Author's Note: My thanks to those of you who are sticking with me through the reboot, as well as those of you who have read/reviewed/faved/followed for the first time.

See Chapter 1 for the disclaimer


"So…"

Leliana turned her head, giving the young man a faint smile as he drew up alongside her. Talia had ranged ahead with that monstrous dog of hers, and the exotic beauty with the arrogant bearing – Morrigan was her name – had taken up a spot in the middle of the line, radiating a 'stay away' aura that no one attempted to defy.

"Yes?" She'd suspected that he would be the one who would speak to her first. "Alistair, isn't it?"

"It is," he confirmed with a nod, his eyes openly appraising. "So, what's a girl like you doing in the Chantry?"

She laughed softly. She'd been expecting that, too. "That depends upon what you mean by a girl like me," she replied, letting just a touch of the coquette color her voice. He wasn't the first to ask, but this was the first time she would have to maintain the cover that she established for an extended period.

He flushed a bit, looking shy, but didn't become incoherent. She'd read him correctly; reassuring to know that her skills hadn't atrophied completely. "Well, I was raised in the Chantry, and I don't remember any of the Sisters there fighting like you."

Or looking like you, his admiring gaze added before he glanced away bashfully.

"Well, I wasn't raised in the Chantry," she told him, a bit charmed with his boyishness in spite of herself. "I've taken no vows, in fact. I'm just a lay-sister: one who sought out the sanctuary of the Chantry to spend time in contemplation and prayer."

"And what, exactly, were you seeking sanctuary from?" he asked. "You're Orlesian, aren't you?"

"My mother was Fereldan," she countered smoothly. She hadn't missed the hint of something a bit stronger than curiosity beneath his bantering tone. Not that she could blame him. She hadn't been lying about the reward being offered by Teyrn Loghain, and to run into someone offering to accompany them into the gathering storm would surely seem to be more than coincidence. "She was the servant to an Orlesian noblewoman. I was born in Orlais, and spent most of my life there." So far, so good. She hadn't had to lie yet, and if she was careful, she could slide past on evasion and omissions. A subtle distinction, perhaps, but one that she had to live with. As much as she yearned to simply tell the truth, she was afraid that this wary bunch would send her away if they knew of her past, and the imperative of her vision was strong, pushing her forward. Perhaps in a few days, once she had proven her worth…

"As a minstrel?" He glanced at the lute case strapped to her pack.

"Why, yes." She turned the smile up a notch, congratulating him on his keen powers of observation, and watched with a mix of satisfaction and guilt as his chest puffed out a bit. Let people create their own story from their assumptions, and they were much less likely to question it. That it was also at least partly true didn't hurt, either...but she was still deceiving him. All of them. "I traveled from town to town, keep to keep, trading songs and tales for applause and coin. I was on the road much of the time."

"Which explains where you learned to fight," he concluded sagely, following the trail that she had laid out for him. No, he would not be hard to work around, but the mage definitely did not seem to be one that she would be able to charm so easily, and Talia –

"So…get tied up often?" She gave him a sideways glance, but the droll expression on his face suggested that he was simply ribbing her for her little gaffe in Dane's Refuge, rather than trying any real lechery.

"Not really," she admitted, still feeling a little foolish. "It was a silly thing to say; I'm not sure why I did it." The first real lie. She'd made the comment quite deliberately. Negotiations hadn't been going well, and she'd needed some way to nudge Talia off balance. If the girl had responded to the innuendo with interest, Leliana would have proceeded one way; if she had been outraged or offended, a different tactic would have been called for. She hadn't counted on her meaning sailing right over the girl's head, and she had wound up being the one off balance.

She lifted her eyes to the trail ahead, seeing the glint of sun off Talia's helmet, a flash of tawny hide as the mabari ranged to either side of her. "She really didn't know what I was talking about?"

Alistair shrugged. "Certainly looked that way, didn't it?" He followed her gaze, shaking his head slowly. "She's the daughter of Teyrn Cousland of Highever. I guess she's had a sheltered upbringing…at least until recently."

Leliana nodded. The word of what had happened at Ostagar had spread quickly, though the truth of the matter lay beneath layers of tales that varied almost as greatly as the number of mouths telling them. "Odd that such protective parents would permit her to join the Grey Wardens," she mused, "or was the right of conscription claimed?"

"They…really didn't have a lot of say in it." He looked suddenly uncomfortable. "Arl Howe betrayed her father. His forces attacked Highever when the Cousland militia left for Ostagar. Her family was killed; Duncan – the Warden Commander - brought her out."

"Her whole family?" She stared at him in horror; that tale hadn't yet made it to Lothering.

"Her older brother led the forces at Ostagar," he replied somberly. "They were on patrol in the Wilds when the battle was entered. It's possible that they survived…but not likely."

"That's awful," she murmured, glancing back up the trail. "The poor girl."

"Yes, well, you don't necessarily need to tell her that I told you." He sighed, looking uncomfortable. "It probably wasn't my place, but it's something you need to know. I wouldn't bring it up to her, not unless she mentions it first."

Something in his voice caught her attention. "Why?" It made sense in terms of avoiding causing needless pain, but there was plainly more to it than that.

His hazel eyes held hers. "Her mother was a battlemaiden, fought during the war with Orlais alongside her father, and she's been swinging a sword since she was old enough to hold one, though I don't think she'd ever been in a real battle until Howe attacked Highever. She's a good fighter. Scary good. Duncan didn't recruit her out of pity."

He went on, stepping around a hummock of grass. "Sometimes, though, she's just…scary. Crazy. And if she starts thinking about her family, it's worse. It's like she doesn't care if she lives or dies. She won't stop fighting until everything is dead or she's down. If not for Morrigan and her herb craft, I don't know that she'd have made it out of the Wilds alive. I think that the thought of killing Howe is the only thing keeping her going."

Leliana nodded. Talia had been cold, angry when she had promised vengeance upon Teyrn Loghain, but her face had been a play of ragged emotion when she had spoken of Howe, her voice balanced on a knife edge of control. "And she leads us?" she asked, feeling a ripple of disquiet in her chest. Pity and compassion were all well and good, but she had followed blindly before and paid the price; she would not do so again.

Alistair nodded, looking a trifle shamefaced. "She's actually pretty good at it when she's not…you know." He shrugged awkwardly. "Whoever taught her sword work schooled her in tactics, as well. She's better at it than I would be, anyway. I'm no leader," he admitted with surprising candor. "Never really wanted to be one."

"Another reason why a sheep would be such an ideal choice of companion," Morrigan called over her shoulder without turning around. Leliana jumped; the witch didn't look close enough to have overheard their conversation.

"Speaking of scary," Alistair muttered balefully, glowering at the pale skin of Morrigan's back, then sticking his tongue out at her.

Leliana giggled. "And how did she come to join this merry group?" The bard in her was already working over the dramatic potential of the situation: a pretty young noblewoman out to avenge the murders of her family, a handsome knight and a beautiful sorceress, all venturing forth together against the Blight. It was the stuff that epic ballads were made of. Of course, certain details were going to have to be left out…like the fair maiden being a berserker, the knight being perfectly willing to follow instead of lead, and the sorceress showing every indication of being a raging bitch. And the dismembered hand was definitely not going to be mentioned. Then, of course, there was their newest companion…

"Wasn't my idea," Alistair assured her with a sour expression. "She's the daughter of Flemeth." This last was delivered in a suitably dramatic tone.

"The Witch of the Wilds?" Leliana regarded him skeptically, unsure if he was teasing her again. "I thought that I was the one to be telling tales? Next thing I know, you'll be singing."

"You'd better hope not," he replied amiably. "I was given permanent exemption from the choir when I was at the Chantry for a good reason. Anyway, I don't know if she's the Flemeth of legend, but she plucked Talia and I out of the middle of the darkspawn army at Ostagar - the dog, too. You don't do that with parlor tricks. She saved our lives, so we couldn't really say no when she wanted Morrigan to come with us."

"Interesting." Leliana cast a speculative glance toward Morrigan, then past her to where Talia was beckoning them forward with an upraised arm.

"Quietly," Alistair warned her - needlessly - as he stepped past her, his easygoing expression hardening into the face of the Warden who had killed Loghain's soldiers in the tavern.

Talia had dropped into a crouch a few feet away from the edge of a bluff, the dog stretched out by her side. Rough voices could be heard beyond, laughing and shouting. "I think we've found the bandits. Some of them, anyway."

Groups of bandits had taken to prowling the outskirts of Lothering, attacking anyone who ventured far from the village. The Chantry had enlisted them to clear out the worst of the bands in preparation for the evacuation of the town ahead of the Blight.

Talia was scowling. She pulled off her helmet; wisps of dark hair had escaped the leather thong that she used to tie it back, and she brushed them away from her face irritably. "I take it Lothering doesn't have a proper jail?"

"No…they don't. Such a small town never had need of one…at least, before the Blight drove so many northward," Leliana replied, puzzled by the question until she realized where they must be. Her heart sank. "They're at the cages, aren't they?"

"Good guess." The Warden's brown eyes were hard, her face set into lines of disapproval. "If this is the fate of all criminals here, I don't wonder that there aren't many."

"Not all of them," Leliana protested, feeling compelled to defend her adopted home, despite the fact that the practice in question had never settled well with her. That the young Warden seemed to share her disapproval was somewhat reassuring, quieting some of the doubts that Alistair's words had stirred. "Just the most dangerous."

"What fate?" Alistair looked puzzled.

"Look for yourself," Talia replied, jerking her head toward the edge of the bluff. The motion set her face in profile, displaying the fine-boned features of the old Ferelden aristocracy: high cheekbones, narrow nose, large, dark eyes, canted ever so slightly upward, strong jaw and chin made even more so by the grim set of her mouth. Her dusky brown skin bore traces of sweat and dust from the trail, and her fingers rested lightly on the hilt of the sword at her hip, but despite her serious expression, she looked impossibly young: tall and slim, arms and legs coltish and awkward looking. Nineteen, perhaps? Surely no older. Too young to look so hardened, so weary.

Leliana dropped to her belly along with Alistair and crawled forward until she could see over the edge of the bluff, tall grass hiding them from the eyes below.

The cages had been there for generations, reserved for the worst criminals, which meant that they saw little use. Pickpockets and thieves were simply flogged out of town, but the more dangerous offenders: murderers, rapists and such, had been placed here, well away from the town, until the local Arl's forces could transport them for trial. It had been a safe enough course; the wildlife in the area was generally harmless, and bandits had been few and quickly dealt with, until the flow of refugees had led to a sudden surge in violence as predators of both the two and four-legged variety trailed in their wake, picking off the weakest.

Almost overnight, the three cages had been perpetually full, and hastily expanded to six, but after the Arl's forces had withdrawn, only the barest pretense of the normal routine was observed. The prisoners were given no food, and only occasional water when someone remembered to go. If the number of the accused exceeded half a dozen, the excess were simply manacled to the outside of the existing cages, and the only time that a cage opened up was when the occupant died of exposure or hunger.

The cages themselves were cramped and narrow, giving barely enough room for those inside to sit, let alone lay down, but they at least provided protection from the wolf packs that now prowled the outskirts of Lothering. The three men that had been chained outside the cages had been in the last group of bandits caught, more than a week ago, when they made the mistake of trying to rob the Chantry. They looked to have been dead for several days, their bodies little more than gnawed bones with rotting scraps of flesh still clinging here and there, and Leliana could only hope that they had been dead before the wolves began to feed.

Two of the cages had been broken open, the bandits inside them sitting on the ground beside their comrades, frantically devouring some scrap of food. Two of the other prisoners looked as though they had been dead when the bandits arrived, and Leliana felt her stomach twist with guilt. The templars had forbidden any in the Chantry to leave the village after the bandits attacked. Prior to that, she had taken two skins of water out each day. She couldn't in conscience give the prisoners any of the increasingly scant food supply, but water was easy enough to come by…for now.

She had meant to sneak out, but a fresh wave of refugees, many of them injured, had taken her attention, and then the dream had come to her… She shook her head, feeling self reproach stinging her eyes. Perhaps the vision had not been a call to action at all, but a test of how easily she could be distracted from the tasks of her newly found faith. Perhaps…

"What is that?" Alistair asked in a low voice, his eyes on the lone prisoner remaining alive: a giant of a man with bronze skin and frost white hair twisted into unkempt braids, his clothes hanging from him in tattered rags. He stood motionless, glaring at the cluster of bandits with contempt. As they watched, one of the group drew back on a bow and sent an arrow singing through the air toward the cage. The giant didn't flinch as the missile struck one of the bars and was deflected in a tiny spray of sparks. The bandits roared with laughter, and another one let fly. This time, the arrow made it past the bars, only to be snatched from the air by a massive hand that moved too quickly for the eye to follow, breaking it in half and letting the pieces fall to the ground. The arrow riddled corpse in the final cage was mute testimony that the bandits had been at their pastime for a while.

"He's a qunari," Leliana said, inching back from the edge of the bluff and pushing herself to her knees. "The Revered Mother said that he slaughtered an entire farmhold, even the children."

Talia's eyes darkened at the mention of children. "They know that he did it?"

Leliana swallowed. "I…do not know," she admitted. "I heard that he surrendered without a fight, but he has refused to speak, and he has not yet been tried."

"No? It seems to me that he has already been convicted and sentenced." Morrigan's voice was acerbic, those exotic, golden eyes narrowed as she stared toward the bluff edge as though she could see the scene unfolding below. Perhaps she could. "Tis only a matter of time before the cowards here finish him off, sparing the cowards in that filthy little town the nuisance of a trial."

Talia regarded her quizzically. "Compassion, Morrigan? I thought Alistair was the one who got hit on the head."

"A proud and strong creature has been left to die in a manner that a mad dog would be spared," the witch countered haughtily, not showing a trace of discomfiture at the jibe. "Should we rejoice in that fact, perhaps stand up here and cheer the rats on as they chew at the feet of the chained lion?"

Doubt shadowed Talia's face for a moment, but she shook her head. "No," she said slowly. "You're right, Morrigan. If he killed those people, he deserves death, but not like this." Her lips curled suddenly in a wolfish grin. "What say we do something about it?"

"There's twelve of them," Alistair announced as he crept away from the edge.

"Fourteen, counting the two that they broke out," Talia replied without looking around, "but I don't think they'll be much use."

"Three to one odds?" he asked dubiously. The dog whined low in its throat. "Sorry."

"It is said that a mabari is worth at least two armed men," Talia said, scratching behind the beast's ears as she retrieved a stick from the ground. "So…two to one, maybe. And they've gotten lazy with the easy pickings; they should have had a watch posted."

She began drawing lines in the dirt with the tip of the stick. "The trees to the north," she began, looking directly at the dog and speaking as she would have to a person. "Get there and hide until we attack, then go after the archers hard." The dog gave a soft woof and was gone, lost in the grass as it moved down the slope to circle around the bandits.

Leliana stared after him, astonished. She'd heard that the famed mabari hounds were much more intelligent than regular dogs, but – "What?" She turned her eyes back to Talia, realizing that the Warden had been addressing her.

"I said, are you any good with that bow?" Talia nodded at the longbow secured to Leliana's pack, her expression saying plainly that their newest companion was ranking below the dog, in terms of paying attention, at least.

She was on the verge of replying that she'd simply picked the weapon because it looked good with her hair, but thought better of it. "I am."

Talia nodded again. "Then you and Morrigan pick them off from up here while Alistair and I engage directly." She turned to her fellow Warden. "Any reason to try diplomacy first?"

"They don't look like the chatty sort." Alistair slid his shield from his back, buckling it into place with practiced motions.

"Good." The wolfish grin appeared again as she rose and donned her own shield, brown eyes gleaming with anticipation and her face alight with a keen eagerness. "Don't open fire until we've got their attention."

"Any other obvious instructions?" Morrigan demanded, echoing Leliana's own exasperated but unvoiced sentiment.

The grin widened, and Leliana realized with a chill that the girl was looking forward to the fight, energized by the prospect of killing the men below. "Don't hit us," she replied, slipping her helmet back on, and was gone, moving in a low crouch down the slope, following the path the dog had taken, Alistair close behind.

"I don't know how scrupulously I would follow that suggestion," Morrigan muttered, stepping closer to the bluff's edge. "An arrow to her posterior might teach our fearless leader a bit more caution." Moments later, the two Wardens exploded from cover, covering the ground between the foot of the bluff and the loose cluster of bandits at a dead run. "But it would most likely only irritate her," the witch concluded with a resigned sigh, raising her staff.

Leliana let the words slide to the edge of her awareness, her world narrowing down to the straight line of the arrow as she fit the nock to the bowstring and drew back, sighting down it at a grubby, lanky man in tattered leather armor who was turning his own bow to meet the Wardens' charge. She released cleanly, the vibration of the string humming through her hand and up her arm, her eyes remaining fixed to her target as her right hand returned to her quiver. She was out of practice: her aim had been low, the arrow lodging in the meat of his upper arm, rather than his neck, but as she drew back for another shot, the tawny form of the dog hurtled from the copse of aspen trees, bowling over the archer, fangs flashing white, then lost in a gout of red.

Archery was a sport of nobility in Orlais, and even highborn ladies frequently had skill with a shortbow, engaging in contests at tourneys while the men beat each other senseless in the melees. The weapons were elegant: laminated ivory and hardwood bows, the arms intricately carved along the back, the arrows fletched with feathers shed by the hunting falcons. The targets were stationary and bloodless, the prize for victory an expensive perfume or some intricate bauble: a necklace or bracelet, perhaps. Leliana had first honed her talents at such matches, enjoying the laughter and lively chatter, the chilled wine and delicacies that were served at the sidelines, playing her lute for Lady Cecilie in between rounds, as a good minstrel should.

A few short years and a lifetime later, the skills that she had learned there were perfected in a much different contest, where the targets moved, bled and died, and the reward for victory was your own life and payment for completion of the job.

The recurved longbow that she used now was no lady's toy, though it was rather pretty, the yew polished to a soft gleam along the sweep of the limbs and the leather of the hand grip neatly stitched into place. It was a poor second to the bow she'd left behind in Orlais, both in looks and construction, but it was still quite deadly. In seconds, she had taken down two of the four archers, the dog accounting for the other two. She shifted her aim to the seething knot of combat, taking in the scene with an appraising eye.

After their initial charge, Talia and Alistair had quickly settled into a back to back position, giving their opponents no chance to come at them from behind. Alistair had taken a defensive stance: feet planted at shoulder width, moving as little as possible, pivoting his upper body to meet and return attacks, using his shield for cover and sending his longsword sweeping out in controlled, deadly strikes.

Talia was all motion. Lighter than most of her opponents, she had plainly been taught to turn that potential liability into an advantage, and her long limbs moved with a fluid grace, all traces of youthful awkwardness vanished. She spun, twisted, wove and ducked in and out of range, never still, her shield as much weapon as defense, dealing out savage, smashing blows, then following up with flickering sweeps of her blade, avoiding most strikes by simply not being there when they landed.

Not all the attacks had missed; Leliana could see fresh blood flowing down the girl's sword arm from beneath a new gap in her chainmail, but she showed no sign that she noticed the wound. The two Wardens had swiftly taken down another four of their opponents, leaving six, including the two newly freed prisoners, who had armed themselves with weapons from their fallen companions and entered the fray.

She tried to select a new target, but the combatants were too closely grouped, moving too quickly, and as she watched, the dog barreled into the crowd like a ball rolling through a group of ninepins, bursting through the other side on top of his chosen target.

"Damnation!" Casting an envious glance at the pulses of magical energy that flew unerringly from Morrigan's staff, she let the bow fall to the ground, drew her daggers and charged down the slope. Talia was the closest, and Leliana angled her way in, her eyes fixed on a swordsman who was keeping himself just out of Talia's vision, hiding himself in the blind spot created by her shield, waiting for an opening.

She realized her mistake – she should have announced herself – a split second before the Warden's shield slammed into her, sending her tumbling to the ground. Through the white starbursts that suddenly filled her vision, she caught a brief glimpse of Talia's face, wide eyed with surprise and sudden recognition, heard an oath that the girl's parents would surely not have approved of, and then she was gone, spinning away to deal with the swordsman.

Doggedly ignoring the flare of protest from her battered ribs, Leliana pushed herself to her feet and darted back in, giving Talia plenty of space and flanking one of Alistair's opponents, driving one dagger low into the back, skewering a kidney, then bringing the other around and across the bared throat when his back arched in agony. She twisted away, found the dog with his teeth buried in the throat of one bandit, Alistair knocking aside the sword of another and burying his own blade in his foe's chest, and Talia gutting one of the two freed prisoners. The other was frozen in place, sword raised high, his skin frost-white and glittering; an instant later, a glowing bolt shattered the figure, sending chunks of frozen flesh hurtling in all directions.

As quickly as that, it was done. "I told you to stay on the bluff!" Talia snapped, eyes sparking with vexation. Her face was flushed, but the manic energy of combat was quickly fading from it, the somber weariness flowing back in to take its place.

Leliana felt her own temper rise, pushing aside the apology she had been about to offer. "If I could have gotten a clear shot, I would have," she retorted. "What did you want me to do, watch and take bets while I waited for an opening?"

Talia glared at her; she returned the gaze with a level one of her own, refusing to be cowed, and after several tense seconds, the Warden's ire passed. She gave Leliana a curt nod and turned away, letting her shield slide from her arm and kneeling to run her hands over the dog, checking him for injuries.

"She'll apologize later, after she's calmed down," Alistair told her in a low voice, using the tunic from one of the bandits to clean his blade before returning it to its sheath. "She's always testy right after a fight. When you're fighting alongside someone using a shield, it's best if you don't come up on their blind side, by the way."

"Thank you." She gave him a thin smile, feeling the fool again, though his words had been kindly spoken. She'd never fought with a companion who used a shield; seldom had she fought with any companions at all, but she knew better than to charge into a melee without calling out, particularly when her allies barely knew her. "I'll try to remember that." Her bruised ribs would be reminding her for some time to come, she suspected.

"Are you hurt?" he asked. He had a received a few nicks and cuts, but appeared largely unscathed.

"Only my pride," she replied with a rueful smile.

"You would do well to remember that elfroot has a limited growing season," Morrigan was grumbling as she strode down from the bluff, already searching through her pack. "Unless you start paying a bit more attention to blocking your opponents while you are carving pieces out of them, our supplies will run out."

"Just put a bandage on it, then," Talia replied indifferently, probing at the gash on her arm with a bemused expression, as though she didn't quite remember receiving it. The witch glared at her, swatted her hand away and began applying a healing poultice to the wound.

"And when it becomes infected and requires even more care? Do not tell me how to heal, and I will try not to tell you how to fight, though 'twill require considerable biting of my tongue."

"You'll forgive me if I don't hold my breath?" Talia stared past her to the qunari, who was watching them with no more fear than he had shown of the bandits, though the look of contempt had been exchanged for one of appraisal that Talia matched. "What shall we do with him?"

Morrigan followed her gaze. "Either grant him a quick death or release him," she advised crisply, "but qunari are reputed to be fearsome warriors. He could prove a useful ally."

"Yes. Very handy if we ever find ourselves surrounded by hostile farmholders." Alistair was clearly unconvinced.

"Tis likely that the ignorant peasants attacked him first," Morrigan replied, something bitter glinting in her eyes. "That is the way of 'civilized' men, I have found: seeking to destroy what they do not understand."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but wasn't he the one that did the destroying?"

Leliana found herself torn. "It has not been proven that he was the murderer," she murmured. "He has never answered the charges against him."

"Does he even understand them?" Morrigan retorted, looking irritated to have Leliana agreeing with her, even in a roundabout way. "Or is it known whether he speaks the Common Tongue?"

Talia's dark eyes shifted between the three of them, deciding, her fingers drifting over the dog's blood-matted fur. "Only one way to find out, I guess," she said at last, turning and approaching the cage.


A.N. - As I said, I am trying to do some edits as I go, as long as I am reposting anyway. Some are nothing more than typos that missed the first sweep, or deciding whether I want to capitalize 'mabari' and 'templar' or not, since it drives me nuts when I discover I'm switching back and forth.

Other stuff is a bit more involved, such as not referring to Alistair as a templar (even though that was his class in the game), since because he never finished his training, he isn't a templar, or even a former templar. I suspect that Morrigan will consider him as such, but I removed any other such references here.

Another edit involved the brief glimpse of Leliana's past in regards to archery. In my first version, it read as though her training and activity as a bard occurred while she was with Lady Cecilie; in the edit, I've more clearly separated the two periods in her life.

I'll keep posting discussions of any significant edits I do (again, there won't likely be any major changes in the plot, so it'll mainly be in the details) at the end so that those of you who don't care about that sort of thing don't have to wade through it.