8442 Melana'arlathan - 9:45 Dragon, 2nd day of Harvestmere

I have decided, in the tradition of the Vir Dirthara, to record this world before it passes. There is no one else I can entrust with the task. I have no desire to entrust it. I will honour this time and its young civilisations as best I can. There is nothing more I can do, except remember.

Today, on the road north, I saw a human boy fall off a wagon. The driver of the cart was whipping the horses beyond their limits. The brute cursed and spat on the beasts while they shrieked, flanks foaming and striped with blood. The boy was thrown from the cart when the horses reared. He cut his knee on a stone, but stood and entreated the driver to stop. He put out his arm and saved the horses from a blow, crying "Don't hurt them, papa!" The man switched to whipping the boy instead.

He found the cord winding itself around his throat, tightening like a hungry snake. His eyes bulged as he choked, dying in terror. But the boy climbed up and tried to save the man, tears wetting down his filthy cheeks as he pulled uselessly on the cord with all his strength. I let the whip fall.

I think that's what she would have done.


"What's this, then?" the lout slurred. He straightened from where he'd bent over to piss down the stable wall. His mates, slouched against the outside of the tavern, giggled in gurgly unison. "I do believe it's a rabbit riding a horse, lads!" he cried, spreading his arms to his audience as if to receive their praise for his insight. There were peals of laughter in response, frothy ales sloshing over their rims.

She headed her grey paint into the stable with a gentle tap on the ribs. Dismounting, she threw the reins over the saddle and let the horse nose into a water trough.

"Where'd you steal that fine mare then, rabbit?" The drunk sauntered over, gait wobbly and arms still held wide.

She remained silent. She stepped easily around the lead drunk, but found her path up the tavern steps blocked by his cronies.

"No, no, we don't let your kind in here." The man came up behind her, standing too close and leaning to growl in her ear. Fetid, beer-soaked fumes rolled off him in waves. "Now, why don't you be a good little wench and tell me where you stole that horse?" he breathed.

She turned her face away, swallowing a retch and weighing her options. The last thing she wanted was stories spreading of a free elf starting a fight outside a human tavern, not less than a week out from Minrathous. That would be an excellent way to find herself gaining unwanted attention from the slaver gangs operating up and down the Imperial Highway. Perhaps it was best to bear out unpleasant shemlens until she was through the gates, she decided.

"Could you tell me where I can find somewhere that does serve elves, ser?"

That seemed to be the wrong thing to say. A hand gripped her shoulder with punishing strength, turning her abruptly and putting her inches away from a glowing red nose and blackened teeth.

"Uppity little knife-ear, ain't she? Answer me question!" The demand was drawn out as his tone rose in pitch and indignation. Flecks of froth landed on her chin, and she drew the back of her glove over her face to mop it up.

His eyes narrowed to a squint. "Don't you look down on me, filth. All us lot shed our blood fer you in the Blight. If it weren't fer us -"

"Are you Grey Wardens?" she interrupted with a note of genuine surprise.

He huffed, and spat on the ground near her feet. "Don't you dare compare good, honest Fereldans with them."

"We're soldiers of the greatest general who ever drew breath," one of the cronies answered. "Loghain Mac Tir. Rightful king of Ferelden." They all nodded firmly.

"Curse the bastard Theirin an' all his blood," her interrogator added, the words pronounced in a single slurred string. "So don't you go thinking you're all high and mighty on your fine horse." He pushed her in what she guessed was supposed to be an intimidating display but the ale ensured was little more than a nudge. He stumbled backwards.

Keeping her eyes aside so as not to stare, she looked him up and down. Patched, ragged clothes. Spots on the skin from years spent deep in a bottle. Army boots worn threadbare. All in all, a sad collection of signs that the best of his life was well behind him.

"I've heard of General Loghain," she tried tentatively. "Hero of the River Dane. He was the one who drove the Orlesians out of Denerim."

The leader of the pack puffed himself up a little. "Aye, that's him. Finest commander a man could ask fer."

She reached for her coin pouch. "Well, I've not much to spare, but..." She fished out three coins. "My mother's Fereldan. Have a round in honour of the General."

The cronies were convinced. They began crowing and cheering in drunken sways. It seems she still had the knack of knowing the right lies to tell.

But the leader was a little more wary. "Where's a knifey wench get a coin pouch from then, eh?" Despite the protest, he plucked the coins up with sweaty fingers.

"Stole it from my master when I took off with his horse." She smiled.

He grumbled, and allowed himself to be steered back into the orange glow of the tavern with his friends' arm over his shoulder. On the crest of the steps, he turned back. "Down past the signpost, on the right," he mumbled, barely intelligible. The heavy door of the pub slammed, and she was back in the dark.

She mounted her mare once more, patting her withers. Hammered iron and filigree shaped into fingers glinted where a left hand should be, and for a brief second it glowed with runes.

"Just a bit longer," she told her horse.