Somewhere in the Southron Highlands–9:30 Dragon Age

"What is that most curious creature it rides?" an echoing voice asked.

"His name is Tai'daishar," Eldred sighed. "He is a Catastron–a battle unicorn."

"Most curious…" came the golem's reply. "Why is it that I have never heard of such a creature before now? The mage who controlled me previously had no books on the subject."

"Shale," he addressed, turning from readying his mount for the journey ahead to regard the large stone creature with luminous eyes and a mouth just as radiant. "That is because the Circle have not a bestiary of the Fade. In fact, I do not believe that there is nor ever has been any human possessing such knowledge. At any rate, there are–or were–other regions of the dream-realm than the dreary wasteland that exists there now. Catastrons, for example, were native to the Feywild."

"Interesting," replied Shale, obviously satisfied and thus done with the conversation. Eldred shrugged to himself and returned to saddling the unicorn.

The sun was breaking over the horizon in the Southron Hills. It had been a fortnight since they left Lothering, and in that time they had found and recruited Shale the Golem as well as come upon a fallen meteor, from which the elf had procured a strange metal. The party was almost finished breaking down camp, Bodahn Feddic readying his cart for another day of hard, relentless travel. Eldred was growing impressed with their little band; Sten had demonstrated–multiple times–his aptitude with a greatsword, as well as his abilities as a rider, and Leliana had proven to be quite a competent archer and burglar. They had not yet found a lock she could not crack, and Galedreon was pleased to know that her aim was as true as any elf.

"So then, another hard day's ride through the highlands?" Morrigan asked wryly, leading her mare, Greyhame, to his side, already saddled and packed. "And yet you refuse to tell us why we're taking this route."

"Simple," stated Eldred, not turning from his task as he was almost finished. "We're making for the Brecilian Forest, to catch up to the Dalish who have stopped there. Zathrian's clan, if my information is correct. Now, his clan is known for being more…cautious than most, and so I made the determination that it would be ill-advised to approach their caravan from the road, especially with so many…non-elves. Further, by avoiding the road and taking a harsher, but also shorter path, we make sure not to run into any brigands or Loghain's men on our way, making for a potentially more peaceful journey, relatively speaking. Why?"

"Oh, no reason," the Witch replied dismissively. "Just that I'm sure the Bard and the Templar are beginning to think you mad, not to mention the dwarves. Bodahn has begun to mutter, and when dwarves start to mutter, it's never good."

"They'll be fine; the durgen'lenen would most probably prefer crossing rough country with competent and armed compatriots than being beset by bandits or darkspawn on the main road," said the elf. "And besides, we are not far now. By nightfall, we'll be at the Brecilian Passage, and tomorrow, we'll talk with the Dalish, I'll get what I need from inside the forest, we'll secure their allegiance and then be off to our next endeavor–probably Redcliffe, now that I think about it." He shuddered. "There is a foul presence there, and we should probably uproot it before it renders the arling unusable."

"And what of our erstwhile realtor, Levi Dryden?" asked she.

"His offer is…interesting. We will need a permanent base of operations, after all; why not go to Soldier's Peak, a place where there already existed a Grey Warden fortress? Still, it seems too…" he said, struggling to find the correct word.

"Convenient?" offered Morrigan.

"Precisely," Eldred replied.

"I suppose," she considered, pursing her lips in thought. "You may well be right. Still, 'tis worth at least a look, is it not?"

"Fine," the elf surrendered. "After we get the aid of the Dalish, we'll go north to Soldier's Peak. I'm sure there'll be plenty of old books of forbidden lore for you to pore over in their libraries, too."

"Good," the Witch acquiesced. "Now, let's get going, shall we?"

"Thought you'd never ask," he joked, flashing her a grin over his shoulder before securing the last clasp and mounting his sable steed.

She permitted herself a small smile before mounting her mare herself, the rest of the party joining up shortly thereafter. Checking swiftly to ensure she had left nothing behind, she waited for confirmation of everyone else's readiness.

"Status report!" Eldred called.

"I am prepared," she replied, meeting his gaze as they shared a brief smile while she unconsciously toyed with the golden necklace he had given her as a gift.

"Ready," Alistair confirmed.

"Ready!" called Leliana.

"Parshaara, let us be off already," grumbled Sten from atop his giant bay.

"It is ready to leave? Then so am I," commented Shale.

Fen'lin barked his answer. Ready!

"My boy and I are ready to go, Warden," called Bodahn.

"As am I," Levi confirmed from atop his old mare.

"Well then," the Warden said, grinning at Morrigan. "Let's be off. Noro lim, Tai'daishar!" The majestic black mount reared and whinnied before charging off at a steady gallop, the other companions' horses trying to match the pace the unicorn set through the grassy hills and grasslands, trying to cover as much ground as they could before the sun rose high, waking the insects in the marsh-like vales and the trip became a curse. It had become a kind of contest for them, to see which of the companions could keep pace with the elf and his hound, his mount bearing him away so swiftly, and often it was Morrigan who came the closest to managing the feat. So too was it this day; Greyhame exerted herself quite determinedly in their endeavor to match the seeming flight of the Warden and Tai'daishar. He was a strange creature, the battle unicorn; when the Orlesian bard had tried to make contact with him, he had reacted in such a way that the mere thought of it held the power to put a smile on Morrigan's face. Both she and Eldred remembered the event quite clearly…

Just Off the Imperial Highway–Ten Days Prior

"Hello," Leliana greeted softly. Tai'daishar gave a short jerk of the head in acknowledgement, only. "I have heard many tales that unicorns show themselves to those who are pure of heart, but they suffer no mortal hand to touch them. And yet our leader you bear as though you were a warhorse. Why is that?"

The Catastron bobbed his head, snorting in irritation.

"Oh, do you want me to mount you?" she asked.

The human's stupidity was astonishing to the unicorn, but his practical, brilliant mind saw in it the opportunity to make his position on the matter of her existence known beyond the shadow of a doubt. Deciding with a fair bit of hidden malicious glee, he bobbed his head again as if to signify acquiescence.

Eldred looked over at the commotion from where he sat by Morrigan's fire, his eyes widening in alarm as what was happening between Leliana and Tai'daishar and standing immediately, walking into earshot and calling, "I wouldn't do that if I were you…" as Leliana mounted with ease and spurred him on.

True to his directive, the Catastron set off into a full-speed gallop from the clearing and into the small forest, which for him made the ground nonexistent and his strides seem to fly but a little bit above the ground, reaching a point both beyond the reach of the trees and a great distance from the camp and rearing suddenly, forcing the bard to hold on for her life. But this was not his coup d'grace; that was still to come. That in mind, he wheeled about slowly and feigned allowing the woman to catch her breath, but swiftly then galloping back into the long shadows of some of the great deciduous arbors, approaching them at a great speed and galloping through them, popping back out quite close to the camp and slowing to a victorious trot.

Galedreon stood near the point of his entry, arms crossed and thoroughly trying to at least look cross, and failing in that endeavour. The unicorn snorted and tossed his head, and with a quiet, protracted groan, a very weak, pale and slightly green Leliana slid out of the saddle and collapsed into a heap like a child's worn rag-doll, at which both the elf and Morrigan, looking on, were no longer able to contain their mirth.

The Witch nearly collapsed as she laughed and pointed, her beautiful breasts heaving as she tried to catch her breath, and Eldred's breath was for a moment stolen by the sight, which to him was indescribably beautiful. Thankfully, however, it at least helped him to recover his decorum from the fit of deep, rhythmic and somehow two-toned ridicule; enough such that he could at least passably imitate solemnity. Assembling himself, he walked over to the prone, face-down form of Leliana and squatted down at her side, prodding her with a finger for a while before she finally groaned again and tried to weakly swat at him.

"I was about to warn you not to do that. It is not often advisable to climb on the back of a creature of which you know nothing save human tales of the lore of his lower-born kin, simply because he gestured in a way that you thought was an offer to give you a ride and get to know each other better. Here," he said, extending a gloved hand. Gingerly, she grasped it with her own, allowing him to lift her up off of the ground and support her by her shoulders when it became clear her legs would not be able to do so in the endeavour to rise. Setting her carefully on her feet, the Warden pulled away swiftly an instant before she bent at her waist and was sick on the ground. "Unicorns are a noble breed, and those of the Blood of Catastros are the noblest and fiercest among them. What you're feeling–besides the velocity-induced vertigo–is the nausea and disorientation that results from riding a Shadow-shifter, if you're a human, and the Sons of Catastros are born as the swiftest and most powerful of these. Tai'daishar here," he continued, laying a hand on the battle unicorn's strong, cordoned crest and rubbing it slowly, "is a Son of Catastros; he and his lineage are–or, more properly, were–the monarchs of the Catastros'lin, being his direct descendants and trueborn heirs. With that comes a certain status among the burden-beasts of Thedas; for he is their rightful liege-lord, Lord of Horses, and he does not bear anyone to ride or even to touch him."

"C…Catastros?" she managed when at last she had managed to clear her stomach of any sustenance she might have consumed over the course of the last few hours.

"It is a long tale, and not mine to tell," Eldred stated with finality. "Suffice it to say that Catastros the Sable was a great and proud animal, powerful and sure, respected and treated with deference, and those of his line inherit the full measure of the gifts such a heritage might bestow."

Morrigan, unnoticed by the bard, had crept up behind the elf, and now made her presence known as she laid a hand on the great black horse-lord's muzzle and stood still and calm as he nuzzled the outstretched appendage. Eldred turned from Leliana and watched her for a bit as she seemingly communed with the proud monarch, enjoying the view before he took action.

"Mae, Tai'daishar," the elf spoke, rubbing his crest more swiftly. "Thiaha ind garlnoro rochon sen arad, iest noro ad. Tollim si, falon, a echadan i Gwathren-dôre." The unicorn nodded–a true nod, not a bob of the head–and the elf stripped off his gloves, mounting his companion with ease and with his bare hand lightly grasping the horse-lord's great and majestic mane, grinning once to Morrigan before calling out "Tai'daishar! An i Hall-dôr!"

The battle unicorn reared and whinnied before galloping off, Eldred grasping still with only one hand like a master-rider before vanishing into the shadows of the arbors. Morrigan stood there, watching as the Warden and his equine companion shadow-shifted across the Veil as if it were not even there.

It was not long before Leliana regained her faculties, picking herself off of the ground and moving to the fire, desiring to speak with Alistair, with whom she had had a growing rapport since the night after she joined the Company.

"What is it, Leliana?" he asked, starting with concern at her worried and still slightly pale visage. "What's bothering you?"

"What do you know of the Warden?" she asked, drawing close and sitting down across the fire-pit from him. "I mean, really know?"

"Well, the usual; he spent his childhood in Kinloch Hold, and from what he tells me he was some kind of prodigy, raised by the First Enchanter and isolated from almost everyone there by either celebrity or resentment," the Templar recounted. "Why?"

"So you don't really know him," she concluded.

"I…he is my comrade and my friend, but no, he has never truly confided in me," he confessed. "But I do not blame him; as he said, we all have our secrets. For example, have you ever told him of Marjolaine?"

"That…that's different!" Leliana objected.

"But is it?" Alistair pressed. "Can your past as a spy and the story of how you came to be in the Lothering Chantry be so entirely different from his personal experiences, his family, his friends, none of which he thinks he's going to see again from how he speaks of them? He gets along with two people–Sten and Morrigan–and of the two, he only engages in philosophical conversations with the Qunari, even then only in his mother tongue, and he does not confide much in Morrigan because I suspect she knows more than us already."

"But the creature he rides…it's not natural," she pleaded.

"You know, I expressed the same sentiment to him a few days back," Alistair remarked. "For my trouble, I got a sneer and a lecture on how death wasn't natural for the elves either, and yet the Chantry has no problem with it, and I quote, 'especially since it's their fault that their violation has yet to be set right.'"

"What?!" she exclaimed. "That's…that's vindictive and…"

"And yet he has a point," Alistair interjected. "The elves at their height knew far more about the nature of the world and the Fade than we ever did. The Tevinter magisters were even reduced to torturing one of their elven prisoners for the secret of how to enter the Fade physically."

"Well…"

"Leliana," he interrupted firmly. "There are things he does not wish to share. I accept that and trust him with my life regardless. So too should you."

The Southron Hills–Present Time

"The Passage is about a dozen leagues off," Eldred said. "We should be there in about an hour, given the state of the horses."

"Good tidings at last," Morrigan breathed from astride her mount, standing atop the crest of the hill beside him upon his mount, looking into the distance ahead with his spyglass. "The sun shall soon begin to wane, so once everyone is ready to continue after their…lunch break," she said as she wrinkled her nose in a combination of confusion, unfamiliarity and disdain, "we shall have…at most, three hours before nightfall, judging by the positioning of the sun."

"The days grow shorter," the elf commented. "Winter grows close at last."

"It comes quite late this year," she replied. "I do not like it."

"Indeed, it bodes ill," he agreed. "Let us hope that the weather holds until we get out of the forest. Soldier's Peak will be difficult to navigate through snow, but not impossible. Then to Redcliffe shall our road turn, and the evil laying in wait therein."

"Well, are we then to be off, oh glorious leader?" asked she in a tone suggestive of mockery to the average lout, indicative of mirth to those who knew her even as well as he did. "Shall we continue?"

"Yes, I suppose it is high time our little company returned to our course," he conceded, bringing away the spyglass and collapsing it before stowing it in one of his saddle-bags. "I said that we are to reach the Passage afore nightfall, but it is far more to our benefit to have entered the outskirts of the forest proper. Alistair!"

"Yes?" he responded.

"It's time we were going. Tell everyone to pack up; we have a ways to go yet before nightfall, and Thedas pauses in its rotations for no-one," commanded Galedreon.

"As you say," the human nodded.

A quarter-hour later, the party once again rode through hill and vale, headed by the Warden with the Witch by his side. Uneventfully, they at last came to the flat Passage, a long stretch of grass and utterly without hills, which came as a relief to all of the non-combatants among the Company as well as the two who were still unaccustomed to such long rides. Calling for a short halt to survey the area, the elf nonetheless drove them forth without relent thereafter, until at last the sun dipped below the horizon entirely and he conceded that it was time to set camp for the night. Nevertheless, he was quite pleased with their progress; they had reached the outskirts and pitched their tents among the shade of some of the lesser conifers that marked the area.

As was her wont, Morrigan set up her tent a ways from the fire, whilst the rest of the party–save their leader–set their positions up in a sort of radial pattern about it. After tending to their horses, wiping from them the grime of such a long and hard day's ride, their minds quickly turned to sustenance; Sten was appointed to cook this night, and so after a time in which the giant ventured forth from the camp and harvested many of the available ingredients that were indigenous to the region, he prepared a broth which even Alistair, the one who, of the two Grey Wardens in their coterie, suffered the most from the taint-induced symptom of the severe augmentation of the appetite, found surprisingly filling. When asked, Sten, in his typical stoic fashion, passed it off as a skill critical to survival when one served among the Beresaad.

Eldred took the first watch, as he was one of the few who was not entirely exhausted by the journey, sitting with his back against a tree and Fen'lin languishing at his feet, resting but always aware of any change in the air. All the others, save Morrigan, immediately and gratefully sought rest for the night–they knew the elf to be chronically remiss in his duty of waking another of the companions for their shift.

However, as fate would have it, Alistair suffered that night from a nightmare so unsettling that sleep continually escaped him thereafter. Resolving to an evening without further rest, he rose and decided to check on the elf; after all, he reasoned, not even the taint supersedes the necessity of sleep. Much to his unfortunate expectations, however, coming upon his companion's position among the trees, he saw the Warden sitting with his eyes closed, reciting a muttered chant in a language that was most certainly not Fereldan, his right hand upon the pommel of the strange sword he carried, the one he called Cristonaur, sheathed but tip-down upon the forest floor.

"Alistair," the elf said, ceasing his chant abruptly and startling the Templar. "You're up early. Nightmares?"

"Yeah," the human responded distractedly, trying to regain his wits. "It's the horde. They're on the move."

"Aye; Urthe…I mean, the Archdemon…is playing his cards close to the chest, so to speak, but that doesn't mean he has abandoned the aggressive modus operandi of his predecessors. Time grows short," he agreed.

Silence followed, and in that silence a single question emerged into Alistair's mind. Try as he might, he could not dislodge it, and it grew until it encompassed almost every thought, such that his lips burned to ask it. Soon thereafter, he could bear it no more. "Why do you carry that blade?" he queried quietly, as if in the paucity of sound he might leave it spoken but ethereal and unheard. "Chantry law does not allow mages to learn swordplay in the Circles, and all the weapons that might reside therein are kept under lock and key, accessible only to the Templar garrison assigned to that particular Circle. So why do you carry a weapon you do not know how to use?"

Eldred elected to remain silent for a time; just as Alistair was beginning to regret asking and weighing whether or not to return to his bedroll for as much sleep as he would be allowed that night, he spoke, though he did not answer. "Alistair, I want you to take this sword and try a few forms with it," said he.

"Okay," the Templar shrugged, surprised and confused at the reply but concealing it nonetheless. The Warden proffered the sword for his scrutiny; graciously, he took hold of the hilt and removed it from its scabbard with a barely-heard hiss, holding it up to his eyes and peering at it, trying to ascertain the best way in which to demonstrate with it. As he distractedly endeavoured to decide this, however, he gradually became aware of a slight tingling upon the palm of his sword-hand. Paying it no mind, he attempted to return to his deliberations, only to be distracted as the tingling became a bothersome itch. Slightly alarmed, he looked at the weapon with widening eyes as the itch turned to a burning sensation, slowly-mounting and methodical, but steady and utterly without relent. It took not long, then, before the burn intensified and became pain, before assuming the form of indescribable, pure, overarching, all-consuming, excruciating agony, so virulent that if the absence of the smell of burning flesh was not so remarkable, given the vegetarian who had prepared the evening meal that night, he would have been convinced beyond the shadow of a doubt that the skin of his hand burned truly, then blackened and charred, bones and sinew liquefying and melting away…

And suddenly, the pain stopped. When his sight cleared from the haze of suffering, he looked upon Eldred looking down at him, sheathing the blade with another, less noticeable hiss. At once, the human realized that he was prone upon the ground, clutching his wrist so firmly that he thought it a wonder that the appendage had not turned blue with asphyxiation, thinking it curious that he did not realize when he had fallen to the ground (and, judging from the soreness of his throat, cried out) from the virulent sensation before scrambling to regain his footing.

"I trust that little demonstration answered your question, at least in part?" the elf asked rhetorically. "I heard you using the history lessons the Templars are forced to participate in as justification as to the nonexistent nature of your cognitive incapability. I do not suppose I need to tell you just how much of Chantry-authored history is entirely false–which is, to say, most all of it–but that is not my point. It is instead that even when it does not blatantly falsify events and the circumstances surrounding them, its gaps–intentional and otherwise–are positively titanic. You ask why I carry this blade? It is quite simple, actually. This is Cristonaur, the blade of the Warden Garahel, with which he pierced the scaled and corrupted hide of An…of the Archdemon to end the Fourth Blight. I wield it because it rightfully belongs to me."

"Belongs to you?" Alistair asked, partly in confusion, partly in incredulity and partly still in outrage. "If what you say is true, it should be in his tomb at Weisshaupt!"

"Unless he has a direct relative–specifically, a descendant who is to be his heir–who is to inherit the blade. As such, yes, it does belong to me," the elf confirmed with a deceptively calm tone of voice. "I am Garahel's Heir. It is my birthright."

The human was speechless for a while, unable to comprehend what his comrade had just stated. "I…" he stuttered at last. "I…that is, Garahel had no heir!"

"None that either you or the Grey Wardens know of, no," Galedreon conceded. "On the eve of battle, however, Garahel begat a son, and as I am the first of House Galcaladon since he to become a Grey Warden, I am to inherit all of the effects he left upon the event of his demise, provided they still exist now, four centuries later. In fact, it is partly because of this blade that I decided to recruit the aid of the elves first; there is one in the midst of this forest who has the ability to teach me how to use it as it was meant to be used; for indeed, the nature of the elven-blade is such that only the Heir of its previous master may wield it, and so is my claim twice-legitimized, in this instance as it was with both King Maric and Irtur, the first king of the Fereldans–though, he has become more myth and legend than genealogical fact by this point." Unbidden, the elf's head swiveled about viciously, in tandem with that of his hound, their gazes intent on the way into the depths of the forest. "Excuse me," bade the Warden, belting the sheathed sword and removing his gloves, before sprinting off and jumping up onto a low branch, swinging and leaping up the boughs of the conifers and then from tree to tree from on high, the hound taking off as a bolt of lightning into the shadows after his master.

Leaving behind one very baffled Alistair, Eldred nimbly navigated amongst the great arbors, following the sickening, cloying aura of decaying flesh relentlessly and resolute; he knew all too well by this point the odor of the full darkspawn taint. Finally reaching a point directly above a band of several Hurlocks and Genlocks, together with an Ogre and six emissaries, half Hurlock and half Genlock, he gathered himself and looked to the branch directly across from the one on which he crouched, spying the astral projection of his sister, Andruil.

"Don't you dare," she shook her head, speaking in the archaic form of Elvish their brethren preferred to use when communicating with one another or the elves of antiquity.

"What?" he responded in the same tongue, fighting to suppress a smirk.

"I know what you're thinking; don't you dare do it," she replied grimly.

"And what, pray tell, Sister, am I going to do?"

"You're going to drop down and try to slaughter them all."

"Why, what a good idea, Onee-sama," he remarked antagonistically. "Except for one thing…'try'? It wounds me that you think so little of my abilities, dear sister."

"Galedreon, the fact that you're the god of war does not make you invincible," she pleaded.

"Against them? Please," he scoffed.

"Little brother, I swear, if you…" she began to warn.

"Sounds great, sis, but I have some darkspawn to kill, so if you'll excuse me," he interrupted, a savage grin breaking across his face as he leaped down from the bough, preparing as he fell. "Releasing Control Art Restriction Level One," he began. "Approval of Command B recognized. The Arbiter Invocation is now in effect. All powers up to Level Two approved for unlimited use until all corrupters have been purged!" With the last word shouted as a battle-cry, his eyes shifting to a flaming red glow from which rose wisps of energy, which, like smoke, flew ever-faster out of his eyes and about his face, trailing after his rapidly-descending form, the skin around his eyes cracking to reveal, like magma, more scarlet flame still, he cocked back his arm, gathering a great ball of sickly green energy within it, and when he hit the ground amidst the crowd of stunned darkspawn, he slammed it into the ground, creating a mighty shockwave that knocked all the monsters in proximity, including the Ogre, back and off of their feet; and where they fell, great vengeful vines black and of hazy shape with uncountable numbers of brambles burst from the forest floor and wrapped them in their piercing, fatal embrace. All who resisted were the Ogre and the emissaries, whose obscene density of muscle and foul sorceries respectively allowed them to escape the grasp of the constricting cords of plant matter. Galedreon moved quickly; swiftly he sallied forth and laid his hand upon one Hurlock emissary whilst with Cristonaur whipping out like the tongue of a great serpent he beheaded another before returning the blade to its sheath. With a palm-strike he unmade the third Hurlock sorcerer; with a streaming torrent of lightning he smote the smaller Genlocks. But as he turned to face the Ogre, the beast jerked back, looking at its chest in astonishment as from its pectoral sprouted a fount of shafts and arrow-fletchings; surprising both of them came a loud battle-cry of almost savage intensity and desperation, and as a fletched javelin shot from Andruil's powerful longbow came a figure both slight and blurred by swift motion. It leaped from the ground and drove twin blades into the Ogre's eyes, killing it as the steel pierced the beast's brain.

Fen'lin came bounding from the forest, eyes glowing bright orange, coat streaked and stained red-black with blood, barking apologies to his master; with a word of muttered Elvish, the hound knew forgiveness. Far more pressing was the form–now recognizable as an elf clad in leather armor of Dalish-make–arising from the just-felled corpse with a great deal of panting and numerous indicators of exhaustion. Weakly but successfully pulling both blades from the Ogre's eyes, the mysterious elf fell prone upon the rotting corpse of the beast as his consciousness gave at last. Drawing close to the elf, Galedreon turned his body over and recognized the only possible cause of the multiple bruise-like discolorations of his skin, his eyes wide-open and rolled into the back of his head, showing only the whites, as well as his jerking about whilst virulent, foaming white pus came from out his mouth. In an act of more impulse than any other reason, the Creator took his head in his clawed hands and from him purged painfully the taint that had been held off, but existed on the edge of overtaking him entirely, turning him into a ghoul. This last act done, the Creator's eighth sense could detect no more enemies, and his Level One power release ended. Sending Fen'lin off to deliver a message of distress, Eldred's headache set in with pain so vitriolic it drove him quickly into unconsciousness just as he pulled the elf's body from atop that of the Ogre.

Eldred's mind returned to him in what felt like an instant thereafter. As his sight returned, he saw first the stars, then the beautiful face of Morrigan. Gathering his wits, he released a long groan of pain and attempted to rise. The Witch placed her hand on his chest, and bade him, "Rise slowly, if rise you must. You are safe; Alistair brought both you and the other elf back from the forest, whilst your erstwhile companion the Horse-lord laid his horn upon your chest and healed both your injuries and those of your friend, the other elf."

He groaned. "Wha…What time is it?" he asked.

"It is two in the morning," answered she. "Alistair is back abed; we two are the only ones awake." Another, weaker groan sounded behind her. "Well, not the only two, it seems," she corrected.

The elf on the other palette rose slowly, pressing his hand against his head and with his palm clearing sleep from his eyes. Cognizance returning swiftly to him, he looked up and gazed across from him clearly for the first time in a long time. Their elven-eyes met and in tandem widened in mutual recognition.

"B…Belegon?" Eldred asked, scarcely believing his sight.

"Cousin?" Belegon asked in a great deal more astonishment.

"Well, well," the Creator laughed. "Belegon Mahariel! It has most truly been far too long! What are you doing out here, so far from Clan Sabrae?!"

Belegon's joyous gaze darkened. "My friend Tamlen and I came upon an Eluvian…one that was broken, shattered…corrupted," he whispered.

"An Eluvian? Truly?" Morrigan interjected. "But they are so rare! However did you simply…come upon one?"

"We didn't," he replied. "Three shemlen we encountered trespassing in the forests we were passing through. They thought to buy their lives with talk of strange ruins and hidden wealth; for their trouble (and their silence) they received an arrow to the throat each. They died choking on their own blood, and after that, Tamlen and I ventured within, finding foul sorceries that allowed the dead to arise once more from their graves as shambling husks driven by malevolence…and the accursed Mirror. I know not where Tamlen went, but Merrill, the First, found me half-dead and feverish with the taint. The keeper gave me droughts to stave off the inevitable, and I succumbed right after slaying that Ogre. To answer your question, cousin, I left my clan and sought a cure, searching far and wide (which reminds me, I have something for you). I came here because I heard tell of an old man–a hermit–who lived in these woods with great power over all things un-dead and all evil maladies."

"Well, consider your search ended," Eldred stated, rising to his feet. "Look within; the taint has been purged, but at a cost."

"Cost?" he asked.

"I…may have quickened the Cuil Eldar within your blood," the Warden explained sheepishly. "But enough of that; tomorrow, I seek an audience with Zathrian, the keeper of the clan now residing herein. I would have you join me; the word of a Ranger carries much weight amongst our people. And beyond that, I dare not say. Your path, then, becomes your own; to stay or to go, it then becomes your decision, but for now I have great need of you, Belegon."

Mahariel stood purposefully. "Have no fear of my gratitude, nor of our shared blood; I shall aid you in this. Besides, perhaps now that the taint is purged, I might see Gheyna again…" the Ranger said, a dream-like look in his eyes.

"Ah, yes, your fiancée," Eldred recalled. He clapped his cousin on the shoulder. "I swear to you, I will do what I can to allow you to keep your engagement intact. However, the Arlathvhen has come and gone; news of your imminent death has no doubt reached her ears, and as such I want you to swear in return that no matter what happens tomorrow, yours shall be kept a level head."

"I swear it," Belegon said without hesitation. "On my new life and our shared blood both, I swear it."

"We are off in the morning; 'tis time you retired," reminded Morrigan.

The dawn saw the Company awaken to the surprise of its new member; Alistair, already half-suspecting that the elf the hound had led him to the previous night was going to become one of their number, and Morrigan, of course, was present at the precipitation of the event, but the others had not that luxury. Sten, of course, kept to his usual stoicism beyond a slight, almost imperceptible widening of the eyes, and Shale's only comment was that there were now "two of It," but Leliana's reaction was almost disastrous, her glee only worsening the situation when the truth of his relation to the Warden, whom to her seemed at once severe and enigmatic, was revealed to her. Granted, her bombardment of prying questions were halted when she learned that the cousins had not seen each other in nineteen years, but she became determined when she learned that they had been acquainted throughout the early days of their lives, and that the Dalish children were born with clear memories of infancy, which they retained until death.

As it turned out, Belegon had his own horse, a wild one whom he had found in the Anderfels and summarily befriended, and a Ranger's cloak together with an assortment of other goods, so the issue of providing him with travelling gear evaporated before ever becoming material. Thus, the Company approached the camp of Zathrian's clan and their aravels astride their mounts, but were waylaid at the gate.

"Stop right there, outsider," the guard said. "The Dalish have camped in this spot. I suggest you go elsewhere, and quickly."

"Well, andaran atish'an to you too, Mithra," Belegon said wryly, pulling down his hood so as to add to the veracity of his identity.

"Belegon!" she breathed. "You're alive!"

"Aye, falon," he replied. "Thanks to my cousin, here."

"'Cousin?'" asked she in no small amount of confusion.

"He means me," said Eldred, reaching up and removing his hood. "Mithra, was it? I am Eldred Galcaladon, cousin of Belegon Mahariel and a Grey Warden."

"Eldred Galcaladon as well?" she asked, amazed. "We thought you dead too, though you were missing for nineteen years…"

"Clan Surana is no more, that is true," he conceded. "But I survived. I have come now on Grey Warden business, however, and though I would be remiss in my familial duties were I not to allow Belegon to see his betrothed, Gheyna, I wish an audience with Zathrian."

"You shall have it, mahîr, by all means," Mithra responded, bowing slightly. "Though of your companions…"

"Sten of the Beresaad, Alistair of the Grey Wardens, Leliana of Orlais and Morrigan of the Asha'bellanar'lin are their names," the sable-clad elf said. "They are good, true warriors, and trusted. They are to accompany myself and my cousin."

"Very well. Dismount, please, and follow me." With that, she began to walk towards the greater camp, the Creator's elven-eyes spying apprehension in each and every step of her long gait. Sighing, the Warden bade his companions dismount, and on foot they made their way after their guide, Belegon's whitewood Dalish longbow on his back and twin steel dar'misaanen sheathed, one on either side of his belt, clad in his Dalish leather armor, the steel greatsword Sten wielded on his armor-clad back and looking quite intimidating in his set of Nevarran Blood Dragon armour, Alistair with his shield holstered and longsword, Oathkeeper, sheathed, clad in a full suit of steel heavy chainmail, Shale with large green crystals set into her carapace and smaller, purple ones set into her gauntlet-like hands, Leliana with an ordinary whitewood longbow on her back and twin enchanted daggers sheathed on the small of her back, and Morrigan with her staff ready and clad in her ordinary robes, a secondary defense of a cheese knife belonging to someone called Olaf kept sheathed in her boot, for despite its name, it was quite a vicious weapon.

"Keeper, these are Belegon Mahariel and Eldred Galcaladon, and their assorted compatriots. The latter is here on Grey Warden business, and among his companions there is one other who bears the title, as well as a daughter of Asha'bellanar. They wished an audience with you, hahren," Mithra reported.

"Ma serannas, Mithra," Zathrian bade her.

"Ma nuvenin, Keeper," she replied, bowing and rushing off to return to her post.

"Abelas, Zathrian, but if it's all the same to you, I would like to get to the business at hand in a fashion that is as expedient as possible. I need the aid of your hunters–all of them–if we are to defeat the Blight in light of Loghain Mac Tir's regicide, and from how you nervously looked about just now, you seem to be unprepared. Why?" asked Eldred.

"A great deal of our hunters have been gravely wounded in the past month, mauled savagely. There is a great evil in this forest, or at least a being harboring great malice unto us. Those who die from their wounds, now they are the lucky ones. Those who are strong enough to survive become gaurhoth, the bite that speeds this taint throughout their bodies changing them into servants of Witherfang," Zathrian explained plaintively.

"And what, Angolhîr, would you have me do? You need Witherfang taken care of, and I need allies, so therefore quid pro quo, is that it?" asked Eldred.

"Exactly. I would have you track Witherfang to his lair, slay him, and bring me his heart both as proof as well as so that I might synthesize a cure for the wolf-blood in my clan's warriors' veins," pleaded the Keeper.

"Many elves of old have sought to reverse the curse of the gaurhoth; and yet you think to be the one to do it? Hubris is unbecoming of the Elvhenan, Zathrian; I would have you remember that ere our business concludes. But I shall do as you ask, and in exchange, I would have you honor the promise the Arlathvhen made so many centuries ago," spoke the Warden, wariness turning his eyes indigo in suspicion.

"Ma serannas," bade Zathrian. The elves paid him no heed, Belegon sharing his cousin's suspicions, and departed from the foul company of the Keeper.

Afore long, Belegon's bright green eyes sprung alight as he glimpsed the form of a redheaded elf-maiden sitting on a bench about a fire, eating and conversing with those whom Eldred surmised were her friends. His cousin sighed in what seemed to be adoration and nostalgia, but quickly the sigh turned into a growl of anger as he looked upon her glancing at a nearby sandy-haired elf anxiously.

"Cammen," he snarled softly. "Always a thorn in my side. And that of my beloved Gheyna…"

"Calm yourself, cousin," chided Eldred. "I have a plan. Keep your hood up, and continue to keep it up until I tell you to remove it." With that, he went up to Cammen, Belegon trailing behind, and called, "You there!"

"Erm…hello?" replied the sandy-haired elf, flinching slightly in surprise and cowardice as he did so.

"Why are you cringing?" asked the Warden with no poverty of distaste. "You are an elf of the Dales, are you not? Speak up!"

"Sorry…I'm just not used to dealing with outsiders!" replied he, throwing up his arms pleadingly. "T…though we do get people like you from time to time…"

"So I take it that Grey Wardens of the Elvhenan pass through here often?" spoke the Warden, crossing his arms and growing less and less impressed (to the extent that was even possible) with the underwhelming waste of elven blood standing before him.

"No, no…that's not what I meant! Oh, Creators…" he sighed. "Let me start over. I am Cammen, a hunter-apprentice. Though I wish I could become a real hunter…"

"So be one, and stop wishing it!" exclaimed Eldred. "It should be a simple matter to go out and bag game enough to qualify you…had you the nerve to disobey the ban upon venturing into the forest that I'm certain Zathrian has imposed."

"Well, it would not be such a great deal to wait, but…the real problem is Gheyna…" said he with a forlorn expression, turning and leading them closer to her circle and leaning against a tree close to it.

Eldred could sense the rage coming off of his cousin in waves by this point, and knowing that he probably could not expect him to control himself for much longer, he struck. "What, she won't marry you?"

"Yes," he admitted with an involuntary expression of gratitude on his face for the Warden's comprehension of the problem he faced. "She says it is because she cannot marry a boy such as I… If I am to have her, I must first become a full hunter."

"An entertaining story, but I think you're forgetting to tell us a few very important things," said Galedreon. "First, that marriages among the Dalish are traditionally and almost always arranged, the betrothed pair meeting and getting to know each other a bit during the Arlathvhen, under the discreet and watchful gaze of the hahrenen. This is because the Dalish, being now so few, cannot simply beget as they please if the culture is to survive; as such, one of the items on the agenda of the hahrenen during the Arlathvhen is to discuss which members of their respective clans would be best to bring together as mating pairs, partly to ensure that strong bloodlines continue and intertwine with other strong bloodlines, whilst the weak ones dwindle and die, and partly so that the child (or children, as the case may be) may grow up amongst a parental pair whose components are well-suited to and compatible with one other. Second, that Gheyna is already promised to another…"

"But he is dead!" exclaimed Cammen angrily. "He was tainted, and has already succumbed and died–or worse!"

The Warden smiled widely with a malice born of disgust. "Why, thank you, Cammen! You have provided me with a brilliant segue!"

"Wait…what?!" cried the weaker elf, backpedaling slowly.

"Yes; the third thing that you neglected to mention–though if I am to be fair, you had almost no way of knowing this–is that the identity of my hooded friend here," he said, clapping his cloaked cousin on the shoulder in a demonstrative fashion, "is none other than my dear cousin, Belegon Mahariel." At that, the Ranger swiftly removed his hood, revealing the angry elf's long, silvery white hair, tanned but still sallow and gaunt tanned face, the bones beneath which suggesting quite an attractive visage when in a state of health, and his forest-colored orbs aflame with outrage and murderous fury. It was a visage changed greatly from the full brunt of the effect of the unabated taint, but it was one Cammen knew and feared all too well.

"B…Belegon?" the apprentice stuttered. "You're alive?!"

"I am, seth'lin," he spat. "You think me dead, and so you seek Gheyna's hand when you could not before? It is not your place!" He advanced steadily and menacingly on his cowering rival.

"Wh…what are you going to do to me?" asked the adolescent elf.

"Let it not be said that I am without honor," began the Ranger. "I declare kanly against you, Cammen; normal rules."

"You cannot!" exclaimed he with trepidation that slowly became jeering. "Not without an elven-lord to oversee it! Not even the Keepers may do this!"

"Ahem," spoke Eldred, pretending to clear his throat and raising his hand. "I vouch for my cousin," he said. "This vendetta may be seen through."

"And who are you, flat-ears, to declare that?" Cammen spat smugly.

"I am Eldred of House Galcaladon," the Warden replied, taking great joy in seeing the grin drop from the elf's face as he did a superb job of concealing the murderous fury the insult ignited within him. "In my capacity as Garahel's Heir, I do hereby vindicate this duel and the results thereof, and the Creators go with me."

"You see, Cammen?" taunted Belegon. "Nowhere to run now, da'nâr. You might as well entreat Falon'Din to guide you now, before your foul blood defiles this hallowed ground further."

"Belegon, Cammen, you each are allowed one weapon," Eldred explained. "It is not to be a bow, nor any other armament that may kill at range. This is a test of strength and cunning; there are to be no easy outs for the undeserving. Select your arms, each of you, from your own possession, and we shall begin."

Fifteen minutes later, as Gheyna and Belegon engaged each other in relieved reunion and Cammen's corpse had been burnt to a cinder, the twin blades that pierced his heart (which, in the strictest terms of kanly was permitted, under the justification that since using twin weapons required that they act as one in the hands of a competent combatant, they were classified as a single armament), Eldred leaned back against a nearby tree, arms crossed, simply watching the exchange when Morrigan came up behind him–Alistair and Leliana being amazed by the halla and Sten discussing theology with Lanaya, Zathrian's First–with a quizzical crease upon her brow.

"Why did you do this?" she asked. "What has it accomplished? Your cousin is reunited with his betrothed, yes, but how does that get us any closer to our goal of ending the Blight?"

"Simple," he replied. "Belegon is a Ranger and as such has a considerable amount of pull within the clans. Making his survival and recovery known will only help our cause in our endeavour to acquire the longbows and bow-arms of these hunters. He also is to accompany us, and I would not have him distracted with 'what-if's whilst on the road with our Company; instead, his emotional bond with her shall give him fortitude and vigor even in the nadir of circumstance. And…" He sighed; there was no use lying. "…to see him like this reminds me of what might have been, had the Templar, Harkonnen, not slaughtered my clansmen and raped my kinswomen. He is one of the few things I have that remind me of the time I spent among my people."

"Flemeth once explained to me that elves are…of precocious awareness," remarked the Witch after a short period of ponderous silence. "Yet no matter how many times it is explained to me, I fear I shall not understand it. Or perhaps I think it too sad by far to understand," she considered. "It is said that of all the peoples of this world, there are two in particular to whom you never speak of age: women and elves; the first because it is impolite, the second because it is most often depressing. I find that the fact that the latter category has a greater quantity and quality of memory from a far earlier age than most all other races makes that particular saying so correct as to be an understatement."

"It is true, we elves are creatures of memory," said Eldred. "That is why, in the days before the Imperium, when we were ageless and undying, the elders stole away to Uthenra, the Waking Dream, almost as a matter of custom; for with a surfeit of memory comes a surfeit of regrets (for as Sten put it so aptly, you must either have an enviable memory or a pitiful life to know nothing of regret), and the weight of those combined and compounded instances of that emotion will inevitably crush into dust the strongest of immortals." He sighed before continuing. "That is part of where our name for humans–shemlen–originated; for humans, living such short lives, killed and raped and stole and were petty and cruel to one another, and they did this because they had not the knowledge nor the nature the elves did, that they would not die and thus be forced to remember with crystalline clarity, contemplate and regret for all time each and every misdeed."

"You speak as if you were there," commented she.

"I was not, but Dirthamen has a particularly…vivid way of imparting knowledge unto one of his kin. And don't get me started on the methods of his pet ravens…" replied the elf, shuddering slightly. "I may as well have been, for I have the memories that would suggest that I was. The hubris of men truly knows no bounds, to have fallen so quickly to Fen'Harel's deceptions and manipulations."

"I do believe I might…understand," she said at last, and ruefully. "No little girl wants to hear of the Wilder men her mother took to her bed over the years, using them until they were spent, then killing them. No little girl wants to hear that this is also expected of her, when she comes of age."

"Flemeth was quite the harsh parent, I take it," he asserted wryly.

"That is putting it lightly," replied the Witch. "It seemed as if I could do almost nothing sufficiently well so as to receive her praise. Always she could find fault with what I did, no matter what it was."

"Well, her criticisms at least bore fruit," the elf said enigmatically.

"Explain?"

"I have never met a stronger, smarter or more talented sorceress than you."

The sound of Belegon's approaching footfalls put a swift halt to their conversation. Waving once more at his betrothed, the elf was grinning like an idiot before he resumed wearing his peaked hood, his face returning at once to its normal severe set. His dar'misaanen were sheathed and wiped clean of Cammen's blood, sterilized to ensure that no remnant of his bile remained to rust the fine steel blade, his longbow strung and ready, quiver full of elf-arrows once more.

"Are you ready to depart?" asked Eldred, his voice turning from the former quasi-reverent tenor he adopted when in private conversation with Morrigan to a businesslike tone so swiftly that it all but astounded the enchantress.

"I solved Elora's halla problem," he replied. "And Gheyna and I are to be married after you slay the Archdemon and end the Blight, as our ancestor did before us. Yes, I am prepared." He paused and cocked his head. "So too are your human companions, and the giant is heading over to us from the opposite direction."

"Excellent," said the Warden. "As soon as they are here, we will venture into the forest proper. Fen'lin! Tolienni!" The hound, as per usual, came bounding out of the surrounding woods, nimbly avoiding crashing into the surrounding structures the Dalish had erected as if he were an acrobatic assassin on a novice's obstacle course. Following him came Sten, donning his Blood Dragon helmet as he approached, and from the other direction (specifically that of the halla enclosure) came Leliana and Alistair, the Templar conversing with a badly-hidden edge of nervousness obvious from far off whilst the Orlesian giggled and flirted like a teenage girl. With some level of difficulty, the Warden managed to conceal his amusement, Morrigan expertly disguising hers as a self-satisfied smirk, as they looked up and saw the rest of the Company waiting and quickly assumed a professional demeanor, trying not to let any of the previous merry-making show through.

"I take it the two of you are done sightseeing?" prodded Morrigan. "You know, Leliana, there are far easier and expedient ways to seduce a virginal Templar, especially with one such as Alistair, who has the appetite augmentation of a Grey Warden driven up to a profuse degree."

"As I was saying, when you're ready to go, we're heading into the forest proper to take care of Zathrian's issues amongst…other things. I would rather be heading out sooner rather than later, if it's all the same to you, though," said Eldred. When the two nodded their heads to signify that they were, in fact, prepared, the Warden said: "Good. We'll be heading out on horseback, so we'd best mount up. Belegon?"

The hooded elf bobbed his head once, sharply, then brought two of his fingers up to his mouth and whistled. At once, a female hunter came forth, holding the reins of the three Lothering horses with the elven-horse trotting alongside her, coming up to his master and making the Ranger the first to mount his horse. Then the huntress gave over the reins to the companions, who promptly put their feet in their respective stirrups and sat astride their beasts of burden.

"Abelas, Warden, but your animal did not wish to be led and he had no bridle, so we do not know where he has gone," she apologized.

"It is fine, huntress; though I must admit, I am dismayed you do not know your own legends," the Warden smiled. "Tai'daishar! Dovie'andi se tovya sagain!"

The battle unicorn strode forth from a shadowy area of the woods, cantering up to Galedreon and whinnying as the Creator stroked and soothed his companion in whispered tones of Elvish before Eldred himself sat upon his saddle. "Ma serannas, feredar. Naneth Mythal tirlan ornet shiral," he said in a formal farewell. "Noro lim, Tai'daishar," he bade the Catastron, and he agreed. With a short conversation between the unicorn and the hound, Fen'lin shot forth ahead as Tai'daishar reared with a whinny and charged forth at a gallop at the speed of a full-tilt jousting tournament. The others swiftly followed suit.

The Eastern Brecilian Forest, as it turned out, was where they had wanted to go. Slightly disgruntled, the party rode with Eldred at the front, having just returned from a diversion of course to let Athras know that his wife, Danyla, had been turned into a werewolf and then put out of her misery (by her request), for the ruins to which Witherfang had retreated. The Warden was eager for this to be over; they had been preyed upon by a shade who had charmed into sleep all but he, turning the shade into an annihilated shade (for apparently the ability the Warden had termed "Lay On Hands" worked far more effectively against demons, destroying them and everything they were utterly and entirely, than against darkspawn), fighting off what seemed to be a battalion of werewolves who seemed to have a penchant for giving cryptic clues and warnings and rescuing one of the Dalish hunters who had been caught unawares and left by marauding darkspawn to die. Hell, they had even had to fight off animated trees, for Mythal's sake! But as they rode through the misty valley to the ruins on the other side, they were teleported to the path by which they entered the forest, which, in the Warden's eyes, was the ultimate straw.

Eldred wheeled Tai'daishar about and went back the way they came, determined to have a word with the leader of these treants who, at seemingly every juncture, resolved to stand in their way, and Sylaise would never forgive him if he set fire to the entire forest just to get rid of them, which was what his temper was about to have him do. He was not hard to find; the party had only to go back and down the first divergent path to the left in order to enter a large grove, backed by a waterfall and lined by a stream, rows of the slightly different-looking arbors that the Company had learned the hard way were hiding treants, concealing themselves as stationary parts of the forest. But at the end of the corridor they created was a titanic, humanoid oak-treant of darker bark than its fellows. The Warden and his cousin approached, the rest looking about suspiciously.

"Hmm…What manner of beast be thee that comes before this Elder Tree," asked the Great Oak with the rumbling, earthy tenor with which his kind spoke.

"Most definitely not orcs," Galedreon said wryly. "My cousin here is an elf, you see, a Ranger rare among the Eldar of trees. Humans, too, and giant one, though we are not here to make merry or fun."

"And what of thee, oh little bee?"

"Not a bee am I, nor any among the kin of tree. Know me from my touch and see that there is much with which you may help me. The path to our task, oh Tree, is blocked and waylaid by kin of thee." While saying this, he dismounted and laid one of his bare hands upon the Oak's bark, allowing him enough that he might know what manner of being he dealt with."

"Ah, truth, now do I see; and now, what would I do for thee?" the Great Oak asked, surprise and reverence emerging from its tone.

"I might have you, oh great Elder Tree, rein in your younger generation for me," he responded.

"Ah, thou speakest of the others…how filled they are with hate?" the Tree asked. "I apologize on their behalf; they cannot control their fate. Of the Sylvans this is true: they are quite mad, their virtues few. Allow me a moment to welcome thee. I am called the Grand Oak…sometimes the Elder Tree. And unless thou thinkst it far too soon, might I ask of thee a boon?"

"As long as you stop rhyming (to the extent that you can), O Elder Tree. Seriously, it's quite tiresome to have to match a spirit of poetry charmed within the form of an arbor rhyme for bloody rhyme," spoke the Warden in such a neutral tone that not everybody immediately realized he had cursed in that sentence.

"Perform the boon as I ask, and I shall reward thee for thy task," rhymed the Tree. "I have but one desire: to solve a matter very dire. As I slept one early morn, a thief did come and steal an acorn."

"And you wish for it back, I take it?" said the Warden, hoisting himself back into the saddle.

"All I have is my being…my seed. Without it, I am alone indeed. I cannot go and seek it out; yet I shall die if left without.

"Very well, then," said Eldred. "We shall seek out the thief of your acorn and return to you the seed that binds you to your form. In return, I wish for you to give unto us a tool so that we might pass the ward that guards the ruins within which dwell the gaurhoth. It is not your magic, I know; nor is it properly the magic of your fellow treants. For that rush to judgement, I apologize. However, the magic that binds your spirit to the tree–verily, the magic that permeates the whole forest (for it is said that only a great evil may allow a place to forget the goodly presence of the elves)–is far older and more powerful than that which holds together the wards. You may not abolish them, this I know, but p'r'aps you might give unto me a piece of yourself so that the ward might think my Company one of your folk?"

"Aye, I can at that," said the Tree. "But I bid thee good-bye, to seek a hat, an old hat–a feather-hat. A man with a jacket of bright blue, and boots colored yellow. Of him I know; of him did I see; the thief that stole from the Elder Tree. For truly, my wooden skin has some magic, see; some part of it I can give to thee."

"Well, if it can get us past the wards…" the Creator considered.
"Wilst thou, then, perform the task?" the Oak asked anxiously. "Wilst thou save me as I ask?"

"I shall."

"Then go to the east to find this man," instructed the Tree. "I shall await; do what thou can." With that, the Oak returned to a static form, and seeing as it was done, Eldred wheeled Tai'daishar about and made back the way they came, into the eastern forest.

"Oh, I do not like this," groaned the Warden as they passed by the milky, opaque mist-barrier that kept them from the center of the forest. "This is very bad…"

"What?" asked Morrigan, who rode closest to him, whilst drawing up to be fully alongside him. "What is so very bad?"

"There is a great evil in this forest, Morrigan," said he. "I did not feel it until we were well and truly within the wood, but now that we are here, it is quite pervasive. I paid it no heed, thinking that we might drive it out after we concluded our business with Witherfang and Zathrian, without any of the elves here to get killed. But now that the Oak described the person who stole his acorn, I realized who had done it, and suddenly I am not so sure."

"Do you think this thief to be the source of this evil, then?" she inquired.

He barked a laugh. "Him? If you had asked me half an hour ago, I would have said no; unequivocally, absolutely not. But the man I knew also would not have stolen that Treant's acorn. And if he is the source of this evil…I'm not sure I can best him."

She did not much like the sound of that. "Who is this man who is so powerful?"

"Who is he indeed?" the Warden replied, laughing humorlessly. "The shemlen who know of him call him Orald; to others, like the dwarves, he is known as Forn. My own people call him Iarwain Ben-adar, meaning 'Oldest and Fatherless'. But to himself, he is known by another name, one I dare not speak now that his loyalties and sanity are so dubious and nebulous."

"You have spoken of him before, I think."

"I have," he conceded. "Sang his Ballad; for Iarwain Ben-adar is Master of Wood, Water and Hill; and he is Husband of the River, Goldberry, the Lady Fair, and to Trees he is their judge and caretaker. For her, it is said, he created water-lilies; it is too long a tale to relay in full just yet. And he has such power that Wights keep from those who sing his rhyme as shemlen before disease, for when his rhyme is sung by one in danger, witting or unwitting, if Wights are involved he is nearly sure to come, and over the dead or unnatural he has considerable control."

"Control?" she asked, a touch confused.

"'To have the power to destroy a thing is to have complete control of it,'" the Warden quoted. "To the extent that statement is true, To…Iarwain Ben-adar has control almost without rival. Were I at my full strength, he would fall…but as it stands? No, I think not…Alistair! Darkspawn on the left flank!"

"I see them," confirmed the Templar. With a great steely "clank", he dismounted quickly, brought forth his shield and unsheathed his sword, placing the tip almost laying atop its rim in his battle-stance. Belegon did not speak; he only dismounted and gave his horse, Ilúvatar, a discreet hand-gesture, at the sight of which the animal bolted and hid, after which the Ranger readied his longbow and leaped nimbly up into the boughs of the trees surrounding, far too large to be treants. Leliana stood her ground and fitted five arrows onto her string, rotating her bow to the side and releasing them all at once; her aim true, all five found their targets, piercing the armor of five different Hurlocks, and Eldred got the distinct impression that it was to issue a challenge to his cousin. As Morrigan set her feet on the ground and with her staff began weaving death amongst the marauding band, what the Warden saw made him laugh quietly; in the midst of it all, Belegon had gotten into position high above, and unseen, he released a volley that included over eight times the number of arrows Leliana's did, his shots striking even truer by avoiding the armor entirely and drilling into and killing each and every one at the exact same point between the eyes and into their brains. At Eldred's order, Alistair charged forth and engaged the remainders, holding their attention whilst Sten, by the same order, charged in from the tree-line and scythed through their lines with his massive greatsword. Behind came three Ogres, and that Eldred did not expect, but he needn't have worried; Belegon leaped down from his perch, swords unsheathed and arms spread wide, cleaving through one of the Ogres' skulls with a double-blade strike driven by his sheer momentum before pulling them free and wheeling in mid-air over to another, whose throat he sliced open with one spinning, acrobatic pass. Alistair repeated the strategy Eldred had ordered at Ostagar, hamstringing the third whilst Sten ran up its massive chest and plunged his greatsword down through the monster's clavicle and rending both lungs in addition to punching through its heart, and like that, they were dead.

The Warden rode down the path down which the darkspawn had come, drawn by a revolting sense of perversion that existed there. The straightaway ended in a clearing remarkable for the number of human skeletons scattered about a gravestone, and sensing its aura, Eldred's fears were eliminated. The great evil he felt were works of Tevinter hubris, for contained within the gravestone was a Revenant. Further, now knowing what to look for, he cast out his magic-sense (eighth, not seventh, since the eighth had no chance of him actually coming into contact with the evil) and located several others, dark powers by which the darkspawn were made able to survive in an elven forest, which by all means would have unleashed the treants to kill them. He knew what he had to do.

Turning from the clearing, the party, now once again mounted, followed him down a derivative forest-path as he drove them forth at a relentless pace, fuelled by his fury at the Tevinter and how their hubris seemed to pervert everything they touched. It was not long before they reached the camp wherein an old hermit teleported with a flash and a bang, then proceeding to mill about; at the sight of him, Eldred promptly dropped down and walked up to the man. His blue coat was tarnished and tattered, yes, and his boots crusted brown with mud, but it was still undoubtedly the same man.

"Oh dear, oh dear," he said, shaking his head in confusion. "Not a werewolf and not a spirit, even. What are the woods coming to?"

"Not a gaurhoth nor a spirit am I indeed, old friend," confirmed Galedreon.

"'Old Friend'? Do I know you?" asked the hermit.

"No, I fear your addled mind knows me no longer, friend," the Creator said sadly. "But I know you. So tell me, Tom: why is it that the Master of wood and water and hill, the Eldest who saw the first acorn planted and knew the nights when they were fearless, hides amongst an ancient forest, deranged and alone, accused by a Treant (who, by the looks of him, probably remembers the dominion of the Eldar) of stealing his acorn, that which binds his spirit to his corporeal form?"

"What did you call me?" asked the hermit, surprised.

"Your name; the name by which you knew yourself, once: Tom Bombadil."

"No, no, no…Old Tom Bombadil was a merry fellow…" the hermit struggled.

"…Bright blue his jacket is, and his boots are yellow," Eldred helped. "None has ever caught him yet, for Tom, he is the master: His songs are stronger songs, and his feet are faster."

"Yes…I'm remembering now…" Tom muttered.

"Now let the song begin," Eldred continued. "Let us sing together, of sun, stars, moon and mist, rain and cloudy weather, light on the budding leaf, dew on the feather, wind on the open hill, bells on the heather, reeds by the shady pool, lilies on the water: Old Tom Bombadil and the River-daughter."

"'River-daughter'?" the old man asked. "Goldberry…"

"You remember her, don't you, Tom?" pressed the Warden. "O slender as a willow-wand! O clearer than clear water! O reed by the living pool! Fair River-daughter! O spring-time and summer-time, and spring again after! O wind on the waterfall, and the leaves' laughter!"

"Yes, I do…and the forest…and the Withywindle River…" replied Bombadil. "I had an errand there: gathering water lilies, green leaves and lilies white to please my pretty lady, the last ere the year's end to keep them from the winter, to flower by her pretty feet till the snows are melted. Each year at summer's end I go to find them for her, in a wide pool, deep and clear, far down Withywindle; there they open first in spring and there they linger latest. By that pool long ago I found the River-daughter, fair young Goldberry sitting in the rushes. Sweet was her singing then, and her heart was beating!"

"And do you remember what you sang? Hop along, my little friends, up the Withywindle! Tom's going on ahead candles for to kindle. Down west sinks the Sun: soon you will be groping. When the night-shadows fall, then the door will open, out of the window-panes light will twinkle yellow. Fear no alder black! Heed no hoary willow! Fear neither root nor bough! Tom goes on before you. Hey now! Merry dol! We'll be waiting for you!"

"Hey dol! Merry dol! Ring a dong dillo! Ring a dong! Hop along! Fal lal the willow! Tom Bom, jolly Tom, Tom Bombadillo!" spoke Tom. "Yes, I feel myself in a way I have not for some time now…Galedreon, old friend, merry friend, friend of the River-water! Long time since I've seen you, but madness seems it longer! Hey dol! Merry dol! Merry dol, my friend, my heartie! Why have you come now, garbed in black, to the madness of Old Tom Bombadillo?"

"There is evil in this forest, Tom; an ancient evil of the pride of Men, fouler still than the Barrow-wights. I do not pretend to know by what sorceries you came here, Friend Tom, in this state, but I need the acorn of the Great Oak, if I am to pass beyond the veil," the Warden explained. "Once my business there is concluded, then and only then may I drive out the Revenants."

"Old Tom Bombadil is the Eldest, true," objected the enigmatic old Maia. "But of these Revenants, he knows less than you!"

"All shall be set right, Tom, worry you not; Goldberry would never forgive me were I to let you face them. Olórin and his Company did drive out the evil Necromancer in Dol Guldur, and similarly, I seek to purge the evil plaguing this forest, though if I get beyond the veil, I shall have far more success…Tom, do you have my helm?" Galedreon asked suddenly, feeling the presence of not one, not two, but three of his artifacts in close proximity.

"Why yes, Old Tom has a great many things…here be the Great Oak's seedling," he said, handing the elf a curious-looking acorn and looking around before finally rummaging through a nearby tree-stump. Suddenly, he cried out: "Hey dol! Merry dol! Ring a dong, I've found it! A helmet-great of Elvish-make under Tom's pillow, fit for the vanquisher of Old Man Willow!"

He pulled forth an ornate and strangely-shaped (in the eyes of every humanoid in the immediate area save Bombadil and the Warden) helm, placing it in Eldred's bare hands, letting him take it with hunger in his gaze. "Thank you, Tom, Friend Tom, Old Tom Bombadillo; merry dol, very dol, this what I needed! For this, a trade it is, for this have a Ring! A magic ring, a curious ring, a ring for Goldberry and not mean Old Man Willow!" With that, he pulled from his pocket the Dusk Ring he had found, collected from the stash of the predator-shade, handing it to Tom together with the pendant Athras had given him for news of Danyla's fate. "And for the acorn, a pretty pendant felicitous for the River-daughter Goldberry."

"Thank you! Merry dol! Good show, my friend, my heartie! Old Tom's got to get back to see fair Goldberry! A merry mage gave Old Tom a gift, on this, his holiday! Ring dol! Hey dol! Rush along, my friend! Friend Tom's going to return now to Goldberry!" And with that, Tom Bombadil stepped into the tree-stump and disappeared.

The party was speechless for a time thereafter. "Actually, that reminds me," said Belegon, breaking the stunned silence. Out of his saddle-bags he pulled a pair of armored gloves of the same make as the other two pieces Eldred had already received, and handed them to him. "These are for you."

"Ma serannas, Cousin," said the Warden, taking them and placing them carefully alongside the boots with the helm in his saddle-bag. Now all that's left is the armor itself, which lies in a tomb beyond the gaurhoth veil, thought he. "It is a great gift you give, and once we return to Varathorn, he will craft for you a thing of legend, ideally suited to where we'll be going."

"So…um…" said Alistair. "Care to tell us what that was about?"

"An old friend," replied Galedreon. "From another life, as they say." He tossed the acorn into the air jovially, snatching it when it began to descend and slipping it into his pocket, re-mounted Tai'daishar and turned his head to his companions. "Well," said he, "it is time we went to see a talking tree about an acorn."

The Company rode back to the grove of the Great Oak with great haste, all of them wishing to be done with this whole business of treants and on to the task of eliminating the werewolves. Coming before the massive arbor, Eldred dismounted and went up to speak to the sylvan, palming the acorn from his pocket.

"Greetings to thee once again!" bade the Elder Tree. "Thou hast not left the forest, then? My acorn is still gone, so I pray to thee…hast thou any news for me?"

"I do; I presume this is yours?" said the Warden, stepping forth and placing the acorn at the foot of the Great Oak before stepping back swiftly.

"My joy soars to new heights indeed! I am reunited with my seed!" exclaimed the Treant in elation. "As I promised, here it be; I hope its magic pleases thee. Keep this branch of mine with thee, and you will pass through the forest free." With a wave of a hand-like bough of branches, a stick roughly in the shape of a magic staff sprung from the ground, allowing Eldred to step forth and yank it free of the dirt. "I wish thee well, my immortal friend; you have brought my sadness to an end!" bade the Oak. "May the sunlight find you, thy days be long; thy winters kind…and thy roots be strong."

"And to you, Great Oak. May we meet again, and until then, Naneth Mythal tirlan ornet shiral, my friend. Guard the acorn well, and when next our paths cross, from it shall be made a companion for thee. You have my word on that." The Warden, branch-staff in hand, mounted the battle unicorn and led his company swiftly into the Eastern Brecilian Forest, and when they passed through the milky veil, it offered no resistance as they emerged not from where they entered, but on the other side. A strange white wolf saw them and bolted, running into the ruins of a stone structure that had just come into view, but Eldred, instead of being disturbed, was elated; the forest had parted before them, the creature that could only be Witherfang had run before them and hid, and he was one step closer to his goal.

Galedreon, Morrigan, Belegon, Alistair, Leliana, Fen'lin and Sten walked down the corridor cautiously, Alistair with his shield up and blade ready in his battle-stance, Belegon with his twin swords handy (having judged that his longbow would be of no use in such close and narrow quarters, readying the Dalish weapon whenever they fought in the infrequent open room), Leliana with the crossbow she carried as a back-up, knowing from her past as an Orlesian bard how to use it well, Morrigan with her staff ready, Fen'lin stalking low to the ground, lips peeled back from his maw and sniffing in suspicion, and Sten with the greatsword held low and ready in both hands; the temple, as they had learned the hard way, was positively crawling with giant spiders, shambling undead and other abominable by-products of the fell sorceries the magisters of the Tevinter Imperium had wielded in their hubris, and as such the Company had learned swiftly to be extremely cautious and alert. Searching about with his eighth sense for any ancient evils, however, the Warden detected a hint of something nearby that felt oddly…familiar; his excitement mounting quickly, he reached out with a burst of his ninth sense and felt it come into contact with precisely what he thought he felt. Throwing open the door ahead and to his right, the Creator burst in and saw that this was formerly a study, but had since been converted into a tomb. With reverence, he stepped forth and swiftly threw his gaze about, seeking the orb.

"What is it?" asked Alistair warily.

"Do not ask that of him, Alistair!" exclaimed Morrigan sharply. "Can you not see he is busy?! I do not doubt you will learn the answer to your question in due time, but for now, leave him to his work. You, being out of your depth, would only hinder him."

With a sudden cry of victory, Eldred lunged forwards and grabbed a crystalline, opaque orb from amidst a pile of old and decaying books, lifting it high into the path of the light streaming from a gap in the ceiling and gazing into the ball–the phylactery. Reaching out to the spirit residing within with his seventh sense, tendrils of his native magic, he felt alarm and panic, the spirit trying to run and hide, but finding itself unable to do so within the confines of its spirit-realm. Frowning at this, Galedreon sent a quick pulse of power as reassurance, the pulse letting the spirit know the nature of the one who held the artifact of his very existence in his hand. The ghost calmed swiftly, catching its imaginary breath and sending a reverently apologetic response through the tendril that linked them in a mutual state of psychic contact. Feeling what the Creator sought that his being lacked, the spirit proposed a trade through a combination of images and associated emotions; it would complete the god's power in exchange for being released and similarly releasing the spirit of his best friend, whose soul acted as a spiritual anchor for the departed souls of the tormented dead elf-maidens and children that had lived in the ruined temple when it was attacked. Balking internally at how little the spirit thought of him, given his position, he responded with acquiescence interwoven with threads of the indignation and outrage he felt at the spirit's presumption that he would not have released him and his friend otherwise. After the soul responded with an apology and an explanation, Galedreon accepted the deal, feeling memories and knowledge suddenly pour into him from the elf's lifetime, elation stealing into him as his magical core finalized at last, having received the theretofore-unknown structure of elven magic as it existed of old, and in return taking it and manipulating it for the Creator's purposes; for after all, elven magic flowed from his brethren, and now that he had come into the knowledge of the nature of what existed previously, he augmented what existed according to his domain, which, of course, had not existed five thousand years previous. Feeling the dead Arcane Warrior's burst of relief and fulfillment at having at last exhausted the knowledge he once had, the Warden, remembering their deal, placed the phylactery upon the nearby altar and bade him go to rest. The spirit sent one final burst of euphoria and overwhelming gratitude before he at last passed beyond the Veil and into the Lands of Shadow.

The Warden stood slowly, stretching his limbs exuberantly and turning on his heel, going to the sarcophagus at the other end of the room and lifting the lid open before lifting the raiment of the Arcane Warrior, former Sentinel of the Temple and now passed into peace at long last, out. It was the last piece of elf-armor left, and with it in his hands, Galedreon at last felt that completion was within his grasp. Muttering a string of Elvish under his breath, he began to disrobe in full but unwitting view of his comrades, pulling off his clothes and folding them carefully before donning the brigandine, elven-mail hauberk, cuirass, cuisses, cannons, elven-mail gorget and single pauldron that he found in the elf's sarcophagus. Next, he reached into his pocket, enlarging the enchanted pack that he kept shrunken therein, pulling out the greaves and gauntlets that had appeared therein at his command from his saddle-bags and donning each of them respectively, before pulling a belt that he did not ask for, a gift, no doubt, from June, and affixing it around his waist, then taking Cristonaur from its position on his other belt and fastening the sheath of his blade to the side of his waist. Putting the folded clothes within the pack, he re-fastened his cloak 'round his neck and pulling the last piece of armor–his helm–from the bottom, and, with an aura of ceremony, with both hands raising it high above his head, then lowering it slowly onto his head, slipping it down over his face. Waiting for a second and breathing a sigh of completion, he wove threads of magic anew over it and sending it with its contents back to his saddle-bags.

"Care to explain what just happened?" asked Alistair at last.

The Warden shrugged. "Completion. Now let us continue." When he walked out of the study and strode forth, but noticed that neither Alistair nor Leliana followed, he huffed in frustration and turned back to them. "I'll explain when we get back to camp, alright?" he sighed in exasperation he did not have the patience to even try to hide. "But right now, we have a wolf (or, more likely, a warg) to kill in order to get Zathrian's help, and we really should be going."

"Alright," said Alistair, nodding. "But I'll hold you to that."

"I have no doubt you will," replied Eldred, lips pressed into a humorless smile. He turned about and started again, relieved to hear Alistair and Leliana's footfalls rapidly approaching the rest of his companions'. It was a good thing, too; as the Company rounded the corner and the Warden strode forth into the next open room, seeing that there were several small piles of treasure strewn about the room, with a mountainous hoard in the center of the hall, a reptilian yet aquiline shriek sounded from above them, revealing the presence of a full-grown scarlet dragon as it swooped down to defend its trove. He thought quickly, issuing orders rapidly. "Alistair, focus on mitigating the dragon's fire. Engage if you must, but do not leave yourself open for the sake of an offensive; your shield-arm will be needed. Leliana, get behind him and use your crossbow when his weak spots are exposed. You two are a shield-pair; only take snapshots and then get back behind cover. Sten, I trust the Beresaad are trained to defeat dragons?"

"Why ask questions whose answers you already know?" responded the Qunari.

"Your job is to keep the dragon off of Morrigan; your armor will be resistant to the wyrm's attacks, but not immune to her fire. Morrigan, focus on your lightning and ice spells, and stay away from entropy. Belegon, use your most virulent poisons on your barbed arrows, striking at the weak point under the arm and at the wing-joint. Fen'lin, deal with her drakes," commanded Galedreon, unsheathing his sword with a graceful and slightly humming hiss, swinging it a few times before lifting it high, tossing his cloak from about his shoulders and removing his hood. "An Tanelorn!" shouted he as a battle-cry, waiting a moment for his companions to get to their places. The dragon roared threateningly; Galedreon brought the sword down in a wide arcing motion, bringing it directly before his gaze between his eyes, closed his eyes, and concentrated. He reached deep into himself, as the memories of the Arcane Warrior taught, and sought his magical core, banishing every extraneous emotion into a separate partition of his mind. Only when the last distracting thought was sent beyond his mental wall did he finally, tentatively make contact with his core.

The effect was as immediate as it was drastic. Making contact, he felt his magic flow through him like a mighty torrent; grasping this firmly (for like a writhing snake it sought to escape his grasp and unmake him utterly), he called back his fiery anger, his icy fury, his malice and ill-will towards this creature who dared to threaten them–threaten her–and channeled those emotions, mixing them with the massive wild river of magic he had just summoned up, then snapping his eyes open, the sockets now filled with and exuding a vengeful golden aura. He set his feet apart, his right foot forward and his left foot back, shifting the majority of his weight onto his back foot and bringing the sword up, around and down in a ceremonial arc, the sword in his left hand passing by the level of his chin and brought his right hand to rest further down the blade, spreading his fingers as wide as the narrow, curving blade allowed.

"Releasing Control Art Restriction Level One," he muttered in Elvish, it seeming far more appropriate than the Fereldan Tongue at that moment. "Approval of Command C recognized. The Amlug Invocation is now in effect. Powers of Echelons One through Eight approved for unlimited use until the wyrm lies vadokan!" With the last word spat in a language that was most certainly not Elvish as his eyes changed, blazing with bright, cold-blue fire, he sharply brought his right hand down, putting Cristonaur into a downward slant, and shifted his weight onto his front leg and pushing off forcefully with that foot; the simple movement of shifting weight, which normally would be classified as an ordinary lunge, propelled him towards the bereaved dragon at an alarming speed, the stone floor shredding beneath him with the air vacuum generated by his supernaturally swift velocity as the charge closed the distance in what seemed a fraction of a second. Unfortunately, the dragon's harem chose that moment to attack en masse, their sheer numbers overwhelming Fen'lin's attempts to cull their population and commanding the attention of the Warden's companions to a degree sufficient to allow their mistress enough of a respite to beat her powerful wings and attempt to avoid the attack that seemed to aim true at her heart with the speed and inertia of a comet. She almost succeeded; his blade bit deep into her underbelly, however, punching through her coat of thick scales like a dagger through stiff parchment and continuing through almost to her uplifted tail, taking with it a great deal of flesh and leaving behind a gaping, chasmic rend. Her acid blood spewing from her wound profusely, the dragon roared in outrage and pain, calling her children and her drakes upon the armored elf who had just inflicted such a grievous injury upon her, and like that the drakes turned their attention to Eldred whilst the dragonlings attacked the Company as a titanic wave of teeth and scales.

The Warden pushed off of the ground firmly once again, this time combining vertical movement with his lateral momentum and shooting up into the air diagonally. Planting his armored heels firmly upon the high wall about twenty meters above the floor and bringing his sword in close to his body, he propelled himself up and in the opposite direction of that wall, tucking into a front-flip and twisting in mid-air so that his back faced the side from which the party entered; in that position, he slashed his sword in a crisscrossing pattern, with each slash sending a sheet of razor-sharp ice in that form towards the wyrm as if the sword itself was forming and propelling them onwards to where the first bit deep into her side, each new one slicing open the crystalline ice-sheet left behind by the previous ice-wave, sticking out of her flank like a wide, wintry blade, widening the wound until it gaped a wide and clear passage into the inner sinews of the dragon's ribs, almost exposing her kidneys.

Galedreon descended amidst a great crowd of drakes and dragonlings; slamming into the ground in a kneeling position, he drove his sword into the floor and around him in waves and tiers spouted a great circle of icy spikes, impaling many of the dragon's kin instantaneously. When, in defense of their mistress, the lesser wyrms mustered the courage to navigate amongst the shelf of icy death, they saw the Warden holding both hands on his sword, head bowed, glowing eyes closed beneath the helm in an expression of calm meditation, though the radiant cracks in the skin of his face about the eye glowed bright as ever; as they drew close, however, the Warden's eyes snapped open, now glowing an infernal, raging, smoking scarlet.

It was a trap.

Swift as mercury, he kicked his right leg out and pivoted on his left foot, swiveling rapidly in a fluid, flowing motion; somehow, a circle of magnesium-white flame appeared and raged about, incinerating the dragonlings and cooking the drakes inside their scales where they stood as the flames grew in rage and strength into a column of white-hot fiery annihilation. The dragon, enraged and in pain, watched as much of her brood was destroyed, becoming more aggressive in her anguish than any point previous in the course of the battle. Lumbering forth, heedless of the sheets of ice still lodged in her side, she beat her injured wings firmly, raising herself into the air and intending to incinerate this armored elf. Alistair was hard-pressed and flagging under the assault of the wyrms, Leliana running low on bolts, Belegon struggling to line up a shot, Fen'lin biting and rending wyrm-flesh as best he could, even Sten beginning to show fatigue; only Morrigan had the presence of mind to realize what the dragon was doing, but even she was being pinned down by the beast's offspring, their onslaught only held off by her constant use of her magic.

She needn't have worried; in an instant, Belegon took his shot and sent his barbed elf-arrow singing as it scythed through the air, punching through the muscles of the reptile's shoulder-joint and going through, just barely missing her heart. The path clear, an arcing torrent of white-blue lightning burst out of the column of fire, reaching its zenith just short of the ceiling and falling back down…

…right through the dragon's wound.

The wyrm spasmed involuntarily in midair, roaring in excruciating, mortal agony as the energy raced amongst her metallic scales and the lightning stream ripped through her heart, the pain indescribable as she felt her life steadily ebbing away. Finally, it was over; when the lightning at last ceased, the dragon's carcass fell like a rock to the ground, creating a shallow crater where it landed and killing many of her brethren upon impact. The fire-storm finally dissipated, in the midst of it Galedreon standing in a lunging stance, the first two fingers of his free hand pointed into the air at the angle needed for the arc to strike true, the appendages smoking. From there, he stood with his blade hanging loosely in his grasp, taking a few, slow, predatory steps forth before stopping; in his stationary position, he tapped his right foot against the floor in a slow, regimented, regular rhythm for several seconds. Suddenly, he bolted forth, shifting beyond the ability of the eye to follow, the tap of his greaves and the craters left in his wake the only indication of his passage as swiftly he reft through the remainder of the troublesome dragon-spawn, and within minutes it was over.

Eldred stopped amidst his companions, muttering beneath his breath: "All opponents have been silenced; objective of Level One Power Release complete." As his companions walked to him, Belegon descending from his hiding place with a jump of a sort of nimble, feline gracefulness, he struggled to retain his hold on his magical core as its full torrential power began to recede once more beyond the barrier of the Control Art Restriction System. Grasping the retreating tendrils of energy with a single-minded focus, he steadily retained his grasp on his native magic, calming himself with a few breathing exercises taken from the memories of an Arcane Warrior's training, and noticed with a sense of wonder that the restructuring the new memories had done upon his magical core had been enough to all but eliminate the migraine that usually came with a Level One release, leaving only a low, dull throb that was easily ignored.

"So, um…" said Alistair. "That was awesome…where'd you learn to do that, hmm?"

Eldred smiled wryly. "Come now, Alistair; forgetting so soon? You were here just a few minutes ago, right? Anyways, the dragon had to have been sitting on a pretty substantial 'nest egg' (no pun intended) judging by all the piles of weapons, armor and gold around. We'll search through this stuff before we continue onwards. Agreed?"

"Agreed," said Belegon. "If this encounter was any indication of what we'll be up against going forwards, I'd enjoy the knowledge that we're well equipped."

"Speaking of which," said the Warden distractedly, looking up and spotting a strangely familiar raven descending to a treasure pile in the back-right corner of the chamber. He walked tentatively at first, then jogging to where the raven sat; once to the pile of gold coins, he plunged his hand into the mound, grasping and bringing out a fine dragon-thorn longbow of Dalish-craft, then pausing to read the Elvish script along the limbs of the weapon. "Lîr-Falon'Din," he recited aloud. "I do believe this should be to your liking, Belegon. Here." The Creator stood and walked over to his cousin, pressing the bow into his shocked grasp.

"Y…you can read Elvish?!" exclaimed Mahariel in astonishment.

"I can read a number of different tongues, but yes, I can," he stated in return.

"What does 'Lîr-Falon'Din' mean?" asked Leliana, drawing closer to the pair.

"'Falon'Din's Reach,'" stated the Ranger. "A weapon from a time long past."

"Now it is yours," interrupted Eldred. "Use it well. The ironwood longbow will no doubt be put to good use by another of the Elvhenan, should we come across one in our travels and convince him to join our Company."

"It shall be as you say, cousin," said Belegon. "Ma serannas."

"Cenalindaha, nosspen," said the Warden, waving it away. "It is the least I could do; after all, I have missed a significant number of your name-days."

"And I yours," the Ranger responded wryly.

Eldred smiled tightly. "Gather as much of this gold as you can carry; we'll need all the sovereigns we can get going forwards. Pile them up in the corner; I have a sneaking suspicion that we'll be able to return to retrieve them after our main order of business here has been concluded."

The Company spent half an hour packing the ill-gotten loot of the now-deceased dragon into large burlap sacks, together with a coat of the dragon's scales, courtesy of Belegon, stacking them together in a hidden alcove behind a statue devoted to Andruil. Eldred had to suppress a laugh at that, but successfully kept a straight face as he silently entreated his sister to protect the new acquisitions that they would doubtlessly need were they to survive the journey north. Feeling her grudging acquiescence, he gathered up his compatriots, and together they made to continue deeper into the Temple.