Chapter Two

—THE START OF EVERY ADVENTURE—

Rats…giant, feral rats as big as a domestic house cat with red bulging eyes and a drooling sneer, growling angrily at those who interrupted their breakfast. Artha and Gilmore were back to back, their swords drawn and Fang moved into a battle-ready stance with his head close to the ground, his own growls matching the rats' in animalistic ferocity.

They were coming out from amongst the shelves and sacks full of grain. Circling them like wolves circling a deer. Suddenly another jumped up at them, Artha managed to punch the creature out of the air and Gilmore began ploughing through the horde with his sword, masterfully without so much as scraping the stone floor. Artha did the same, slicing at every giant rat that came at him. They roared quite loudly for any normal rat, like actual hounds themselves.

Fang was doing his part as well, roaring and barking, snatching them in his huge and powerful jaws before hurtling them into the crowd like a trebuchet. Artha didn't think he'd try actually eating one of them, he could get sick.

They were at it for half an hour now. After they dissipated back into the shadows, Fang led the charge to hunt them all out again. Thankfully their size made it difficult for them to hide once they knew what they were looking for and in no time they had a large pile of giant dead rat carcases which now presented a new problem. He looked at the heap of black leather-like fur, dripping blood and besides feeling like he needed to hurl, he was now confused at what else to do with them. Should they tell Nan, or the teyrna?

"Giant rats? It's like the start of every bad adventure tale my grandfather used to tell," Gilmore commented. "I've seen larger, coming out from the Korcari Wilds."

The Korcari Wilds, that's in the South, where the darkspawn were coming from, Artha thought. What really had him was how they came all the way from the Korcari Wilds or why settle at Highever? Again he considered telling the others about this, then again it was more just a reinforcement of what they already knew. This was but another sign of the impending Blight, but maybe he should tell Nan though.

At least now it was clear that Fang wasn't raiding the larder at all. The mabari dog barked proudly, jumping up and down in celebration.

"Well seeing as you've got your mabari well in hand, I'll be on my way," Ser Gilmore announced before patting the young lord on the back and vanishing from the kitchens.

Artha resealed the pantry door and came before the old cook with Fang in tow. She was a short and thin elderly woman with silver hair tied back. Her face contorted into an eternal expression of worry which was in no short part of his. He loved her like she was his real grandmother, like she was blood and it was true to almost everyone at Castle Cousland, or all of Highever for that matter, they were not just people who lived in the country, they were family.

"Huh, there he is, as brazen as you please," the cook boomed in short of utter rage. "Licking his chops after helping himself to the roast, no doubt!" She laughs with a fatal jab of ire, "And makes off like a free thief, he does."

Cath, one of the serving elves had beaten him to the news, announcing she witnessed the presence of big rats that invaded the larder when she came in to retrieve the potatoes for the stew.

"Oh, it looks like the dog's killed them," added Adney, another Elf servant to whom Artha gave a gesture of gratitude for his defence.

Nan was not going to relent however and crossed her arms across her breasts, "Hmph, I bet that dog led those rats into there to begin with." Fang whined and looked at her lopsidedly tilting his wrinkled head as though to plead his innocence further. "Oh don't even start with the sad eyes. I'm immune to your so called charms!"

Still, Fang whined, approaching her with his head bowed down.

Nan sighed and shook her head at him. "Here then," she placed a small bowl of assorted meats before the dog. "Pork bits and don't say that Nan never gives you anything, bloody dog." Fang was ecstatic, leaping up and down probably to try and plant a kiss on the old cook's tired face before jumping back into his prize for defeating the giant rats in the larder.

Artha found it all rather amusing though and suspected his mabari was as equally if not more pleased to appease Nan than the bowl of meaty bits. They were like family and family never stay mad at each other for long. Sooner rather than later Nan would be back to her old self and ordering her staff to make double time for what was lost in the rat invasion. She thanked him for coming to his old nanny's rescue. Artha's cheeks reddened and shyly accepted the thanks.

Then a smile appeared on her face as she went to the tables and started chopping up the steaks. "What about you, my lord," she started, "been keeping safe and well behaved, I hope?"

Artha chuckled as he snatched an apple from a basket as Cath moved past to take them to the Main Hall, planting a quick kiss on the elf's cheek as she did so. "Now why would I say anything but yes?" Artha winked at Nan as he crunched on his crimson delicacy.

"Huh, that clever mouth of yours will get you into trouble one day."

"And quicker wit would get me out of it," Artha added coyly.

Nan could only mumble at that and moved on to plopping the steaks in herbs and sauce to marinate. Artha continued to watch as she prepared, waiting for Fang to finish his indulgences but when he saw he was more a burden upon the kitchen staff he saluted them and lead his troublesome hound away.

He saw the sun slowly begin to drop leaving a shadow over the narrowing street-like passageways of Castle Cousland's exterior. It emphasised the moss on the old grey stones, and in the silence the halls from the kitchen seemed abandoned, almost like ancient ruins if it weren't for the echoes of a thousand marching metal clad men.

Fang scuttled beside him with a juicy bone still trapped in his jaws and they make their way to the atrium where he'd hope Fergus was still around or at the very least where he could ask young Oren where his dad was.

As he approached the atrium he spotted his mother standing in the middle of the path, wearing her nice blue yet causal dress she appeared to be entertaining some guests; a woman, around the same age as her, one who looked quite younger and a man with auburn curls. He recognised two of them but not the younger woman.

He catches a hint of what they were talking about, his mother had regaled them about something his dad had gifted to her from a marquis in Orlais who mistook him for a king or rather. Upon his approach, Artha a disrupted the conversation but not the laughter from both her mother and her guests. She recomposed herself to introduce them to her youngest son. "I take it by the presence of that troublesome hound of yours that the situation in the kitchens is handled?"

Artha shrugged his shoulders, "Nan's head exploded and Fang ate the kitchen staff."

He could see his mother trying to mask her amusement with an unimpressed brow. "Well at least someone's well fed." Fang started jumping around again, offering his bone at the teyrna's feet. His mother merely sighed and shook her head at her son. She then went on to the introductions.

The older woman was Bann Loren's wife, Lady Landra. It was not their first meeting, last was at his mother's spring salon. Artha bowed to her, "Of course, it is good to see you again, M'lady."

"You're too kind, dear boy," the woman was far from shy, even winked at him quite flirtatiously. "Didn't I spend half the salon shamelessly flirting with your?"

"Right in front of your family, too," the curly haired young man added, bemused.

"You remember my son, Dairren," said Lady Landra as the young man bowed to him also. He was a tad older than him he recalled. They had sparred at some tourney if he remembered correctly. Dairran confirmed this and also shared that Artha had beaten the man handily.

The two young nobles gripped each other's forearms and drew in to embrace as men and old friends. At least he might have some appropriate company while he were relegated to the castle.

But the other woman, the younger one whom after tucking her hair behind her ear revealed them pointed as that of the elves. Lady Landra introduced her as her lady-in-waiting, Iona. She seemed to look at him with shy eyes, holding back a blush that crept up without her meaning to which caused Artha a slight bit of pleasure. She curtsied as she addressed the young lord and Artha could not deny, the young woman was rather attractive herself.

They spoke some more, and through Iona's tripping on her sentences he found she was as smitten as he was. However, shortly Artha had to take his leave asking his mother where his brother was. "If he's not with his men, probably upstairs with Oriana," she inferred.

Soon when the other guests disappeared, Dairren told them Iona and he would retreat into the library while Landra took to the castle's towers to gaze at the view of the lands. The Teyrna gazed at the boy with something lost between sadness and motherly pride but she sensed something troubling. "I know I'm being a little bit paranoid, even for me but I have a bad feeling about all this."

Even when he brought up Grey Wardens, Darkspawn and she'd guessed her son's unsaid desire to join, the thought terrified her, but she was also proud, to have a son that would want for nothing more than to be worthy of his name. She knew how difficult it could be to stay behind and watch others ride off, they lived in troubled times indeed. She herself would soon travel with Lady Landra to her estate and keep her old friend company for a while. Naturally she could feel her concerns were subtly seeping as she told him she loved him. Her son smiled and she planted a kiss on his temple before sending him on his way. When it came to love and duty, she found her youngest had difficulty discerning the two, as romantic as it sounded he could not learn to lead without it.

Walking up to the atrium before the Private Quarters he could see Oren jumping on one of the tables, a wooden toy sword in his hand, laughing cheerfully as he swats the blade at a monstrous dragon he assumed. "Ello there, Oren, is that nasty dragon dead yet?"

The boy looked to him with excitement and rushed over to him. Artha plucked him off of the ground and held him over his shoulders and zooming off like he was flying a gryphon into battle. Like Artha, Oren grew up in Highever, mostly in the castle if not the towns outside on occasion. He grew up on fantastical stories of heroes and monsters like the Grey Wardens or great wars in far off distant lands. Oren was Fergus' only child, not much older than eight or nine years-old. With dark hair and a cheeky yet rather shy smile, he took semblance more of Artha than Fergus in terms of mannerisms much to his mother Oriana's relief.

Artha carried his young nephew all the way into the Bedroom Quarters, a hall with five separate bedrooms—the Teyrn's private chambers at the end with His and Fergus' to the left and right as well as a couple of guest rooms. As he passed he bumped into tables, knocking down vases and Oren slashes his sword at the shelf of books, knocking the precious volumes to the ground with a series of thuds and Fang following behind witch equal excitement.

This gets Oriana's attention, leaving the sanctuary of her room to check on the commotion. No she was not surprised to see her son and brother-in-law trashing the place. With her hands on her hips she awaits with impatience, her delinquents to notice her glare and stop.

Swiftly enough they do.

Sure enough Fergus was indeed in his room just putting on his armour, asking his beloved wife for assistance in strapping on his pauldrons. His armour northern armour complimented his frame—tall, broad shouldered, dark hair and a light beard gracing his moderately handsome face. While Artha resembled more his father, it was said that Fergus took on more of their mother's subtle features.

Oren jumps into his father's arms, not minding the coolness of the steel. "Papa, will you bring me back a s'woud?"

Fergus smiled as he put the little fella back down to his mother. "That's 'sword', Oren and I'll get you the mightiest one I can find, I promise. We'll be back before you know it." That last part he said it more to his doting wife, so worried these past few days she'd scarcely sleep.

"I wish victory was indeed so certain," she confessed. "My heart is…disquiet."

"Don't frighten the boy, love." He kneeled down to meet his son, his hand on his shoulder. "I speak the truth." Fergus came to his wife, wiping away small droplets of tears making their way down her cheeks. "Wish me well," he whispered privately to her. Soon his attentions were given to his younger brother, there to see him off.

"Relax, Oriana, no darkspawn will get close to Fergus enough to harm the poor sot," Artha laughed, embracing his brother.

Oriana sighed, reminding them of their mortality. She was right of course, but in the spirit of bolstering morale, as a military general, Fergus understood the appeal of immortality. "I wish I could go with you," Artha found himself saying.

"I wish you could come, it'll be tyring, killing all those darkspawn myself."

"Surely your father wouldn't place both of his heirs in danger," again the voice of reason, or of inequivalent paranoia, Oriana sat herself at her desk.

Fergus agreed, their mother and father had been fighting about it for days. "It's too bad, I could have used you at my side." He took his baby brother's arm and each shared in a moment reminiscent of their younger years. If not comrades in the field of battle, then on the playgrounds.

"I'm going to miss you, brother."

Again, Fergus smiled and his smile filled his heart with joy, a trait from having a suave seafaring raider for a mother. "If it's any consolation, I'm sure I'll freeze in the southern rain and be completely jealous of you up here, warm and safe," he winked and cocked a half smile.

Suddenly Oriana was on her feet as if she'd just been bonked on the head and started rummaging through her troves at the foot of their bed in search of extra fur cloaks for her husband.

"Oi, did you know there's a Grey Warden in the castle?" Artha asked. Immediately it struck interest in his nephew's eyes. He asked if he'd seen him riding a griffon like in the tales to which Artha just shrugged. He then informed them that he was recruiting with his eyes stuck on Ser Gilmore.

"Good for him, I hope he makes it," his brother exclaimed though he suspected a twinge of disappointment at the news. "Though if I were a Grey Warden, I'd have my eye on you…not that father would ever allow it."

"Speaking of father, he told me to tell you not to wait and to leave without him."

The elder Cousland groaned in annoyance and shook his head disapprovingly. "Then the arl's men are delayed. You'd think his men were all walking backwards."

"Rumour is that the battle so far has been successful and that it might not even be a blight at all, just a choreographed assault, a standard darkspawn raid."

"And a large one at that," Fergus inserted, not helping relieve his wife of worry though he coyly smirked, she knew he played on her concerns. "Well I'd better head off then, we'd want to get a head start if we want to arrive at Ostagar within the week. Pray for me, love."

The two lovers embraced and to the irk of both Artha and Oren, passionately kissed each other's lips. "The Maker sustain and preserve us all. Watch over our sons, husbands and bring them safely back to us," she whispered her words into his lips, like a magic charm of protection.

"I would hope, dear boy that you planned to wait for us before taking your leave." Bryce and Eleanor Cousland walked into the room, the teyrn and teyrna both hugged their son tightly.

"Be well, my son," their mother brought his head down to kiss his head. "I will pray for your safe return every day you are gone."

Again, his mother repeated the same chant Oriana had just given, only this time Fergus saw fit to add in a couple more words, "And bring us some ale and wenches while you're at it. Err…for the men, of course."

Oriana looked scandalised at her husband throwing daggers of disapproval. "Fergus, you would say this in front of your mother?!" the Teyrna didn't seem to notice much, growing used to the Northern male customs.

Oren picked up though, and asked what a 'wench' was, "Is that what you pull on to get the bucket out of the well?" he asked inquisitively.

Tactfully it was Bryce that answered his little grandson. "A wench is a woman that pours the ale in a tavern, Oren," seemed reasonable appropriate enough to tell a nine year-old. "Or a woman who drinks a lot of ale."

Shocked, Eleanor smacked her husband on the shoulder in reprimand. "Maker's breath, I swear it's like living with a pack of small boys!"

...

Slits in the walls on the left just below the rafters allowed the fading sunlight to illuminate the chantry in such a way that it looked serene— a torch of warm light in a grey and cold world. Three rows of seats on both sides of a royal green rug that ran down the middle of the chamber to the altar standing atop elevations.

Two men, soldiers, stood on their knees, shoulders drooping low in humbleness to the Maker. Mother Mallol stood at the head to recite scripture as she would, and bless those who sought out the Maker's protection.

"Maker, prepare a place for us," she announces. "Redeem our world from sin and forgive our transgressions." She saw him approach and smiled warmly, making a slight gesture for him to join and come closer. "Creator of the Sky, the Land and the Sea, hear your people in our time of need."

"Maker watch over us," they all responded, including Artha who was himself a fervent believer of the Chant.

"Let no man have cause to fear the shadows. Let their souls be lifted upon your return," Mallol continued reciting. "So let it be."

Again, the faithful responded in earnest and obedience. "Maker watch over us all."

When she was done with her duties and the other soldiers retired, the Chantry Mother conversed with the young man. They spoke of the coming days of uncertainty. He had a bad feeling about his father and brother leaving. Something just didn't seem right.

"It troubles me to see cares hang heavy on such young shoulders," Artha didn't need to be humble to agree with her statement. It wasn't modesty but his own fears that hung so close to an impending regret. It was meant to be Fergus that took the teyrnir if Maker-forbid something were to happen to his father, and seeing it handed over to him instead he felt like it was final, like it was taboo. Mallol seemed to sense this and lowered his troubled head, planting a soft kiss on his temple. "Your father does well to put such trust in you." The young man was hesitant, but nodded in thanks for her consoling words. "There now. I'll be keeping a vigil tonight. You're welcome to come."

—DRAGON AGE—

Author's Note: I don't know why but when I was playing the game, and this story is based upon my noble human male character, I always pictured he'd have a Scottish accent, maybe sounded like Sean Bean. I would love for him to voice the Warden in future games if they ever choose to include him as a character.