she sheathes the blade her heart rises a bit as she thinks of her family. At least they are avenged, if nothing else. She hopes that Bryce, wherever he may be, does not fault her for hating Howe so virulently for so long. Suddenly finding the dungeon too bleak and oppressive, she turns and abruptly leaves, muttering to herself. The others follow her, having long since learned to drown out the sound of her tallying her steps.