"Because the Maker told me to."

Leliana hesitantly sucked in her breath, watching the group before her with no small amount of trepidation. She'd spent hours in front of her mirror this week practicing, ever since her vision as a matter of fact, though that seemed so long ago now; she had never felt this apprehensive about the mere possibility of rejection.

There were three of them, not counting the mabari hound with them-which, typically, only fools did. One was obviously an apostate; her clothes were wild-almost chasind-and her eyes were a catlike yellow. The staff was, perhaps, the most obvious giveaway. The second was a grey warden, judging by his armour. He was tall and blonde and currently trying to clean off his shield. It was covered with fresh blood, most of it having belonged to the recently driven off soldiers.

The group's third member was the most problematic. Leliana would've preferred speaking of her vision to the man-for his shield marked him a Templar, at least, a former one-or even the mage if he would not listen, but those were not options. Those two obviously deferred to the third, so it was to her that Leliana spoke.

She was a dalish, and that alone would doom her case. The dalish had a healthy, and well earned, distain for humanity, and the chantry in particular. Deaf ears would have been a welcome alternative to those pointed one. The woman's stature was slim, but far more muscular than Leliana had come to associate with elves. Her brown hair was tied back in a tight knot, and by the looks of it, hacked off with a cleaver after that. Her face was covered in the markings of the dalish: tendrils of ink stretched along her forehead, around her eyes, down her nose, and across her cheeks. She wore intricate armour: leather adorned with thick embroidery that was as beautiful as it was indecipherable. She clutched a long, curved blade in one hand and a similar, but smaller dagger in the other. Despite her obviously outlandish appearance, it was her eyes that stuck out the most to Leliana: they were a deep green, brighter by far than the leaves of the forest in summer.

It was to her that Leliana was making her plea.

"The Maker told me to…" echoed around her head as she waited for the inevitable rejection.

"So?"

Leliana blinked. So?

"What your god tells you is his own business."

Leliana tried to reply, but even years as a bard in Orleais could not conjure up words words to fill the subsequent silence. This dalish had not only believed her, but subsequently brushed it off where even the sisters in the Lothering chantry had dismissed her as crazed?

"I hope you have a better reason than that, else you'll be staying right here." The elf smiled, a jovial tone to her voice, though there was a hardness in her eyes. "The dalish don't have a happy history with things done in the name of your maker, if memory serves."

"Can we not simply leave her?" The raven haired woman to the elf's left sighed. "I recall that we had pressing business elsewhere; a blight, was it?"

"Hmm." The man to her right hummed, his shield now nearly presentable. "No…I think I'd remember if it was something that pressing." He straightened up. "Ah well, can't have been important." He gave Leliana an encouraging wink as the mage rolled her eyes.

"You…" Leliana paused. "You are Grey Wardens, aren't you?"

"The finest in Ferelden" The dalish proclaimed with a bow. "Can't you tell?"

"And you're not some troupe of mummers?"

"Hey!" The man exclaimed. "That's a good idea; we should start an acting company after this blight's over. We'll call it…" He hesitated, looking thoughtful. "Hmm…now what's a good name for a band of mummers?"

Leliana gaped, wondering how in Thedas they could be so jovial while covered in gore, especially while there was a blight coming.

The mage sighed again. "Are we going to take her with us or aren't we? My patience wears thin."

"Calm yourself, Morrigan." The elf called back to her companion before turning back to Leliana. "We can refit some of the bandit armour we…er…recovered."

"And where will she sleep?" The mage, Morrigan snapped.

"My tent." The elf shrugged. The man promptly spit out the contents of a mug of ale-one belonging to one of the soldiers-he was drinking, blushing furiously.

A moment later, Leliana felt blood rush to her cheeks even as the same happened to the elf.

"Oh, Creators." She moaned. "I meant that you can have my tent; I prefer to sleep under the stars."

Oh. Leliana thought as the elf began to rub her temples with one hand, still clutching her dagger.

"Mythal'enaste." She muttered.