In which our heroes escape with their lives, and little else.

Bel Cousland

The two cloaked figures made their way slowly through the rain, their horses understandably exhausted after a full day and night of riding. Only the mabari hound trotting alongside them seemed unaffected by the rain and general misery of their circumstances. They carried no provisions, no packs, nothing but the clothes on their backs and what spare weapons they had used to fight their way out of a castle under siege.

Bel should have been hungry, cold, and exhausted. The arrow wound in her side had reopened under the makeshift bandage, and rainwater was soaking through her clothes. But she didn't notice. She felt nothing, heard nothing, and paid mind to nothing but the throbbing pain in her heart.

Her family was gone.

Her mind raced with what-ifs. What if she hadn't agreed to meet Ser Gilmore in the stables that night? What if she'd been in the castle when Howe's men attacked? Could she have saved her mother, her father, or Oren and Oriana? Could they have taken the castle back?

Maybe they were still alive! Maybe she and Ser Gilmore should turn around right at that moment and ride back, hard, to rescue them? Then she sighed. With what army? No, even if the fleeing servants were wrong, even if her family still lived, she had no way of helping them. She wore only her nightgown and a long leather coat she had stripped from the Howe soldier she had throttled with her own hands, and carried only the dagger she had taken from him. She had to find Fergus, and that meant riding south, to Ostagar.

Ayla Tabris

"Remember, if anyone asks, your name is Nessa and you're our daughter."

Ayla folded her arms and stared off at the side of the road. "I don't even really look like either of you." She immediately regretted her tone. She ought to have been grateful to these people. They were taking an enormous risk, sneaking her out of Denerim, leaving their own daughter in the Alienage with Cyrion.

But the kindly woman refused to be offended, and smiled wryly. "Oh Maker, when have humans been able to tell one elf from another?"

Ayla felt her face involuntarily rearrange itself into a smile, and was surprised at how good it felt.

"There now," her new mother said approvingly. "Try to get some rest. Teyrn Loghain's regiment is moving out in the morning, and with any luck, we'll be right behind it, and you'll be safely out of Denerim, on your way to a new life."

A new life. An odd thought. She hadn't particularly liked her old one, bound as it was on all sides by high walls, barred gates, and the whims of humans who were at best dismissive and at worst….

Ayla closed her eyes to see if they were still there. They were, those humans, those men, with their hands on her and her friends, standing over Shianni….

She jolted awake with a small cry, not realizing she'd fallen asleep. Immediately anger flooded her face with blood, and her hands balled into fists. She could not let them continue to hurt her, even from beyond the grave. She would win. She had won. She was alive and they were dead.

And there was something to be said for that.

Jonas Amell

"There wasn't supposed to be any resistance!"

Jonas could barely hear his fellow Grey Warden over the crackling hiss of the lightning streaming from his staff. The two hurlocks before him staggered backwards and fell dead. Satisfied, he turned around only to face three more coming toward him. He could feel his mana running low, and struggled to muster the will to let out another spell. But the hurlocks were upon him, and he began to panic. Backed up as he was against the base of the Tower of Ishal, there was nowhere to run, and Alistair was pinned down with his own problems at the opposite end of the yard.

He managed to freeze the first hurlock, but that left two more and he was quite sure he had tapped the bottom of his mana reserves. As one of the monsters raised an axe high in the air above the mage's head, he began a silent prayer to the Maker.

And then, suddenly, the axe was gone, as was the hand holding it,…and the head. Both heads, actually. The hurlocks were dead, their decapitated bodies oozing black ichor over the snow. Jonas looked around expecting to see Alistair. Instead, he met the image of a female elf, wearing little more than rags, carrying a giant, two-handed sword that had to be taller than she was.

A dozen questions ran through his mind. Where did you get that sword? How can you even lift it? Where in Thedas did you come from?

Instead, all he managed was a lame, "Thanks."

She snorted derisively.

Alistair came running up behind her. "Thank you!" he cried, "thank you so…."

The former templar trailed off as the elven woman whirled around to face him. Jonas look quizzically at his companion. Is he blushing?

"I…" Alistair sputtered again, "uh…that was…very impressive!"

He IS blushing, Jonas realized, amused. But there wasn't time for flirting.

"Can you help us clear out the tower?" he asked urgently.

She looked about to say no, but her eyes flitted over to the battlefield where the sounds of King Cailan's men taking the brunt of the attack melded into a low rumbling roar, and she nodded her assent.

The three of them charged headlong into the darkspawn-infested tower.