Chapter 2

"No, Duncan, you're telling this all wrong," Riordan interrupted, wearing a smirk. He rubbed his hands to warm them for the night was growing colder. "The lad doesn't want to hear about an old man," he continued pointedly, slapping his old friend heartily on the back.

"Tell him about Freya, the first woman Warden, the daughter of a chieftain from one of the Ciraine tribes. She was known as Freya the Fierce, with hair the color of her chestnut charger and eyes that were an uncanny grey. She was beautiful and they say she was deadly with her sword. That's what a young man wants to hear about."

"No, that's what you want to hear about," Duncan corrected.

"Tell me," Alistair broke in, eyes wide and voice enthusiastic.

Eyebrow raised, Duncan looked at his fellow Warden and replied with a solemn smile, "Then I suggest you take over, old friend. You obviously know the story better than I do."

Riordan's infectious grin nearly split his face in two and he was not at all put out by Duncan's words. "They say she even tamed a griffon on her first try."

"Oooh, a griffon? Really?" Alistair sat up, eyes bright with interest.

Duncan hid his chuckle in a cough. "Alistair, the griffons are not the point of the story," he chided his young charge.

"I know that, Duncan, but they're griffons," Alistair enthused.

With a broad wink and a cheeky grin, Riordan took up the tale. "She was the last of her clan when she felt a pull in her to travel north. She had no idea why or what was calling to her and she didn't know where she was going, but she saddled her chestnut charger and left her old life behind…"


Freya, daughter of Closivar the Courageous, became the last of her clan in her twenty-fifth year. She watched each member of her clan die, one by one, falling into the darkness; the deep grey that penetrated everything in her world. Yet she had not fallen, had not become as twisted and tainted as the other members of her clan. In all her battles against the dark scourge, she had never become sick and she had an extraordinary strength against the enemy that none of her clan understood. Some remarked, with suspicion and fear, that her resistance to the sickness was a sign that she was as much a creature as the half-men they fought. Some said it was a blessing from the Gods; that it showed the Gods favored the Closivar Clan. She knew it only as a curse.

Her husband Arnot was the last to die, wasting away until he was a grey, mindless creature that begged for death with one breath and threatened to kill her with the next. His eyes had become glazed and feverish, his tongue coated with a thin layer of black ichor. She finally tied him to the bed, fearing that he might attack her but fearing his death even more. She would be alone then and she wasn't sure she was strong enough to bear that burden.

"You know what you must do, Freya. A merciful death is all I ask of you, wife," Arnot whispered weakly in a rare moment of lucidity.

Freya shook her head fiercely, her grey eyes blinking back tears. "I can't do that, husband. Do not ask it of me." Even as she spoke the words, the truth was there for her to see. She sat beside him, refusing to acknowledge it.

"Do it now while I am myself, Freya. Don't be afraid. I'll wait for you in the Fields," he encouraged softly and it was the love in his voice and the plea in his eyes that gave her the courage to take out her dagger.

"In the Fields," she agreed, bending over him and kissing his cold grey lips. She slipped her dagger into the space between his ribs where his heart resided. His last sigh lingered in her ears for hours. She gathered him in her arms and held him long into the night before finally falling asleep on the narrow bed beside him.

Her dream came again that night, as it had each night for weeks. Something underground stirred. Like ripples caused by a carelessly thrown stone in a placid pond, the movement grew and spread until it was a tidal wave, racing hungrily towards the shore, overwhelming everything in its path.

Freya sat up in bed with a sharp cry, her heart pounding like a caged beast demanding freedom. Gasping, trying to regain her control, she knew a horde was on the move and heading in her direction. It was not a thought, it was a certainty. She didn't understand how she knew it; she only knew it was true.

Propelled by fear and fury, she pushed herself off her bed and began yanking on her thick padding. Each piece of armor snapped sharply into place with cold precision. Each lacing, each strap, each buckle was fastened with grim determination. Her finely honed and polished sword slid into its scabbard with a quiet hiss.

She bent and kissed her husband one last time, glanced around their small hut and then stepped out into the pale grey dawn. Pouring oil along the base of the cottage, she sang to herself; the Song of Sorrows. Next she lit the torch and tossed it onto the thatched roof and watched as the flames licked at the dry straw like greedy children reaching for treats.

With quick, sure movements, she saddled Anechka. The chestnut coat was nearly the same color as Freya's hair and had been a gift from a neighboring clan. They were moving on, hoping to outrun the stunted half-men that pressed closer every day. The clan was heading southwest because they had heard rumors that the land there still lived, that the earth still breathed there. It was a wonderful fairytale, Freya thought. But surely the whole of the lands were tainted by now. War had been raging since the time of her grandfather's childhood. She could not imagine any land not already dead or dying.

Resolutely, Freya urged Anechka north, across the parched, grey fields. Grey, in any direction she looked. Be it the sky above or the ground beneath Anechka's hooves, all was painted some shade of grey. The sun was more grey than yellow, a watery reflection behind the ever constant steely grey clouds. The world, her mother had said, was a pale ghost of what it should be, what it once was. All of it was the fault of the creatures that now visited Freya every night in her dreams.

The only bright colors in her world were Anechka's coat and her own hair, flowing behind her as she rode. She kept her mind focused on what lay beyond her lands, her eyes scanning constantly for the twisted creatures that fought with such mindless hate. The first day she came across a small group of them.

Half clad, swinging brutal, bearded axes, they seemed to appear out of the very ground in front of her. She slid off Anechka and slapped at the horses rump. "Get you away," she hissed and her horse galloped off. With a soft 'snick' she unsheathed her sword and then pulled her dagger out of its scabbard. She had been fighting the scourge since her twelfth summer. She was not afraid of them. They were many but they were not trained, not honed on a battlefield. They seemed content to throw themselves at a sword.

"Come then, you soulless sons of whores! Let us see which of us is the better warrior!" she called out.

Their low, guttural cries came from all directions as they circled her and she crouched low, balancing her weight evenly on the balls of her feet. She struck at the nearest one, the tip of her sword catching him between his shoulder and his breast. With a flick of her wrist, she sent the point in and then danced away, her dagger up and slicing through the rotted, befouled flesh of the next creature. She felt the sharp pierce of an arrow and realized her mistake almost too late. An archer, standing apart from the others, was taking aim. She threw her dagger and it bit into the flesh just above his right cheek.

A few more swings of her sword, a few dips and twists, a parry and the fight was over. She was lucky that there were so few in the group and she assumed it was a scouting party. With a grunt of pain, she pulled the arrow out. Whistling for Anechka, she reached into her saddlebag and pulled out a poultice, slapping it into place on her shoulder before she mounted and pushed on, still wearing the blood of her foes on her armor. She would clean up when she stopped for the night, it was foolish to wait for the others in the scouting party to return and find her unarmored.

The first night on the road Freya found sleep impossible. Normal night sounds, even the creak of her saddle where she rested her head, seemed too loud and too foreign. Anechka nickered and fussed, stomping at the ground, nervous and anxious. Every time Freya closed her eyes it was to see her village burning as she rode away. The sound of Arnot's voice pleading to end his life filled her ears and choked her throat. Finally, she gave up any pretense of resting and stood up. Once she'd tamped out the fire, she moved to saddle Anechka and then set off across the open plains. The cold seemed to pursue her, the baying of wolves harsh and haunting in the darkness as she pushed forward, ever forward. There would be no going back. There was nothing to go back to.

Each day she traveled she saw less of the half-men but knew they were lurking in the shadows. The land she passed through was still grey and parched; dying slowly, tortured and twisted by the tainted plague of the creatures as they marched inexorably onward. What did they want? Why did they exist? Where had they come from? Questions she had sought answers to her entire life, as had her father and his father before him. Some said it was the wrath of the Gods brought down upon the clans for their wickedness but Freya could not conceive of the Gods, of any Gods, who would punish even the innocents of the world. If not the Gods, then who? She spent her days wrapped in such thoughts, avoiding the memories of those she had left behind.

As she traveled, Freya's blood beat relentlessly in her veins, pulling her ever northward in search of answers and a new purpose in her life. She encountered no other travelers as she stayed off the main roads, riding instead across the dismal prairie. Lifeless, half grown stalks of corn and wheat bowed and broken, the color leached from them, fell under the pounding hooves of her horse. Beyond the prairie, her mind kept insisting, beyond the prairie was hope. Each night as she set up camp, she recited the Song of Sorrows and each night she fell onto her bedroll exhausted and unable to sleep for more than a few hours. The days felt like weeks.

By the fifth day of her trek she began to feel a distinct hum inside her head and along her veins, different from the constant prickling and tingling. It was gentle, almost melodic. She hunched over the fire shivering as the wind whipped up and the stars winked at her in the cold night sky. Closing her eyes, she concentrated on the sensation she was experiencing. Below the night noises, seemingly from within her blood, came a soft song. It soothed her, brought a calmness that settled like a warm cloak around her. She could not explain it; she only knew it existed somehow. For the first time since she'd left home, she slept deeply, without dreams of twisted half-men and a world gone grey.

Late on the eighth day Freya discovered a miracle. For the first time in more years than she could remember, she wept. The sky above her was a deep dark blue and home to puffy white clouds. A brightly colored bird winged across her vision and she wiped at her eyes so that she could see its cheery yellow breast more clearly. Colors she had only seen in the clan's sacred paintings graced the landscape before her, above her, around her. The sun was brilliant and warm, the wind sweetly scented as it ruffled her hair. So much color, so much beauty. Her sobs shook her shoulders.

"Ho there! Who travels on my land?" a stout, dark-haired man asked, appearing from behind a tall tree whose leaves were the color of emeralds. Freya had seen paintings of such places, but she had never thought to actually see them for herself. She wiped at her tears and took a deep, steadying breath.

"I am Freya of Clan Closivar. Well met, stranger," she replied tearfully, embarrassed to have been caught crying in a stranger's fields.

"You're a long way from home, young Freya," the man said kindly, moving closer. She saw that he was smiling and she returned the smile with one of her own.

"That I am. Might I know with whom I speak?"

"I am Gunnar and I bid you welcome. How is it you come to be here?"

She looked into friendly blue eyes and any apprehension she harbored melted away. "I am not sure. I have been fighting the scourge in the south and I felt I had to come here. It is a curious thing, Gunnar."

"You've been fighting the scourge and aren't sick? That's even more curious, Mistress Freya."

He led her to a low, squat building of weathered grey timber and bade her enter. "Neva, come and meet our guest."

Whatever she had been searching for, Freya knew this was not it but she was content to be in the company of others, to be in a land that held more than grey death. She smiled as she greeted the farmer's wife. Neva, plump and homely, had a warmth about her that put Freya at ease.

Within a short time, they had given her a room and water to bathe with, unsaddled and fed Anechka and made her feel as if she had been a part of their family her whole life rather than just an hour.

They talked into the night, sharing their histories and stories. Freya didn't mention that she was the last of her clan or that her husband had died not ten days prior. She wasn't ready to part with that piece of her heart yet. They talked about the men who were trying to protect the farmlands and she was amazed to discover how much land was still unscathed by the horde of half-man creatures with their ruined faces and dagger sharp teeth.

Another meal was prepared as they talked and the three gathered at the long plank table to enjoy the fresh bread and a stew made with plump bits of beef and chunks of potatoes swimming in rich dark gravy.

"Is there an army of men fighting them here, then?" she asked, thinking that might be the reason her blood had brought her north.

"No, but I have heard tales of a man who fights the beasties as you do and does not sicken. I thought they were just tall tales, told to ease our fears but now that I know such a thing is possible, I think the stories must be true. It makes a body wonder, doesn't it?"

Freya's heart tapped loudly in her chest and she dropped her bread from suddenly lifeless fingers. "Another? Who is this man?"

"Some say he is the King's own guard, some say a warrior sent by the Gods themselves. His name is Brun the Wolf," Gunnar answered.

"Where might I find this Brun?" she asked quietly.

In the first gleaming golden rays of morning, Freya saddled Anechka and went in search of Brun the Wolf, hoping that he had the answers she sought.


Brun had traveled into town to gather feed for his horses and tobacco for himself and was strapping the bags of goods to his horse when he found himself accosted by eager, greedy farm rats. These lads of not more than ten were orphans, having survived massacres from the southern farmsteads. They had scrabbled their way north blood stained and dirty, with rags on their hands and feet. Most of the time they were shunned, not only for their habits of pranking and stealing, but because they were believed to carry the blood sickness that the half-men did. Unfortunately for them, the blood sickness had not taken them, and they were forced to live off charity, poaching, and theft. Brun was kind to these children with no father, and he would often buy them some meager offering of food. As a father, it pained Brun to think of children going hungry when he could otherwise prevent it.

But today, the farm rats weren't after a bag of oats. They had come to tell him some gossip they'd overhead from their prowling of the roads.

"Someone's lookin' for ye!" chirped the smallest of the rats. "She was pretty."

"Looking for me?" Brun frowned a deep scowl that emphasized the thick lines in his forehead. "Do you know why?"

"Couldn't say!"

"No," another of the rats smacked the young one's head, "she wouldn't say. Mighty quiet that one is. Only knew what she was after because she said your name."

"There are many men named Brun here," Brun replied, placing his hands on his hips.

"Are they all called 'the Wolf' then?" asked the first boy with a filthy grin. "You owes us, you do, for this."

"Thank you for the warning. And I do owe you, though that will depend on your description of this woman. And a name."

"Brownish hair, a bit red. Big grey eyes, and," one of the boys held his hand to his chest and waggled his eyebrows. "Yeah."

Brun paled at the image that was painted. "I see. And the name?"

"Didn't catch it." The eldest of the farm rats was a tall, straw-haired boy with keen eyes and quick fingers. "But she wasn't dressed like she was from around here. Pa used to do dealings with some of the tribes in the south, and she looked a lot like one of them."

"Then her name is probably unpronounceable," Brun replied grimly. "Hopefully, she seeks me for only good reasons." He chuckled when the farm rats clawed at his clothes. "Your payment, eh?" Brun lowered the bag of oats he had below one arm and gave it to the eldest child. "Eat it well, my little friends." .

The children crowed out their thanks and fled to the shade of the trees that lined the road outside town, and Brun watched them until they darted out of sight behind the trunks. When he could no longer see them, he returned to his business of saddling his horse with the grain and tobacco he had purchased. Mounting the charger was easy enough, but getting home was a different matter.

A half mile from his home, Brun felt a familiar buzzing in his ears. His stomach lurched and his grip tightened on the reins of the horse as he spurred it forward down the road. Something inside him was pulling him forward, as if a fisherman had hooked a line under his ribs and was reeling him down the road to a point unknown. All Brun could do was ride faster, faster, faster over gravel and sand, galloping by the cross roads that would lead him home. South he rode, and then west, drawn inexorably to the hornet's song of trouble that lay under grey clouds.

He saw the battle before he heard it, the road long, flat, and clear even under the gloomy sky. The half-men with their burnt faces and clawed hands had surrounded a traveler on the road, who fought with all the viciousness of the tribespeople he had heard so often about. The tribesman swayed and whirled, deflecting blows with his blades and stabbing out to slice at pale, matted flesh. Brun did not see much else about the fighter of the half-men, as the world around him became a blur of color as the charger surged forward and Brun unsheathed the sword he kept at his hip.

The charger barreled into the flanks of the half-men, screaming as it reared and kicked out with its hooves. It flattened the beasts under its mighty legs, crushing their heads as though they were boiled apples beneath its weight. Brun gave a terrible roar and stabbed his sword downward into the neck of one of the creatures, and a stream of black blood burst like a fountain from the wound. Brun turned his horse from the spray, charging around the tribesman who was picking off the half-men who had not scattered from the fearless horse. Circling around, he rode headlong into a group of five who thought to attack in stealth and secret, using the deaths of their brothers as an aversion. The charger kicked and reared again, crushing the limbs of one creature, and shattering the head of another.

Brun grunted as he parried one of their crude, misshapen short swords away. Images flashed in his mind - no, not even images, just intent, a deep, dark intent. He felt as though he could see himself on his horse, looking out through the eyes of one of the creatures. He was raising a wicked, two-headed battleaxe over his head, waiting for the moment to bring it down... Brun thrust out the hand that was not holding his sword and felt his fingers touch around something oily, but also organic and wooden. He made a fist and pulled hard, his horse veering to the left towards the tribesman as he wrenched the battleaxe from the half-man's hand.

There were now four of the beasts left, and Brun watched that number fall to three as the tribesman - no, tribeswoman - viciously severed the head of one of the creatures. She kicked out with a long leg and caught the creature in the chest, and then brought her sword and dagger to either side of its neck and sheared skin and muscle from bone. Blood flew into the air, splattering on the ground in patterns that not even the oldest of crones could read. The tribeswoman turned to assist him, a flash of fair skin and chestnut hair and a blur of blood-splattered padding as she darted to the last of the half-men on the tips of her toes. Brun was riding beside her as she ran dancing along the dirt. When she raised her swords he did also, and all three of them - the horse, the rider, and the tribeswoman - took down a foe. Hooves and blades fought as one, and around them lay a score of twitching bodies.

Brun dismounted his horse and sheathed his sword as the charger stamped its feet impatiently as Brun inspected it for cuts. His horse's chest was splattered in blood that was not its own, as were the sides of its neck. It was not until Brun reached the horse's flank that he felt fear rise in his gut, for he saw a nasty scratch on its left that had him cold with dread. Though the area was otherwise clean, the blades of the half-man were as corrupt as their nails and their teeth, and even a scratch from a blade could kill. Brun quickly drew out his clean hunting knife and widened the cut on the horse, dragging his knife as deep as he dared into the horse's hide. The charger screamed and brayed furiously, but it did not dare rear or buck out at its master. Brun cut until the wound ran red, the blood there bright and fresh. He squeezed at the wound, keeping it open for as long as he could, letting the flow of hot, living blood push out any corruption that lay under the skin or in the blood itself. To let the wound fester and stagnate would be an immediate sentence of death, but this way, at least Brun could say that he had tried. He had seen a friend - now dead to the beasts - save one of his war dogs in such a fashion, and Brun hoped that it saved his charger too. Brun sighed and wiped the knife on his pant leg before he returned it to his boot. With his horse seen to, Brun then turned to the woman who had fought beside him.

"Are you hurt?" he asked her in a gruff voice, his bright blue eyes skimming over her padded form.

"No," the tribeswoman shook her head, "I'm...I'm fine." She eyed Brun with some suspicion, but also appreciation. "Thank you for your help against the half-men."

Brun nodded his head. "It is my duty, think nothing of it." He looked over her features, then down over her arms and legs. "You sure you are not hurt?" He saw the blood splatters on her lips. "You did not swallow?" He gestured to his mouth.

"No," the tribeswoman repeated. "And even if I did, it...wouldn't matter."

Brun grunted. He assumed the woman was referring to the inevitability of death. "Ah." He turned and mounted his horse.

"Wait!" The tribeswoman put a hand on his leg, "aren't you hurt?"

"No," Brun replied, and then added afterwards with a half smile, "and if I was, it would not matter."

The tribeswoman narrowed her eyes, her grey stare curious. She saw his scabbard, and the intricate designs of inlaid gold along the leather exterior. Wolves of flame reared and snarled as they clawed at something unseen. "Who are you, traveler?"

"I am Brun," Brun said, placing a dirty, long-fingered hand to his chest. "A farmer of this land."

"I am Freya of Clan Closivar. I seek a man called Brun."

"You?" Brun blinked, just now truly noticing the color of her hair and eyes, and the leathers that she wore. "You are the one the children spoke of?"

Freya snorted. "Those were not children. Perhaps they are children in face, but in their hearts they are men."

"Did they steal from you?"

"They tried to." She smirked.

Brun said nothing.

"Is it true what they say?" Freya asked, rubbing the hilts of her weapons absently. "That you fight the half-men?"

"It is true." Brun nodded.

"And is it true that you have fought them for many years?"

"Since I was a boy of fourteen winters."

"And you do not sicken?"

Brun shook his head. "No, I do not sicken."

Freya smiled at him, and the wind ruffled chestnut curls across her forehead. "I also do not sicken."

"How long have you fought them?" Brun asked, surprised by her confession.

"Since my twelfth summer."

"In battle?"

"Where else?" Freya asked in amusement. She raised an eyebrow at his expression of wonder, and the way in which his brow knitted together in confusion. "I can feel you. You can feel me as well, can't you? We're the same."

"But how?" Brun stared down at his hands, which grasped his charger's reins. "We share no blood and no kinship."

"Why should it matter?" Freya tossed her head back. "We fight the half-men, and we do not sicken. We're the same."

Both Freya and Brun turned their heads at the sound of hooves on the road, and Freya broke out into a smile at the sight of Anechka's chestnut form riding towards her. Freya outstretched her hand, and the horse came to a stop with its forehead pressed to her palm. Stroking its neck gently and whispering soft words, Freya mounted her steed and brought it around so that she sat next to Brun.

"Where you ride, Brun," Freya said quietly, "I'll follow. If you go to fight the half-men, I am coming with you."

"I'm riding home," Brun replied brusquely. "But you are welcome to come with me. Though," he sighed, "if my wife seems aggrieved to have you, do not hold it against her."

"She has nothing to fear from me." Freya's eyes flicked to the distant south, to the lands where she had come from, and to the husband she had buried.

"Then," Brun nudged his horse forward, "follow me."


"That's how they met? By accident? That's not very heroic," Alistair complained. He shrugged his shoulders and looked first at Duncan and then at Riordan for confirmation. Duncan tossed a log on the fire and watched the shower of sparks whirl away into the darkness.

"You don't think that meeting in the middle of nowhere and fighting a score of darkspawn is heroic?" Riordan asked, blue eyes dancing with mirth. "You expected them to meet while riding on the backs of griffons, lad?"

Alistair's blush told both men that Riordan had guessed correctly.

Duncan gave a small chuckle and tended to the fire that had grown low as Riordan had told the tale. "There will be griffons soon."

"How soon?" Alistair grinned.

"How do you think they got to Weisshaupt, Alistair?" asked Riordan with a wink. He folded his hands over his knees and stared at Alistair with barely suppressed humor.

Alistair waved at them in a dismissive gesture, hiding his desire for the Grey Warden beasts of legend. "Don't tell me: they flew on the backs of griffons?"

"Don't be daft, lad!" Riordan smirked, "they rode to Weisshaupt on their horses."

"Well," Alistair drew out the word, "that's no fun, no fun at all."

"It certainly wasn't," agreed Duncan. He shot a quick glance at Riordan, who nodded his approval, before beginning the story once more. "The road to Weisshaupt was fraught with perils: from darkspawn to brigands and bandits."

"But I don't understand," Alistair said quickly, "why Weisshaupt? What made Weisshaupt so special that Brun and Freya would just decide to go there?"

"They had heard a rumor of a fortress within the mountains that refugees fleeing the darkspawn flocked to. They thought that at such a place they might find others like themselves, survivors who had nowhere else to go, who would help them fight against the half-men. The fortress was Weisshaupt, and it had been abandoned by the Tevinter Imperium for many years," Duncan explained, "it had fallen into disrepair, but its walls were high and strong. Many refugees fleeing the darkspawn gravitated to the former Imperium fortress, since they were unwelcome in many of the northern cities, as the people within them feared that they carried the Blight. Weisshaupt was a safe haven, a place where those fleeing the Darkspawn could come together behind stone walls and Imperium magic."

"Was there really Imperium magic?" Alistair raised his eyebrows in surprise.

Duncan shrugged, his coat creaking in the darkness as the fire crackled merrily. "There might have been. Weisshaupt was never besieged by Darkspawn prior to its occupation by Grey Wardens."

"What was it like?"

"It was not so different than how Weisshaupt Fortress is today." Duncan looked thoughtfully at Alistair. "There were many people there, from all across the north of Thedas. It was cold, and the snow fell heavily in the mountains, but it never stuck due to old enchantments. I imagine that there was a lot of noise, both from the refugees and the animals they brought with them."

"And," Riordan added with a wide smile, "from the cries of griffons."


And so our two intrepid heroes meet for the first time! Their adventures continue in Chapter 3 - Weisshaupt! Stay tuned, dear readers (and we're looking at you, Cloud and Josie)!

Much adoration goes out to Sinvraal and Enaid Aderyn for their tremendous skills in helping shape the Grey Tales. Enaid kept our story straight, and Sinvraal beautifully depicted it. Sinvraal's artwork, by the way, can be found in our profile.