Author's Note: You all deserve a long chapter, and I was glad to write it for you! This is 22 pages in total, detailing all of the Grey Warden's time in Loathering and how she came by Leliana, Dog, and Sten. Some quality-time with Alistair in the markets doesn't hurt, either, does it?
Once again, I apologize for the long delay. I've been getting into Aikido so much lately I've had no time for anything else. I did write an entire chapter weeks ago while I was traveling, but my laptop (God rest it's soul!) died on me. I have a new one, a Dell Inspiron, and I LOVE it! :D
More chapters are coming soon. I hope you all can cope with the amount I wrote here. :)
-CI
Single file through the Korcari Wilds: Morrigan picked their path, parting ferns, tipping branches aside with her black staff. Abigail followed ten meters back and Alistair brought up the rear. The two of them took turns, switching positions from time to time, covering each other in a way that she'd never been trained, but it felt so natural that they did it anyway without conversing.
Abigail had to look sharp to keep track of Morrigan. Once they were well into the Wilds and, worse, when the sun began it's slow descent to the horizon, Morrigan became hard to track. Her gaze had a strange tendency to slip aside their guide, to pass over without seeing unless she firmly directed her will: a useful talent in a place where humans were just another prey animal.
Occasionally Morrigan would stop and move swiftly to cover, sometimes so fast that Abigail would keep going until her pale hand snaked across dying wildflowers to pull her to a space between her. There they would sit, silent, hardly daring to breath. Only when Morrigan opened her eyes and her shoulders relaxed did they continue on. Abigail didn't know what they stopped for, though she had a hunch. Spotted cats and the other dangerous creatures would have instinctively avoided any area with Morrigan present, which left the only creatures she had to fear here, in her haven: the darkspawn.
Abigail didn't see the mysterious object Flemeth had handed her ere their parting, but she'd promised it would give the darkspawn something other to smell instead of three tasty humans just waiting for some seasoning.
They continued on.
It was by far one of the most grueling hikes Abigail, in her short experience, had ever taken. She thought Duncan had been pressing it after they left the Circle, but Morrigan seemed determined not only to match him but to surpass him. She found routes where none could be seen and they stopped for nothing, not even a quick relief.
Night fell, and the claustrophobic closeness of the cold, but humid jungle gave way to a slightly rockier terrain that rolled with slight hills, knolls, and valleys. The moon shined silver-bright above their heads, illuminating their way only slightly, but they didn't even dare to make a fire.
And so they carried on in grim, torturous silence.
For those who'd lived within the Circle Tower, darkness was a thing of the primitive, primitive past. Candles were lit at night, made out of a wax taken from bees they bred themselves, and even the most rudimentary of children could summon a tiny flame into existence to relight the candle should it burn out. This total blackness was foreign to her. It summoned up memories of memories, causing a shiver to roll down her spine that had nothing to do with the cold.
The only comfort she had was that she was leaving Ostagar behind. The thought of Wynne and the rest of the mages there crossed her mind only once, igniting a small twinge of regret, but she pushed it down deep. She was good at that.
The sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon when Morrigan finally made them halt. They took solace in the shade of an overhanging rock wall and slept, uncomfortable, on the rough-textured grass. Alistair went to sleep immediately, his head pillowed on his metal-clad arms, and Morrigan curled into a fetal position, closing her eyes. Abigail made herself as comfortable as possible, her side resting against the cliff face, and decided that she was going to buy—or steal—camp beds in Loathering.
Hell, maybe even from the Circle of Magi. Wouldn't that be satisfying?
She blinked a few times in the lightening sky, staring up at a few blue jays taking flight. Her eyes shut, the two fragile bodies of the avians superimposed in an after-image, and she smiled softly to herself. Even if they were the most high-and-mighty zealots in the world, the Circle sure could train it's Magi. . . after all, she'd felt worse after her display in Irving's office. . . Poor Duncan. . . Poor poor Duncan. . .
Abigail awoke quite suddenly, her limbs stiffening in surprise, and at first she didn't know why. Bleary, she reached up to rub her eyes when something wet and spongy wiped her cheek, up and down. It was accompanied by heavy panting. Her eyes shot open and she pushed the Whatever-It-Was away from her face, scrambling backwards. The sun was high in the sky, blinding her in its intensity. She caught a flash of disapproving yellow eyes and coarse black fur, and was pushed back to the ground by this same animal—a dog, her mind supplied. A paw on each shoulder, it forced her down so it could continue licking her face, giving her an unwarranted, though certainly needed, bath.
Finally, she found her voice. "Down, doggy!"
Something stirred in front of her. The rustle of heavy leather reached her ears. "What—what? What did I—oh, Maker, somebody—wait!" Alistair obviously wasn't very quick in the morning, or afternoon. "That's the dog, the dog from Ostagar."
Abigail pulled her head away from the mabari hound's searching tongue, attempting to squirm away. "Yes, yes, boy, I get it! I get it! Good—oh, Andraste--" The mabari placed his paw, dead center, right on her cheek. He began to lick her more vigerously, and she could feel the small vibrations of his small stub of a tail wagging on his rump. "Yes, good boy, good boy! Bear! Whatever the hell you are!"
It panted happily in her face and nuzzled against her chin with it's nose. It barked, and the noise sounded loud and painful in Abigail's ears.
"He seems happy to see you," Alistair said, his voice awed. "I've heard of this before. Mabari sometimes tend to imprint on a human they've grown a liking to. This poor fellow probably followed us all the way from Ostagar."
"Did I really stink—that—bad?"
Another bark. Abigail found her hand and rubbed his head affectionately, the shock starting to wear down into plain humor. She rubbed her head against the hound's, kissing his nose and ears. "How in the world did you escape from there?" she asked wonderingly. "I was afraid you were dead!"
The mabari's only answer was a barking growl, and he licked her face ferociously. "Hey—Alistair--where's Morrigan?" Abigail asked, peering around her attacker's great broad, black shoulder at the place she'd been sleeping.
"Right here," said said airily from somewhere behind. "That mabari has certainly seen better days. It can't have had an easy time getting out of that battlefield. Not after Loghain quit the field, anyway. But still, strong, and may be useful."
"Hold on, do we even know his name?" Alistair asked.
"Nope," answered Abigail, peering into the intelligent yellow eyes that had first entranced her. "I wonder if he's eaten since I got the kennel master that flower. . ."
"Mabari are pretty intelligent," said Alistair as the canine cocked his head and licked her nose. "Some people think they can understand human speech. Wow, he looks just like a baby bear, you know that, right? Why do mabari have to be the biggest dogs in existence, anyway?"
Abigail detached the paws from her face and shoulder, getting to her knees. Her legs felt like goo. She ran her fingers through the mabari's coarse fur, covering his face with kisses. His contented expression spoke, Wow, I like you already! Or maybe he was falling asleep. For as much research she'd done on the subject of canines, she'd never figured out their physical signs as well.
She'd had four dogs, though, a long time ago. A large, gray hound with eyes that exact same shade of intelligent yellow that never strayed far away from a food bowl; two medium-sized black ones, one so fluffy that her dad needed to shave her fur off more than once, the other so long-haired and inky-black that he was just the extension of a shadow; and then a smaller one, white and fluffy, always looking beaten and run-down. Hootch, Clay, Bear, and Pepper.
Damn, she missed them. They were probably dead by now, too, and that made her sad. Nothing can live forever.
After witnessing the epic events of Ostagar, it shouldn't have come as a surprise, but she felt sorrowful all the same.
Alistair dug through his pack and offered the dog some of his dry rations, and he chomped it up happily. Alistair ate, too, his face falling back into lines of misery as soon as he took his eyes off of the dog, and Abigail decided that it was time for her to feast, as well. She felt empty and hollow, but not bad, exactly. Seeing the mabari, feeling loved, seemed to have erased all of her bad feelings.
She couldn't keep her eyes off of her new faithful hound as she chewed her meal, and with one hand she continued to pet his strong, muscular back. He lay close to her, eating the meat with a kind of weary gratitude, and Abigail wondered if they should just rest a few more hours before continuing. She was on the verge of saying it when Morrigan offhandidly reported, "Loathering is over the next turn, hidden by those rocky hills. We'll be able to see the trader's roads as we get closer."
"Wait a minute," Abigail said, turning to look at her. "You mean we could have slept in an inn last night?"
"Loghain's men left at daybreak, as I knew they would, but it would be foolish to go in so close behind. By waiting, I guaranteed us a reprieve from some of the questions that would be sure to plague us. One could almost say I tried to spare us unnecessary interrogations by the Templar regiments who are no doubt on watch for any Grey Warden survivors."
"The only Grey Wardens that Loghain ever met with were both of us, and Duncan." Alistair bit out his name as though it hurt, and it probably did. Abigail didn't know if she should just feel detachment or pity for this strange man, the one that was supposed to be a Templar. "He'll have given them our descriptions, just to be sure."
"It's what I would do," Morrigan said with a shrug. "And with the Circle of Magi visiting today, they'll be on the lookout for anything suspicious." She shot a glance at Abigail, who stared calmly back. "Those robes, are they a mark of the Circle?"
"Yes. They're mage robes. Apprentices traditionally wear blue. Enchanters wear red."
"Very colorful," she sneered. "We'll get rid of them as soon as we can, then." Abigail glanced down at the robes, amused by what she saw.
They'd once been pure yellow, new, and clean. Now they were crusted with blood, sweat, and tears, grass stains, holes, and the resin of some purple plant she hadn't noticed until then. They were so dirty that it was more than a few shades darker. On her belt was the sword she'd taken from a darkspawn at the entrance of the Tower of Ishall. All in all, not a very mage-like outfit. "I suppose I see your point. I don't look like myself, do it?"
"Are you wearing anything underneath those? Mother attended to both of your injuries while I was out catching rabbit for the stew, so I wouldn't know."
An indignant blush crept up Alistair's cheeks, and Abigail had a vivid mental picture of that old woman Flemeth peeking underneath her clothes. Even with the best of intentions, it was a violation of space. She felt her jaw begin to work. "Yeah. . . erm, a small tunic. Brown, tight. . . Suicidal in this weather."
"It'll work until we get you proper clothing."
"Don't forget yourself," Abigail pointed out, mostly to cover up the fact that she was blushing from the tips of her ears to her chin. "Aren't you cold?"
"Yes, but I can survive, Grey Warden. I've had much more practice outside your cozy home than you have. I don't shrink away at the smallest bite of cold wind."
The mabari cocked his head quizzically, looked at them both, then continued eating his share of the meal.
They continued to debate it, but in the end Morrigan was proved right. Abigail would wait off of the road behind a clump of bushes until they found something that would fit her. It was Alistair's suggestion that Morrigan take her Circle ring, though, just to avoid awkward questions. When she took it off of her finger she felt an abstract sense of loss, then threw the foolish notion away. She would never be a part of the Circle again, of that she was sure.
"I bet you had a difficult time of it," Abigail said offhandidly, staring up at the small patch of sky above that wasn't covered by the leafy foliage of the bush they were hiding in. The scent of damp grass, flowers, and the faint scent of baking bread from Loathering surrounded her like an intoxicating agent. She itched to be out there, running around with her new mabari warhound, but she was neither impulsive nor stupid. A slight chill caused goosebumps to rise on her exposed skin, which felt strangely naked without the heavy yellow robe protecting her. Instead, the tight under-tunic provided whatever protection it could.
She'd dumped the yellow robes in the water. She'd owned them for less than a week.
She glanced over at the mabari, her head pillowed on one arm. She was idly stroking his fur with another. "I think you'd have to be very brave to get through all those nasty darkspawn. You're a good boy."
He panted happily.
"My old dogs weren't as smart as you, but I loved them very much. Pepper was my first dog. He was white and small, kind of like a dust mop, and he could never see out of his tiny black eyes. You look a lot like Hootch, though, even though he was gray. You have the exact same-colored eyes. . . but you're as black as Bear and Clay. When they decided I was a mage, they took me away from my family, you know. Horrible. Huge Templars just dragged me off. . . Barely got to say a goodbye to my brother and my dogs."
He whined a little bit and laid his head on her lap.
"Yeah, thanks. I stayed there for years, just doing my stuff. Researched as much as I could about dogs, then when I was bored with that I decided that elemental magic was fun. Fire is the most fun." She giggled the most un-Abbyish giggle. "I scare people with it. I like that.
"We need to find a suitable name for you. I can't just call you 'Dog' can I? Nope. So until Alistair and Morrigan get back we're going to work on it until we find something good. Sound good?"
He indicated his consent.
It couldn't be a girly name, and it couldn't be a pampered name like 'Fido' or 'Muffin' either. She thought for a moment, arranging the names in her mind, then came out with a small list. "How about Barkspawn?" she suggested jokingly.
He growled: the sound vibrated her thigh.
"Okay, okay. Bad idea—amusing pun but very, very bad idea. Marcus? No, no. . . How about Hulick? Wes? Jaing? I would name a son of mine Jaing. It's a nice-sounding name. No? Hmm. . . never fear, we'll find something!"
Talking to the hound was easier than talking to another human being. To have another person to confide in was something she'd taken for granted as a younger Apprentice, and now she cherished it. A dog held a comfort no human could replicate.
Eventually they settled on a name.
"Alrighty, Bear-boy. Morrigan and Alistair should be back soon. . . We'll get you some good food, got it? We both will."
Loathering was, as Alistair put it, 'pretty as a painting.' To him, she supposed, it was probably like every other run-down village he'd come across during whatever travels he'd taken, but Abigail loved every square inch of it. The grass, yellow and dried in the incoming winter, shot up like weeds between her knees and tickled her hands as she walked. The houses, run-down and poor-looking, were beautiful in their own way, so rustic and homey in a way that the Circle Tower could never, ever replicate, and the smells. It was almost worth passing in front of the Chantry and the Templar guardians just to smell the delicious wafts of smoke rising from the chimneys in their kitchens. There was no arguing that this was a grim place in present circumstances, with the arl's men killed at Ostagar and the darkspawn advancing through the Korcari Wilds, but right then, at that moment, Abigail was at peace. She breathed in deeply the scent of crushed greens, baked bread, the slight spritzes of apples in the air.
Freedom. She wondered if Teresa had the same reaction. If she were her, Abigail would never have left.
When Morrigan and Alistair had returned only half of an hour ago to her hideout, Morrigan tossed the mage ring to Abigail with casual efficiency, carrying a new, reinforced backpack in her other arm. It was already filled and packed with the essential bedroll, rations, and small miscellaneous items she didn't realize were cooking utensils until she got close enough to see. Abigail placed the ring on her finger and held out her hand for the clothes. Instead of the rough, home-spun wool she was expecting, it was actual armor. Leather armor.
Alistair muttered something about keeping a lookout while Morrigan showed her how to put it on. Too many buckles,was Abigail's constant complain, but she secretly liked it. Those bulky robes didn't show off her body at all and hardly protected her, but this was tight and formidable.
If Teresa were still with her, she would have started the trademark Amell Evil Laugh.
Morrigan explained that there were no mages to worry about at Loathering. An escaped blood mage from the Circle Tower had led the Templars on a strange dance and, though they were long gone by now, the Tranquil had made their sales and left pretty quick.
"The town won't be occupied much longer," said Alistair, who'd returned from his lookout as soon as she was fully clothed. "Now, this is just a guess, but I think that they might of noticed the impending darkspawn."
"We can handle it," said Abigail, patting the hilt of her sword. "How did you afford all of this stuff?"
"I had some coin on me," Alistair said. "Here."
And he handed her some money. Fifteen silvers and a few bronze coin chinked half-halfheartedly at the bottom.
She'd taken basic math in the Circle Tower and still remembered a few things from before then (though they were like a foggy picture in her mind) and knew enough to realize that she didn't know how to pay for food or other eccentricities. This seemed like a serious fault in her magical education. She would have asked Morrigan, but she was long gone, checking out the surrounding countryside for herbs and roots she would need to make poultices of the type healers used at the Circle of Magi.
"Alistair," she muttered, joining a line of people waiting for the merchant to get to them, "help."
He was at her shoulder. He bent down to listen. "Yes?"
"I don't. . . I don't know how to. . ." She gestured with her money bag with a defeated air. "Can you pay for what I want?"
He paused for a moment and blinked twice. "They never taught you how to pay for stuff?" he asked in a disbelieving tone. The grieved edge that had been there since the Tower of Ishall had lifted into slight incredulity. "You're not joking, are you? No, you're not. Wow."
She felt her face redden. "My education was mainly focused on roasting those who annoy me."
"Then I shall be totally intent on not annoying you then, my lady," he said. She couldn't tell if he was being serious or not, and she was struck yet again how different people were from the small cloistered group she'd grown up with. Alistair bought her a loaf of honeyed bread obviously straight from the Circle and she ate a small piece with relish, eying the amount of money being passed between the two men. Alistair handed him ten bronze pieces and they wandered over to a small bench just outside of the Chantry. "You know, we did have food with us. You didn't have to go buy some for yourself."
"And with Morrigan accompanying us, we probably won't want for meat, either," said she, breaking off a piece of bread, sniffing it experimentally as if she expected poison, and popped it into her mouth like candied nuts. Yes, they were from the Circle Tower. She would recognize the honey from Owain's stockrooms anywhere. "But this stuff is special."
"Bread is special?" he asked dubiously.
"Of course," she said, handing him a small piece. "Here."
He laid it on his tongue and chewed thoughtfully. "Good," he said. He held out his hand for more, and she obliged.
"It comes from the Circle. We harvest the honey from our bees, which we keep on the opposite side of the bathing areas, and gather enough that we just can't eat it all. We grow it for pleasure and export, then, and made a fairly acceptable sum from the proceeds. And the Tranquil, our. . . non-magic folk, they spend their lives to the art of alchemical and magical things. They're so smart, they seem almost bored with it, if they're even capable of being bored. They prepare our meals, spicing up the duck and meat and whatever else we have on our plates with such a good taste that it's almost worth being locked up, just for that food."
She felt his eyes on her face, and she felt like ducking her head. Freedom was going to her head, and here she was, telling completely stupid stories to a man she hardly knew. He was a Templar, too, to her chagrin. She couldn't forget that, no matter how justified, Knight-Commander Greagoir and his underlings had been cruel to their charges and basically bred dissent across the entire magi population.
"You miss it there?" he asked.
"No," she said quickly. "It was horrible there. It was a pampered prison, nothing more."
"I've never met another mage before," he said, turning around to stare at the crowd. "Not that I've gone out looking, mind you. We learn to train our mind against magic and negate mana effects. I'm not a full Templar, though. I never took any of the vows."
That got her attention. "I thought you were," she said, her eyebrows narrowing in suspicion. "Why didn't you take the vows?"
"Ah, well. . ." He shrugged modestly. "Chantry life, it just wasn't for me. I believe in the Maker and all of that, really, but I'm not the type of guy who enjoys being preached to twenty-four hours a day."
"So why would you ever join? Does the rest of Ferelden honestly have no clue about the spirituality of the Templars?"
"No, it's not—listen, I didn't really want to join. But I had to. Unavoidable circumstances. Uh. . ." His face was going red. "So what's your friend's name? In Redcliffe?"
"Teresa. She's the only one I think I can still. . . Yeah, she was a good girl when I knew her. She'll help me. She owes me."
"Because you helped her escape the Circle Tower?" At Abigail's nod, he frowned so deeply it seemed to be etched in his face. "Is this the blood mage the Templars were looking for? They said it was a male, though. . ."
"His name is Jowan," she said. Her neutral expression and tone were a mask for the sudden hurt that twisted the inside of her stomach into a knot. "He's no friend of mine, but it was surprising that he turned out to be a blood mage. I always thought he wasn't very powerful, but. . ." She shrugged. "I watched him use his blood magic to knock aside a whole platoon of Templars like pins. I'd like to find him."
"And why would you go looking for him?"
"To kill him. He helped Teresa escape, too, and thought that I could repay the same favor with him. Like a fool, I went along, never suspecting. He attacked me, too. After I complete this quest, I shall find him and kill him for betraying me and my trust."
"He really got on your bad side, didn't he?"
"We were friends." The weight she put on that word spoke volumes. There was only one type of friend to her, and it wasn't interchangeable. Jowan had been an integral part of her being, as had Teresa, until the latter escaped. Jowan's betrayal was like a mockery, leaving her alone and friendless. She resented every moment the Chantry kept her cloistered away, forcing Jowan to use blood magic, forcing her to kill him.
She would have changed everything if she could have.
"I'm sorry." Alistair's voice was sincere enough, but she doubted he was actually paying attention. Boys were like that. "I see why. . . yeah, I guess you did have it rough, didn't you? It's lucky Duncan was there, or else. . ."
"He gave me a second chance. He's a very good man, to overlook a mistake like that."
"Yeah. He was." Alistair looked away, and it was her turn to rake her eyes over his face, wondering. His eyes were strangely glassy.
Hesitantly, she placed a finger on his shoulder. "I. . ." No words would come to her. In despair, she broke off another piece of bread and handed it to him. He took it gratefully and munched on it, looking far away into a world she couldn't see. "He took you away from the Chantry, which you didn't like. . . And he was your mentor. I understand how you feel."
He snorted. "Thanks. It's just. . . it's just hard to realize that he won't ever be there again." He choked up slightly at those words and ducked his head. She glanced at her knee, rubbing at the unfamiliar leather harness attached to her thigh, until he finally emerged, taking a few deep breaths to steady himself. "I hate being like this. He wouldn't want me being sad about him."
"He'd want us to fulfill the last thing he ever truly wanted," said Abigail. "To kill the darkspawn and make Ferelden a safer place."
"And look where we're starting," he muttered, waving his hand in a vague gesture towards the town before them. "Two Grey Wardens, the only two, a dead King, and. . ." He pointed at the Chantry board next to her head. "A warrant for our arrest."
"What the hell?" She looked up and immediately wished she didn't. Right there, emblazoned in large red letters denoting a formal military request, was a sheaf of parchment recently nailed to the large wooden sign.
GREY WARDENS ARE HEREBY OUTLAWED IN THE NATION OF FERELDEN FOLLOWING THE DEATH OF KING CAILAN AT OSTAGAR.
ANY INFORMATION LEADING TO SURVIVING MEMBERS OF THE ORDER WILL BE HANDSOMELY REWARDED WITH FIVE (5) SOVEREIGNS.
All known Grey Wardens to be operated within the nation's borders are listed as follows:
Below was a list of names totally unfamiliar to her, except for Duncan's, Alistair's, and her own, and descriptions thereof. It was signed and dated by no other than Loghain MacTire.
"No," she breathed.
"Wonderful," Alistair grumbled. "That lump of garbage!"
She read through the names again. "I'm recognizable to mages," she whispered, sudden fear dawning on her. "Even though I don't wear the robes, Alistair, they can feel me. It's why we use staffs, to minimize out mana output. If they just stretch out with their mind, they can feel me and I wouldn't be able to know."
Alistair's eyes were wide. "They broke your staff," he said, the information washing over his face in a burst of sudden understanding. He hastily rearranged his features into something of a placating gesture. "Don't worry. We'll take care of you. We'll find a staff somewhere, and--"
"It's not that bad," she muttered, more to herself. "As long as I don't give them a reason to look, right? As long as I keep myself to myself. . ." She snorted at the absurdity of the statement. "What about Templars? People keep saying they have some kind of innate mentality that repels mages. Any tricks you can teach me?" She glanced at him, half-joking, half-hopefully.
He was already shaking his head. "Not for your situation."
"I know. But I had to ask. I refuse to get another killed for my mistakes."
And such was the conviction in her voice that he did not question her. "Don't worry about it," he said cheerfully. "We're all big boys and girls here, and you're a great mage. You're going to turn the tide in every battle with your spells."
She giggled. "That's a nice thing to say."
"It's true. You don't seem to. . . tire as much as other mages. Even in the Tower, I was half-expecting you to collapse after that first fight. I wonder why that is."
She shrugged. "I've always had an easier time of it than others. I don't know why. I'm also a quick learner, and magic is the only thing I feel challenged with at a particular level, because it's both physical and mental. And you can't ever make a mistake, for if you do, you die."
"It sounds like a hard life," he mused.
"No. Just difficult. Boring beyond belief at times, frightfully scary at others. Sometimes you put too much of yourself into a spell and don't wake up. It's happened before to others I've known. Some escape, though, if they fear the Harrowing. . . Or sometimes after. During my stay, a man known as Anders snuck out the day after his Harrowing without permission, and the Templars were dragging him back for the second time by the moment I left. Ha! He was always a source of inspiration for me. Irving had no time for him. . ."
"Really?" asked Alistair dryly. She handed him another piece of bread, took a nibble for herself, then wrapped it up and placed it into her new pack. "Time to look around, I s'ppose," said Alistair, standing with a groan.
Walking around the beautiful village inhabited by all these desperate and scared-looking people, Abigail couldn't help but feel an abstract sadness for their loss. She wished there was something she could do, but no opportunity presented itself. She stayed far away from the Chantry Board in case somebody should read it and recognize her as the woman mentioned. A woman asked her for help finding herbs upon seeing her Circle of the Magi ring on her finger, but she wasn't very skilled at the art and had to decline. Another asked, "Will you help me set traps for the darkspawn coated with poison?" She declined that, also, because she had seen the army herself and knew that a couple of traps wouldn't even put a dint in their forces.
Morrigan arrived to find them within the hour, her sap-smelling bag now holding a trace scent of grass within the countryside. Bear was prancing behind her – he had gone off with her and Abigail's request, for an armed and armored man and woman traveling together would not garner as much attention as they would have with a genuine, pure-bred mabari war hound following them. When the troop was together again, people practically ogled.
Considering that if Morrigan didn't have that strip of a bra holding her breasts together, Abigail could see why. She was skilled enough in the inner working of a male's mind to know that many of them would be going slack-jawed at the sight of her. And Morrigan was beautiful, no doubt, with pale ebony skin and dark hair that would make shadows jealous if they had voice. "Bandits are thick in this area," she said with a compulsive sneer, taking her backpack from Alistair and sliding it on to her shoulders. "Loud, scared men with knives, thinking they have the mentality to lay an ambush for weary travelers. I took care of a group in a neighboring field after they shot at me with bows and arrows. It was very quick."
"Good job," Abigail congratulated.
Morrigan inclined her head and Bear wagged his stump of a tail like an excited poodle, sniffing the bag Abigail held in her arms. "Ah! I know what you want." She took out another small piece of the bread, which was hardly declined in quantity, and fed it to him, then handed some to Morrigan, who ate it without comment. "I checked over the maps: it will take us at the very least three days to reach Redcliffe if we press our pace, but we might be able to drive some distance between us and the darkspawn."
"I doubt they'll send more than a few raiding parties at a time," said Morrigan. "As I was telling Alistair, they'll most likely stop at this village and restore their stocks for a while. We must be careful not to stray too close to their nest, however, because if they feel either of you nearby then you'll be in greater danger than you already are."
"Right little ray of sunshine, you are," Alistair muttered.
"At least I am thinking in practicalities," she snapped. "Finished watching your navel yet? You have been contemplating it for some time now since we left."
He restrained himself, but only with a little effort. His cheeks were red.
Abigail stepped in before they could rip themselves apart. "Let's just go, then, shall we? Long road ahead of us."
Morrigan looked smug as she fell in line behind her, next to Alistair, and Abigail tried not to feel too much sadness for leaving the village once again. The backpack (Morrigan had 'procured' three of them) was equipped with a bedroll, and most of the supplies were mixed within them so that if one was lost during the journey then they would still have enough provisions. Despite the impending doom, Abigail was excited as she shouldn't have been. Backpacking! This will be great!
Oh, how fresh and green the air smelled!
For a moment her burden hung only lightly on her shoulders, entranced as she was by this feeling that seemed to come and go as it pleased. It soared high for a moment, thrilling on the adventure awaiting, and then she caught sight of a tall metal cage that nontheless seemed too small for it's burly, gray-skinned occupant. He stood instead of sitting, his white hair gathered in tight braids against his skull, and yet he did not look old or particularly fatigued. He was strong, she saw, stronger than any person Abigail could have fathomed, and she had a feeling that if he wished to break out of his cage, he could.
"A qunari," she whispered.
A qunari with very good hearing, apparently. He opened one eye, dark and bloodshot as was common of that race, and stared at her. He grunted something under his breath that Abigail couldn't catch, then closed his eye again as if she annoyed him.
Alistair gave a bit of a strangled oath behind her, but she was already moving towards his cage. Teresa. Hadn't Teresa been studying qunari religion before she left? Abigail could barely remember the study now. . . She hadn't paid attention to the species in such a long time. . .
It was if a hand was stretched out across thought and time, beckoning. She took it.
"Don't even presume to annoy me, human," said the qunari. His voice was crisp and clean, as if he measured every word with a micrometer. Military, then. Most qunari were, she recalled.
"I wasn't planning on it," she said honestly. He towered above her, at least two feet taller than Allan, who had been the tallest person she'd known. "I am Abigail. Pleased to meet you." She held out her hand through the cage.
Both of his eyes opened, now. "You mock me by showing politeness your kind does not generally give. . . or not." He stared at the hand, then the eyes offering it. She kept his gaze, likening him to a bereskarn in Bryce's class so long ago, and blinked calmly. She wasn't about to have a pissing contest with him. Slowly, he grasped her fingers: his hand dwarfed her's in comparison, strong and warm. "I am Sten."
She nodded, satisfied, and withdrew the hand. "What are you doing here, Sten?"
"Standing, as you observed."
She raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Obviously. Why were you made to stand in the cage, then?"
"The townspeople accuse me of murder." His voice was a monotone, each line falling so perfectly on his tongue that it might as well been rehearsed. "Instead of hanging me, they prefer me to wait here for the immediate darkspawn attack since your King failed at Ostagar."
"And are you guilty?" she asked him.
"Are you asking if I feel guilt, or if I am guilty of the crime?" Before she could answer, he cursed in a tongue not known to her. "Is there a point to this? They think I am guilty, and I face my penance in this cage: to starve or die in the first of the darkspawn's assault."
"I want to know," she said calmly, trying not to show the bewilderment on her face. Then she said, for reasons she didn't know, "I am a Grey Warden. I'm going to defeat the darkspawn."
He said nothing, but waited. His face was like a stone, carved and etched into lines unfathomable and expressionless. White stubble was growing like moss upon that face of his, unshaven but still impeccably bright against his grayish-purple flesh.
"Look at this," Morrigan muttered, coming up next to her. "An intelligent creature, tied up here for the darkspawn. Another example of the Chantry's mercy. A creature such as this does not deserve to be trapped and eaten like a common hare."
"Pity? From you?" Alistair sounded surprised. "Well, I never!"
"I would also suggest Alistair take his place in the cage," Morrigan continued.
"Yes. I would expect that."
"You could find your penance working with us, Sten," Abigail said, hardly believing her own words. "Fight with us against the darkspawn."
"Huh. Intriguing."
She waited.
"It does not matter," said Sten suddenly. "The Revered Mother won't release me, and it is by her hand that I am here. If you can convince her to let me go, then yes, Warden. . . I will fight the darkspawn."
She nodded in a business-like manner and stepped backwards. "Collect your thoughts and your wits, because as soon as I can free you we will be taking to road to Redcliffe, past Bann Teagan's lands. Do you understand?"
"I do."
"Then I shall see you soon."
She turned on her heel and strode back the way she came. When the qunari's cage was out of sight, she let out a big breath she'd been holding and walked over to a large tree standing guard just outside of the local pub and inn. Others mingled outside, but so intent they were on their own suffering they didn't seem to care about her. Her two comrades took their seats next to her and Morrigan launched at once into conversation.
"A qunari could be helpful," said she, "but telling it you were a Grey Warden was a fool thing to do—who knows if it will fight for us and not just kill us all as soon as we release it?"
"You said you pitied him," Abigail countered, without venom. "Well, I do, too."
"Pity," she scoffed. "Yes, I pity any who are constrained by the rules of an organization so corrupt as the Chantry, but--"
Abigail held up her hand, cutting her off. "Hold your peace, Morrigan. He will not betray us so easily as you seem to think."
"I doubt you came across qunari at the Circle."
"I studied them. It was made a priority after the Third Exalted March. To be perfectly honest I cannot remember most of it, because I was young when I finished my research—younger, in fact, than I am now—but I know enough to realize he is not a threat. At least, not a threat to us."
"I do not like this."
"Think of it this way, then," said Abigail, beginning to lose her patience. "If he does decide to kill us, you can have the honor of finishing him. Now, on to our next problem: I'm not welcome inside the Chantry, and I would prefer not to go in at all even if I were. My ring emits a small magical aura that immediately calls out to all copies in the vicinity, and even now I can feel the presence of two mages within the church itself, or at least two rings. If they pay attention, we'll be found out quickly. Alistair, you took Templar training, so I'm going to count on you for the time being. Can you shield the aura with your mind? Any talent you've been taught?"
She held out the golden ring; it was set with a yellow stone, signifying her rank within the order. Alistair looked at it, measuring his next words as if they had the capability to do as much damage as a hammer to glass. "I'll do it," he said, pocketing it. "Just a thought: why are you keeping it if it's just another way for the mages to find you?"
"Magic rings open up as many doors as they close, Alistair," she said. "Thank you, though." She flashed him a kind smile.
"I'll stay here," Morrigan said in what Abigail thought was a childish voice. "If you are set in doing this, then I suppose I cannot walk in there looking like a scary witch, no? Meet me back here when you have the key."
The Revered Mother was a tall, intimidating woman with steel-gray hair and eyes the color of dirt. Her robes, so fair and majestic, were crumpled with worry and her browned face seemed almost withered with her anxiety. Here was a woman who genuinely cared for her people and the Maker Himself. It didn't mean Abigail had to like her, and it certainly didn't mean that the woman had to like her, either.
Abigail could see her across the room, conversing in low tones with a boy of about six. She was consoling him, handing him a bear and a few bronze pieces, probably so he could buy some food. He was the same age she had been when she was taken.
Peace and love. Tranquility and acceptance.
"Hypocrites," Abigail mouthed underneath her breath, inhaling a large lungful to calm herself down. She held her breath for two seconds, then released it. She couldn't afford to be petty now, not when there was the life of a man at stake outside.
She still didn't know why she was doing it, only that it seemed to be the right course of action. She hoped to the Maker she wasn't about to make one of the biggest mistakes of her short and insignificant life.
"You can do it," Alistair said, putting a reassuring hand on her shoulder. They were passing the two mages she'd sensed earlier, bent over a man with a horrible wound. Magic flowed from the tips of their staffs, healing the jagged hole in his thigh bit by bit. Abigail snuck a peak at their faces to see if she recognized them, but either these were rare visitors to the Circle or foreigners because she couldn't place their features. Alistair must have thought they were making her nervous, that they were the cause of the slight tremble in her hands. Oh, no, it was the woman in front of them, this Revered Mother, who made her so angry.
She was going to kill Jowan, there was no doubt of that in her mind. She was angry and hurt with his betrayal, but she was a smart woman, too. She knew that if it hadn't been for the Chantry, if it hadn't been for the Templars, she wouldn't have been going through the heartache right now. Her feelings towards the Chantry and her former friend were strong indeed, and very much on the negative side.
"Abby, I need some help. Quickly, in here." Jowan seized her hand and pulled her along the empty hallways towards the place of communal worship. Instead of bringing her to Andraste's altar, as she suspected, he steered her towards the corner of the room, to a place halfway hidden by piles upon piles of library books stacking the shelves. She could read the names of all of them, in every hand they were written in: elvish, human, and even the dwarven runes of shaping and binding. At first she thought that Jowan was going to ignore one of the Chantry's initiates (a sort of helping hand towards the Revered Mother) until the initiate looked up with a nervous, slightly manic expression on her face that Abigail always associated with exam review. Jowan let go of her hand at once.
The initiate held her own out. Abigail took it. "I am Lily," she said softly, as if she didn't want to be overhead. "I've heard so much about you from Jowan."
Abigail threw Jowan a questioning look. "You said you needed help? What's wrong?"
Jowan began to pace back and forth, anxiety rolling off of his body in waves. "Lily and I love each other, Abby. It's why—it's why I've been so short around you. I'm so sorry. I'll explain more later, if I can, because you have to listen to me. Please."
Abigail nodded, her stomach doing a few flips of it's own. Her new mage robes felt oddly hot on her person, and the new ring on her finger seemed to weigh her down. The staff in her hand, beautifully crafted by somebody who obviously know his trade, was used now more as a support than anything. Oh. How stupid could she have been, anyway, to think that maybe, maybe she and Jowan had something going? How stupid could she be. . .?
And yet he was still her friend, and he apologized. She had to forgive him. "I understand. Tell me what's going on, Jowan."
He began to fidget, and the white scar marking his palm, that funny scar, seemed to gleam in the weak light from the upper windows. "I—I need to escape. People must have seen me sneaking off to see Lily or something, I don't know, but—Abby, they think I'm a blood mage! They're going to do something tonight, I know it. That's why they've brought the Grey Warden, don't you understand? That's why he's here still and Wynne and the others aren't. He's going to help them."
A stone seemed to settle in the pit of her stomach. "No. Not possible. He's recruiting me."
"Then it's a test!" Jowan said. "To see if you'll kill me yourself, I bet! Abby—oh, Abby, I'm afraid. I'm terrified of—of losing Lily. I don't mind dying, but I can't become a Tranquil. I can't--"
She hugged him. "Shush. Shut. Up. We'll help you out."
He hugged her back. "I knew I could count on you. After Teresa--"
She immediately withdrew, glaring at him.
"--after Teresa escaped, I knew I had to do it, too," he finished lamely. "I'm a worthless mage. I can't. . ."
"It will be fine, Jowan," said Lily bracingly, kissing his cheek. "We'll save you."
"I love you," he whispered, turning his face slightly to touch his lips to her's. "I'm so sorry for putting you through all of this."
Abigail cleared her throat. She did not want to listen to this, not when she felt so lost in it all. "Ahem. Plan, anybody?"
The Revered Mother looked up as they approached and scurried the young boy away. Her eyes passed over Abigail, Alistair, and Bear as if they were nothing new to her, then returned to Alistair's. When he motioned for Abigail to say what she wanted to say, the Revered Mother waved a hand towards a private sitting room and closed the door. "I am sorry," she said, taking a seat. Two Templars guarded the entryway, watching them with suspicious eyes. "I just prefer taking visitors in here than outside. There is always so much noise. . ." She gave them an apologetic half-grimace. "Welcome to the Chantry. Will you make a tithe?"
"What kind of payment is respectable?" asked Alistair. "We don't exactly have a lot of money."
"Fifteen bronze pieces would be sufficient," she said. Alistair fished the money out and placed it into the collection jar she held, to Abigail's horror. That was stupid! "Thank you. The Maker smiles upon those who help do His work."
Yeah, I bet He does, you witch.
"Now tell me, is there anything I can do for you, child?"
"We're here to ask about the qunari you've chained up outside of the city," said Abigail, surprised at how calm her voice sounded in light of the thievery. "What has he done to warrant such foul punishment?"
To her surprise, the Revered Mother's face twisted into a scowl. "That creature killed an entire farmhold. Two men, a woman, and their children, thrown across the ground in a rage. With his bare hands he tore them asunder, painting the walls with the blood of the youngest. I left it to the Maker to decide his case, and caged him."
"How did you catch him, then?" Abigail asked shrewdly.
"There was no need, and that is the puzzling part," she said icily. "He merely sat down and waited for the soldiers to pick him up. He just said that he was 'finished' and accompanied them back. He did not deny it, and there is no question that it was perpetrated by that man."
"You're not leaving it to the Maker by putting him in a cage," Abigail argued. "You're leaving him for the darkspawn!"
"As is my right as the Revered Mother of Loathering," the old woman argued. "You did not see it, you child. You know naught of which you speak. What I did was a mercy compared to what the others wished."
"Don't call me a child," Abigail said forcefully. "I've gone through enough not to be called that any more."
"And yet you still are one, all of your experiences for naught," said the woman waspishly. "The creature is where he should be, and if the Blight takes him then it is too kind of a punishment for him."
"Revered Mother," said Alistair, stepping foreword, "you're not imposing the Maker's will. You're imposing you own. What we ask is that you allow the qunari to fight for us. If he dies in battle, then the Maker took care of it. But unless a snake slithers into his cage, if he dies it's your own fault. That's not doing the Maker's work: that's torturing a man."
"You dare suggest--?"
"We do," said Abigail. Bear sat obediently at her feet and tried to look wise. "It's very important you allow him to come with us. He could have broken out of his cage whenever he so wished, but he chose to wait for your decision. Does that not speak volumes about his character?"
"I only know what you have told me," she said.
"Have you even bothered to check on him?" Abigail asked, outraged.
"To make sure he hasn't escaped. To make sure he doesn't harass those around him. We don't feed nor water him. I'm surprised he's still alive."
"How long has this been going on?" Abigail cried.
"Twenty-two days," she said.
"Without food, nor water?"
"Qunari are a very resilient race. It would take an avalanche to beat them down, and they'll only get back up again."
"You talk like a torturer, and one who takes pleasure in it! Do your vows mean absolutely nothing to you?"
One of the Templar guards by the door took a step foreword as if he meant to straighten her out, but the Revered Mother waved him down. She looked hurt. She sat in silence for several minutes and Abigail could only glare at her, her jaw working, intent on doing whatever she could to free Sten.
How strange it was to feel a companionship with one you didn't even know.
These events almost seemed as though they were playing along the lines to a rehearsed play, and Abigail realized, in that instant, that she had dreamed this entire moment during her small nap. She'd dreamed it, but couldn't remember. . . And now she knew that there was something else she had to do, something that would make it all worthwhile.
She knelt by the Revered Mother's knees—a revolting thought—and said in a small voice, "I am sorry, ma'am, but that's just how I see it. I understand you're scared and upset. The darkspawn are marching from Ostagar very soon and Loathering will be overrun within the week. The darkspawn will bring this entire land underneath it's Blight. My friends and I kill darkspawn. To have a qunari indebted to us will increase our chances of succeeding. We are Grey Wardens, if that still has any meaning within these parts."
"You are. . .?" The Revered Mother's lips moved soundlessly and she looked up, her eyes swimming in unshed tears. "I will do you a favor and keep that a secret, then. Forgive me for my harsh words. The last few days have not been boding well with me."
"I understand perfectly," said Abigail, still in that soft-spoken voice. "Please release him and let him find his penance in killing those the Maker loathes." And then she said, because her dream was leading her on by the teeth now, "Simi."
Her eyes were wide. "You speak Elvish?"
"And dwarven, too, but not as well. Regrettable, but true." She shrugged as if it was an annoying, pesky thing. "Ma'am, I--"
She interrupted, as Abigail knew she would. "Don't bother. I. . . I do understand your need." She reached for her necklace and withdrew a small key from an inside pocket. "I give this to you, then. But this comes with a warning: be wary."
Abigail's fingers closed over the warm metal. "I will be. Thank you."
The Revered Mother sat back in her chair, looking wearier than ever before. "You look so familiar. . ." she whispered. Abigail stiffened: this wasn't part of the dream at all. The Revered Mother gave her a sad little smile and gripped her hand, glancing down at it momentarily as if she'd forgotten why she'd touched it in the first place. "Ah, yes. I understand now."
"Understand what?" Abigail asked cautiously.
The Revered Mother held her in her sights for a long time and just shook her head again. "You'll understand, too, before the end. Love will guide your way. Always remember that, when you are in doubt. May the Maker watch over you."
Abigail frowned a bit, then stood. She bowed. "Thank you for your time, Mother."
"Do be safe. You must stay safe, especially in your current position. I'll send a letter immediately to Redcliffe, let them know to expect you. . ." She trailed off, mumbling to herself, and the three of them left the room.
Abigail clutched the key in her hand, a little disturbed. Alistair voiced her thoughts aloud: "She seemed to have recognized you. Do you know her?"
"No. . . I don't, and that's different. I'm not used to having a recognizable face."
As they left, Abigail handed Alistair the key; he in turn handed her back her ring, which she slipped on to the hand that had been in the Revered Mother's grasp. An idea struck her. "You don't think she was looking for a mage ring, do you?"
"There's a thought," Alistair muttered. "You gather too much attention with that thing. You should sell it at Redcliffe when you get the chance. I'm not usually one for black market trade, but this warrants it."
"Yes. . . I suppose. Though I can't seem to let it go. Haven't you ever had anything you loved as much, and hated, both at the same time?"
"A locket. Long story. Tell you later."
She laughed.
"Well, whatever it was, you managed to get us a qunari. He better keep to his promise, because--" Alistair did not go on, but Abigail could see where his thoughts were leading.
"He will," she said confidently. "Would it be really weird of me to say that it almost feels like a sign from the Maker?"
"Yeah, kind of." He laughed, too.
Morrigan waited for them in the inn at a table all to herself, sipping a mug of water. Abigail wasn't surprised that she'd chosen to forgo any of the alcoholic drinks: she wouldn't touch them, either, because anybody with the ability to detect the scent of various alchemical roots and fungi would have their stomachs twisted at the smell of beer and wine, which smelled interestingly like the root of a woodland plant that made the one who ingested it perilously ill. The effects were not unlike those who imbibed too much alcohol, come to think of it.
Morrigan was drawing stares from every corner of the room, dressed as she was, and she paid little attention. She'd already chased off the bartender, it seemed, and many of the rowdier-looking men looked too intimidated even to come over and attempt to woo her with drunken hilarity or the promise of a good time. She stood as Alistair, Abigail, and the mabari entered, drank the rest of her water, and joined them. "Let us leave. Did you get the keys? Yes? Good. We may be able to salvage this--"
Abigail glanced over Morrigan's shoulder and felt her stomach turn to ice. "Let's go."
What she'd noticed had not gone unseen by Alistair, nor Morrigan. A group of soldiers in the corner nearest the bar were drinking and watching them with suspicious eyes; all wore the symbol of Teryn Loghain.
Bear, sensing the danger, stood in front of Abigail and watched them in turn. When they met his glare, he strode right up to their leader and raised his leg. Yellow urine, possibly a stream of yellow urine, rushed from his glands and hit the man's metal boot with a hollow-sounding noise. He stood up, yelling in anger, and attempted to kick at him. Bear leaped out of the way, barking and snarling so fiercly that a few of the men's compatriots fumbled for their swords.
Abigail's darkspawn blade was drawn faster than she could have thought possible, it's tip fixed inches away from his throat. "You're going to leave him alone," she said matter-of-factually. "And you're going to leave us alone."
"Is that right?" he sneered. He was a tall, balding man with dark hair that creeped around his head in a type of mustache that made her want to tug at it. "Loghain set us up here to watch for you two. . . seemed to think you'd survived. Well, now you're going to pay. For King Cailan!" he roared, drawing his sword.
Before either could strike, a woman—red-haired, blue-eyed, wearing Chantry robes—stepped in between them. "Surely there is no need for violence, now, is there?" she asked in a light, pleasing Orlesian accent.
"They brought violence with them," said the leader, and he struck at Abigail.
She backpedaled, taking cover behind Alistair as he moved foreword, his shield already in place to deflect an incoming blow. Abigail yelled a Command, knocking the human fighters to the ground with a well-timed telekinetic blast. Bear stepped over the leader, who hadn't dropped his sword, and placed his open mouth over his neck, squeezing slightly. He dropped the sword and became very, very still.
"Now what do you say?" Morrigan asked peevishly.
"I—I--"
"Ahem."
"Drop your weapons," he squealed. "Drop 'em!"
"Very good," Alistair congratulated. "Aw, look at him, he's learning how to talk."
Abigail knelt next to his head and looked at him straight in the eyes. "You will go back to Loghain and take a message."
He nodded: he seemed to be unable to take a proper breath. "Yes!"
"Tell him that he's a fool if he believes the Grey Wardens are the true threat. Tell him we're about to take care of his darkspawn problem, and that we know the truth of what happened at Ostagar. You tell him that! Understand me? Good. Alistair, take their weapons away from them."
Alistair hastened to oblige, and only when all of the metal swords and the wooden bows were safely tucked away on a table did Bear loosen his literal deathgrip on the shaking man. "You may go now," Abigail said, allowing them to leave.
Morrigan waved. "Ah, such fun."
"I am glad blood did not have to be spilled here," said the Orlesian Chantry-woman. She watched them go, a slight frown of disapproval marring her beautiful face. Suddenly she seemed to remember them, and held out her hand for shaking. "Sorry. Please allow me to introduce myself: I am Leliana, on eof the lay-sisters here at the Chantry. And I am coming with you."
Abigail blinked. "And what makes you think that?"
She grimaced. "I know it sounds sort of weird, and I apologize, but the Maker told me to come with you."
"Uh. . . did He talk to you? Did you hear voices?"
"What? Oh, no, I am not crazy at all, I assure you. I had a dream, and in the dream, I knew I was to help you against the darkspawn. Please, you must believe me."
"Well. . ." Abigail looked behind her for some support. Bear was already going up to her, rubbing his scent on her robes. For the first time, Abigail noticed a discarded backpack at her feet. It partially obscured a small bow and a pack of elf-flight arrows. A bulge in her robes she'd automatically taken as a wrinkle in her clothing suddenly solidified in her mind as the outline of a knife. "You certainly seem to have been waiting for me. . ."
"More crazy?" Alistair whined. "I thought we were all full-up."
"I don't know, Leliana. . ."
"If you leave me, I will only follow you," she said stoutly. "I can fight. I learned a few things on the road. Allow me to help."
Abigail was wavering. Was it possible two dreams were right? "Okay. I don't think I can sway you otherwise."
Leliana visibly relaxed, all tension draining out of her shoulders. "Well, that is good, then," she said, bending down to pick up her backpack. "I have my own money. It's not much, but I'm willing to pool my resources with yours. . ."
Morrigan disapproved. "Perhaps your head was cracked worse than mother thought. . ."
"We need all of the help we can get, Morrigan," Abigail said. Even if she is one Archdemon short of a Blight, as it seems.
"Yes, yes, but this one's more like 'Oooh, pretty colors!' instead of 'I'm princess stabbitty stab, kill, kill!'" Abigail threw him a look, and he shrugged modestly. "What? Just saying."
Bear barked.
"Leliana," said Abigail, "we're going to Redcliffe. But before that, we're freeing the qunari prisoner Sten and bringing him with us. Do you have objection?"
"No, I'm just relieved you have decided to take me along," said Leliana. She smiled, embarrassed. "But I'm afraid I didn't get your names. I was so intent on not looking like a fool than getting to know my future companions. I'm sorry."
"No problem, I understand," said Abigail, nodding. "I'm Abigail. This is Alistair, and Morrigan. This is Bear."
"Abigail. Alistair. Morrigan. Bear. I'm very sure I can remember that." She laughed, and the sound was as refreshing as a dip in a cool stream after a long hike. "Perhaps you can explain what we are going to do next? And allow me a chance to change out of my robes? I had a feeling those soldiers would accost you sooner than later, and did not wish to draw undue attention to myself." She chuckled.
"Go ahead and change. We're leaving very soon. We'll wait for you here."
Leliana nodded. "I will be right back!" She lifted up her backpack and made for the door. She turned back around and looked at each of them in the eye. "Thank you. Really. You don't know what this means to me."
Abigail watched her go and rubbed her temples with her knuckle. "Well, two people, second day out. I think we're doing great."
Morrigan sighed, and her fingernails crackled with static electricity.