Story note:

Dragon Age is property of Bioware. Original characters are mine, and are to be treated as such. If you want to adopt some of my AU changes to your own story, then, please, do so.

Here's the next chapter. This time a slow paced one, with a reminiscent and thoughful Araris. A bit of setting up for future events, too. Maybe you'll spot it. Enjoy!

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In An Age Full Of Heroes

Chapter IV

A Gathering of Clouds

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Araris had found shelter in Amaranthine's more common and worn districts. He currently stayed at a small, shabby inn, on the south-western edge of the city. Earlier that day he'd scouted the negligibly less guarded city gateway nearby. Should the desperate need to leave quick and quiet arrive.

Seated behind a worn wooden table in a gloomier corner of the inn, he sat like some road-weary traveller. A single candle burned down slowly, lighting his lonely spot in warm flickers. Hardened wax coated the brass saucer underneath.

Placed before him were plates, now barren of steaming chowder with bits of potato and herbs and spice floating inside. A small pot with a ladle inside, discarded at the table's unoccupied side, filled with leftovers from the odd tasting fish-soup. Besides the plates, slices of stale bread to dip into the soup, a nearly emptied bottle of cheap and sour red wine and a glass occupied the table.

Araris sat on a wooden stool, his back perched against the cold stone wall behind him. Broodingly, he inhaled idle breaths of his pipe, the languorous taste of the Antivan pipe weed tingling deep down in the caverns of his lungs.

As he'd first entered the small tavern the sky had been pouring rain for hours, ever since he arrived in Amaranthine. Cloth soaked wet, a painful cold gnawing at his weary bones. Surprised heads snapped up at his entrance, because of the unexpected hour he arrived at. Only a few dreary guests greeted him. Eyes roamed over his drenched woollen travelling cloak, hiding his prominent features. Scabbarded longsword slung diagonally over his back, peeking over his right shoulder, nobody had spoken up. Just another desperate soul, seeking shelter from the rough weather.

After being assured that he wouldn't cause trouble, the large innkeeper offered him shelter from the harsh elements, bed and warm food for the night.

The only thing sadly absent, which he needed doubtlessly, was a bath. Never in his life had he felt this filthy and soiled. The scent of sweat and salt clung to his skin and clothes. He just wanted to take a long bath and scrub every last bit of dirt off his sore body.

The scarring wound from the crossbow bolt in his shoulder still itched terribly. His left arm still hadn't regained its full motoric functionality, sending spikes of pain and unease through his shoulder with every movement.

But life had changed and if he were to guess, he'd say that he was looking forward to a bitter and cynic life. Constant danger lurking in every shadow and hiding behind every tree and corner. As long as Rendon Howe lived, there'd be no peaceful moment for him.

Of that, Araris was sure.

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Ferelden was in political turmoil. To put it nicely.

The only word associated with the Battle of Ostagar, and the late king's stand there, was either disaster or betrayal. It varied from mouth to mouth. Yet, better it did never get.

Word was that Teyrn Loghain had been able to draw back with most of his men in the nick of time. Quite fortunate, that. Saving thousands of soldiers' lives, a sizable portion even hailing from Highever. Not his brother, though, if rumours were to be believed. Araris had heard that Highever's remaining soldiery had left with Arl Bryland and Bann Alfstanna after the Landsmeet, but other than that, nothing.

Both of them are, after all, deeply loyal vassals to the Cousland family, and Leonas Bryland is, furthermore, distantly related to his family on the maternal side.

But all that was irrelevant, he could change nothing about any of it. So, to mull over what-ifs and what's-not availed him nothing other than a waste of precious time.

Yet, the cost of Loghain's retreat had been high. The royal forces had been obliterated down to the last man. His majesty, the young King Cailan had been murdered and betrayed by the Grey Wardens, who, in secret, conspired with Orlais' empress Celene.

Just like my family.

Then there was also talk about the Landsmeet. And how things had turned sour very quick. Loghain had declared himself regent in light of the king's premature demise. Even going as far as pushing his own daughter, Queen Anora, off the throne and discard her like a wooden doll. Naturally Ferelden's numerous banns and arls and lords hadn't liked this kind of self-coronation.

Civil war was imminent and couldn't, by now in Araris' opinion, be avoided. That the queen, rightful in her legitimacy for the throne, did not oppose her father in the slightest hadn't helped either.

The divided banns wouldn't settle down peacefully. One side supporting Loghain and his armies in smothering the resistance, emanating from those banns who'd oppose Loghain's shady grab of regency.

Unsurprisingly, he was, after all, only a common man by birth. To have him govern as Ferelden's regent in the absence of a king during this time of strife would've affronted many a noble. Araris was sure of that.

Yet the man was, undoubtedly, an accomplished general and the most trusted advisor of two kings, by now, which would lure a considerable part of the Landsmeet onto his side. Either out of respect or out of fear.

And thus, two sides on opposite ends of the fence were created. Ready to charge each other with zeal. To spill the blood of brothers and fellow men. It was what the banns did in their infinite boredom, after all. They'd go to war with each other for petty things like elopements, wool and apple trees. This time they actually had a reason.

But, alas, what incredibly poor timing. Darkspawn weren't much interested in human politics and infighting.

Lastly, there was that talk. The talk that made Araris stomach churn with seething rage and devouring hatred. Talk that made his fingers twitch, aching to curl around the grip of his weapon.

Rumours and whispers about the shady events at Castle Cousland, now put to the torch. Nothing but a smoking and blackened ruin remained, if the reports were indeed true.

The great Arl Howe, who thwarted a most treacherous plot of spies and liars and traitors. Rendon Howe, who did Ferelden proud with his selfless actions, stopping the planned invasion of legions of Orlesian chevaliers in its tracks. Rendon Howe who rightfully claimed the Teyrinr of Highever for himself and sacked the Arling of Denerim after a vicious mob ripped Vaughan Kendells, the de facto ruler of the arling - after his father died at Ostagar - to shreds. Araris had only remembered distant stories considering the Vaughan family, grim tales of sexual abuse in Denerim's alienage.

Yet other voices whispered other tales. The insidious Arl Howe, who in a fit of madness and lust for power, slaughtered the entire bloodline of the Couslands, to the last man, woman and child. Even the servants and maids. None were left alive. Just like the castle, he burnt down anyone who could know and voice the truth to oppose him.

He felt a pang of gratefulness at those voices.

But Araris didn't care for the truth. He only wanted Rendon Howe in the same room.

Whichever was the truth to the peasant folk, the fact remained, that as Arl of Amaranthine and Denerim as well as Teyrn of Highever, Rendon Howe could doubtlessly call himself the most powerful man in the entire kingdom. His armed forces would outnumber even Loghain's. Not to forget Denerim's city guard.

The last piece of local news, however accurate, was about Castle Redcliffe. If the rumours were true, Arl Eamon, a strong and respected voice in the Landsmeet, who had been mysteriously absent at the time, had fallen ill to an enigmatic sickness. Therefore his good wife, the Arlessa of Redcliffe, Isolde, had sent out her knights in a, if Araris would be asked, misguided and preposterous search for the Sacred Urn of Andraste's ashes.

When he'd heard that, he'd choked on his glass of wine. But well, legend said the ashes of the holy woman cured any illness. Common folk, unsurprisingly, liked their tales painted illustrious. An arlessa however should know better, than to bet everything on fancy tales and legend.

Araris himself believed it all to be plebeian rubbish. Common folk must believe in something, after all. Thus, there must be another, more logical explanation for the further absence of news from Redcliffe.

Having sat long enough in the shabby Amaranthine tavern, eavesdropping on patrons to gather information, the last living member of the Cousland family decided to finally get going.

Of course, he knew that simply running around and slaughtering every Amaranthine soldier wouldn't get him the opportunity to deliver bittersweet vengeance. It was tempting to just let it all out, unleash his rage.

Tempting, but foolish.

He'd need support.

And with Highever's troops vanished somewhere under the command of Arl Bryland, simply riding into the Bannorn and hoping to find them was ludicrous at best. He'd be just like Arlessa Isolde and a hypocrite, on top of that, for thinking little about her.

So, if Araris rode to Redcliffe, maybe he could manage to convince the elderly arl for his cause. Redcliffe's army hadn't participated in the Battle of Ostagar, thus the arl's armed forces would be at full strength, with the addition of the troops the arl's brother, Teagan, would contribute to Araris' cause, if he managed to forge an alliance, then that would make quite a formidable armed force.

At least it was something solid to start with.

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The small fire cackled delightfully. Embers ascended into the cool of night. Greedily, its flames ate at the surrounding air and timber blocks. Shades of blissful orange coated the immediate vicinity. Crickets chirped in the otherwise silent night.

Araris sat on a boulder in front of the hearth.

Affixed on a wooden branch above the licking fire, a brass pot hung. With his ladle he stirred around the contents of his simmering stew. Pieces of potatoes and beans and tomatoes swirled alongside slices of chopped lamb meat seasoned with spices and herbs, all soused in the contents of a bottle of cheap red wine.

After nearly two weeks of travel, stew classified as a royal feast for him. Thankfully, he'd been able to resupply in the village of Lothering, for his supplies had been nearly depleted. Araris hadn't been sure if avoiding the village would've been better, but in the end the prosaic need for a decent hot meal and the prospect of an actually warm bed won.

Full ladle guided to his waiting mouth, Araris tasted a bite of his stew. Deeming it ready, he grabbed a wooden bowl, another new tool he acquired in Lothering, and filled it to brim with steaming stew. Then, he feasted royally.

Afterwards, he cleaned the bowl at a nearby stream, before he got his wooden pipe, stuffed it with Antivan weed and lit it. Leaning his tied bed roll against the boulder, he sprawled out in front of the fire, head resting easily against his make-shift pillow.

For a time his mind drifted off, befuddled and hazy, occupied with the task of simply blowing smoke rings into the air, watching them under heavy eyelids.

Till his faithful Orlesian mare nickered in response to the rustle of undergrowth nearby. Araris jumped up quickly, head swirling considerably from the pipe weed. But ingrained muscle memory couldn't be toppled by a bit of pipe weed.

The young nobleman lunged for his scabbarded longsword, resting in the grass beside him, and drew it. He discarded the sheath back onto the ground, clutching his weapon in a two-handed grip.

'Show yourself!' Spoke he to the shadows.

And the shadows answered. 'I mean no harm, good man.' They sounded appeasing.

Then, the shadows parted and into the hearth's light stepped a man. Clad in worn mail and scratched plate armour, a shield shouldered and a sword sheathed at his hip. Palms open, he held his hands out to his sides, clear to see.

'I am Ser Stanley of Redcliffe,' the middle-aged man introduced himself.

Araris lowered his sword, though he didn't sheath it.

'And what, Ser Stanley of Redcliffe, do you seek at my fire?'

'Only a place to rest. With company and food if you're willing to give it. I am not very apt at . . . well, survival outside society.'

Araris looked the polite knight over. Could be worse.

'I welcome you then, Ser Stanley of Redcliffe. Eat and drive the chill from your bones at my fire.' Araris sheathed his sword and sat down on the boulder again, still alert.

'Many thanks and may the Maker's light continue to shine upon you.'

Of course, may he.

Opposite him, Ser Stanley set aside his iron shield on the ground. And, indeed, there was the heraldry of Redcliffe painted onto it. Which did not mean that much by itself, he could've looted it from a fresh corpse.

Opening his leather belt, wrapped around his hips, the Redcliffe knight removed his sheathed sword and discarded it beside his shield.

Trusting the man far enough not to try to kill him, Araris rummaged inside his saddlebag for the wooden bowl. Found, he held it out for Ser Stanley to grab. The knight did so and nodded his thanks, before pausing.

After a while he asked, 'how should I call you, good ser?'

Araris used what few heartbeats of time remained, before the question would pass over into awkward silence, to think. Obviously, he couldn't introduce himself as who he really was, the son of a teyrn. And as some believed, that of a traitor. Unable to gauge the opposite person's opinion after such a short time, assuming the persona of a knight would do fine.

It would allow him to explain many of the things he owned, which many peasant people couldn't. But most of all, he'd be able to explain the possession of an Orlesian horse of fine breed without soliciting too many raised eyebrows.

'I am Ser Araris . . . of Highever,' Araris answered.

The Redcliffe knight smiled slightly at him in response. 'Well met, Ser Araris of Highever.'

A though crossed Araris' mind. Maybe he hasn't heard about what happened at Highever.

Ser Stanley filled the wooden bowl with the remnants of Araris' stew and began to eat. His features lit up somewhat, possible at the certainty of hot food filling his growling stomach.

Once the knight finished his meal, looking content and overly satisfied, Araris asked him a question that had gnawed at him for a while.

'Would you tell me, Ser Stanley, what are you doing out here?'

'Ah, you see, my arl has been taken by a mysterious sickness. The arlessa, Maker bless her and her son, sent many of us knights out to search for a cure.'

'Forgive me, but how would knights know a cure for a sickness they do not even understand.'

'It's true, knights wouldn't know much about leechcraft.' With a croak of metal plate's shifting against each other, Ser Stanley scratched his neck. 'But the arlessa sent us out to search for healers, if need be even apostates, for the Circle of Magi's templars wouldn't permit us the help of mages.'

He hesitated shortly in his narration.

'Yet, most of us, were sent to find a certain brother of the Chantry. Genetivi he is called.'

Araris frowned. 'I've heard of Brother Genetivi, read some of his work, too. How would he be able to help, he is not healer nor is he able to practise magic of any sorts.'

'True again, good ser. But the brother was on a quest to locate our holy Andraste's resting place. It is said that her ashes cure all illness, and Brother Genetivi allegedly was close to finding it.'

Araris wanted to scratch out his eyes and scream his dismay loud into the night. Somehow, he managed to stay calm, concentrating on simply breathing.

How could the arlessa? What madness drove the woman to such a ludicrous idea? There'd be no army at Redcliffe. Their armed forces would be scattered to the four winds. Like stray puppies searching for something, the arlessa's own madness burning bright in their eyes.

Araris shook his head, trying to banish his thoughts. They'd only upset him further, if he overthought the situation now. No use for that.

So he asked, 'I take it you journey to Redcliffe, then?'

'Indeed, I do.'

'Perfect, then we shall journey there together, for it is also my destination.'

From under scrunched eyebrows, Ser Stanley peered at him, though not in an impolite way, only with curiosity.

'Is that so, what business brings you there?'

'I have business with Arl Eamon, but after what you just told me, that could prove a bit difficult to achieve.' Araris sighed.

No other place to go, after all. Something solid, pah!

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Araris gently led his horse along the reins. Side by side he walked with Ser Stanley of Redcliffe, for the man possessed no mount of his own.

But Araris didn't mind the delay in time they'd spend in travelling to Redcliffe on foot. There was no pressing reason for him to go there now, with the arl sick, that is.

The polite voice of Ser Stanley dragged him out of his dreary thoughts.

'A very beautiful beast you have there, Ser Araris. She caught my eye the moment I laid eyes upon her.'

'Yes, I found her on a trip for my teyrn in Orlais.' Araris caressed the dark mare's neck, twirling its soft mane between his fingers. He smiled in spite of himself. 'I couldn't leave her there. Now could I, Kelpie dear?'

'A fine name for a fine beast, indeed, Ser Araris.' The knight looked Araris' mount over with admiring eyes. 'If there is one thing Orlesians really know about, then it is horses. One has to give them that.'

'True, Ser Stanley.'

They continued on in silence for a few bells' time. Only stopping shortly to eat a few stripes of dried bacon.

When they spotted wreathes of black smoke rise high in the distance, the knight gasped. Never a good sign, that.

'By the Maker, what is happening? That must be coming from the village.'

The Redcliffe knight accelerated his paces, moving with distraught haste. Before too long, he'd be tired out. But Araris made no move to stop the man. Absently, he could relate.

'Maybe one of the buildings caught fire, many of them have hay roofs,' the knight tried to persuade nature around them. He probably didn't convince himself, certainly not Araris, so he must be talking to someone else.

Soon after, the tension in Ser Stanley all but decreased, coming down from the hills they arrived on a ridge overlooking Redcliffe village. No house burned, only small rowboats sailing out onto Lake Calenhad. They'd been set on fire with purpose.

Ser Stanley, peering down on his homestead, looked pale.

Then a man, dressed in common leathers, arrived. A longbow and a quiver with a few arrows peeked over one shoulder. He ran towards them over the stone-cobbled bridge, straddling a rushing river, leading over to a natural intersection. He waved and shouted incomprehensible words at them.

One path of the natural intersection wound up through the cliffs and across an enormously long bridge, which in turn led to an island where the ancient Castle Redcliffe sat perched atop, whilst the second path of the intersection led down into the village, cowering in the shadow of the reddish cliffs above.

Bowed with hands on his knees the peasant caught his breath with ragged gasps.

In between them, 'I knew I saw someone coming,' he pressed out.

Agitation evidently rising up in Ser Stanley at the peasant's continued inability to find neither breath nor voice, Araris put a comforting hand on the smaller man's broad shoulders. Ser Stanley looked at him, then nodded hesitantly in consent.

Finding the ability to do so, the commoner spoke up. 'Have you come to help?' Desperation oozed palpable out of his voice.

It was the Redcliffe knight who answered, his usual politeness absent. 'Help? What's happened?'

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Author's note:

If there were parts you liked or didn't, I bid you to take a few minutes and submit a review. Constructive criticism will be well received and answered to.