The encounter with Morrigan's mother was unnerving, to say the least. She cackled loudly after most of her statements, which in themselves were mostly cryptic non sequiturs that alarmed Daveth and made Alistair raise his eyebrows until they nearly disappeared into his spiky hairline. The most disturbing of all, however, had been her open fascination with Charlotte.
"Hmmm…" her vivid yellow eyes were wide, offset by white stringy hair that framed a face leaned uncomfortably close to Charlotte's. "So much is undecided for you… so much yet to come. You will be great, that much I can see… but maybe terrible too…"
Bewildered, Charlotte glanced at Morrigan for some sort of explanation; in response, she looked exquisitely bored and yawned.
"Yes, I believe it will be interesting to watch you. Huh, I believe." As if startled by another member of the conversation, the old woman looked abruptly into the empty space next to Charlotte. "Do I? Why," she grinned toothily at Charlotte, "it seems I do. Hahahaha!"
After this bemusing confession, she produced the three scrolls, much to Alistair's distress, and informed them the seals had worn off long ago. Apparently, out of goodwill, she had deigned to protect them.
"You… you protected them?" Alistair asked, baffled.
The old woman regarded him shrewdly, "And why not?" she demanded. Alistair babbled an apology, then fell into discomfited silence. Nodding with satisfaction, the witch addressed Charlotte.
"Now, take those to your Grey Wardens. Tell them this Blight's threat is greater than they realize."
Puzzled, Charlotte inquired. "What do you mean?"
Speculatively, the woman shrugged. "Either it means the threat is more, or they realize less. I know not which. Hahahaha!"
With that wisdom imparted, the group was dismissed and led back to camp by a disinterested Morrigan, who sneered at Alistair and waved dreamily at Charlotte as she departed.
"Mad! The pair of them, absolutely loony! Well, at least we got the treaties back. Duncan will be pleased." Relieved to have returned to camp's safe harbor, Alistair grinned happily at Charlotte and victoriously waved one of the scrolls.
"May I see that?" Charlotte was fascinated by the ancient animal skin in her comrade's hand. Obligingly, Alistair handed it to her.
The scroll was soft, but its creases were rough against her skin. Even as a Mundane, she could feel the distant remains of a powerful magic left on the hide; her fingertips were vaguely tingling. Carefully, she unrolled it and read the beautifully executed lettering:
In War, Victory
In Peace, Vigilance
In Death, Sacrifice
It is hereby declared by the Dalish peoples of Ferelden that, in the event of a Blight upon this land, we will come to the aid of the Order of the Grey Wardens and fight the unspeakable evil known as the Darkspawn. We will lend them our bow and arrows; raise our swords to their cause; and cast magic that may heal friends and kill foes to prevent the loss of all life, dwarven, elven and human alike. So it is written, so we agree.
Lath sulevin
Lath araval ena
Arla vent u vir mahvir
Melana 'nehn
Enasal ir sa lethalin
El'mi'na
Below the Elvish verse, the signatures of Dalish clan leaders extended to the end of the scroll. Thoughtfully, Charlotte rolled it back up.
"Interesting read?" Alistair accepted the scroll and sat gratefully down next to the enormous fire, warming his hands. Ser Jory and Daveth continued past them to their tents, obviously eager for a rest.
"Very." Charlotte agreed, sitting by the fire. "If my Elvish serves me, that poem at the end reads, Be certain in need and the path will emerge to a home tomorrow and time will again be the joy it once was – our blade is yours."
Astonished, Alistair asked, "You can read Elvish?!"
Charlotte smiled, a little chagrined. "Yes; my grandfather was very close to me and he loved language. Not sure why, really, but he taught me since I was a little girl. His book of languages in Thedas is one of my most prized possessions."
Impressed, Alistair chuckled. "Well, you're far more intelligent than I am. I can barely string together sentences in the King's Tongue!"
"Isn't that the truth!" A large man clapped Alistair so hard on the back he nearly pitched face-first into the campfire. The man laughed, throwing his head back and clutching a large, round belly.
"Hello, Merek." Alistair grumbled, but his eyes were dancing and he was fighting a smile. Merek sat down heavily next to his youngest comrade, twinkling at Charlotte. "Ey! And who is this fine young lady yer harassing, Alistair?" He had a voice so loud and deep it boomed; the effect of that and his hairy face reminded Charlotte of a big bear.
"Harrassing!" Alistair squeaked. "I'm supposed to talk to her, she's our newest recruit. This is Lady – "
Charlotte cut across Alistair, leaning past him to hold out her hand to Merek. "I'm just Charlotte, now, if you don't mind. It's nice to meet you, Merek. Are you part giant?"
Merek roared, "Ha! And a sense of 'umor! Alistair, I like 'er already."
"You need to mind your manners, Merek. She's much too young for the likes of you." A tall, lean archer bent on one knee near Merek, bestowing Charlotte with a kind smile. He was bald with elaborate tattoos on his face and fur linings on the top of his shoulders.
"Borin!" Merek barked, "Maker, ya move quietly! Do you weigh more than five pounds?"
"Indeed, it is challenging for you to hear over the loud sound of your own voice." Borin winked at Charlotte, who smiled in return, "I can imagine it makes it difficult to anticipate your more stealthy foes. Perhaps that is why Duncan entrusts you with so many ogres?"
"Huh! At least I can take 'em."
Charlotte giggled. They bickered like old women!
"And what's that, lass? Do you not believe me?"
"Oh no," she made her eyes enormous, the picture of innocence. "I can only imagine that they find their match in a large man such as yourself." Merek swelled; behind him, Borin snickered.
"And who is this charming young lady?" Another gentleman lowered himself next to Charlotte, one hand holding a silver bowl from the food tent. For the first time, Alistair looked unhappy.
He was very good-looking, Charlotte noticed. Dark, thick hair and big eyes with a strong jaw and nose. He studied Charlotte with open interest then smiled brilliantly, flashing white, straight teeth.
"Allow me to introduce myself, I am Althalos Albelin. And who are you, my dear?" Feeling a little smarmed, Charlotte leaned back, her smile brittle.
"I am Charlotte Cousland, the newest recruit. Please, allow me to make room for you." Charlotte scooted away down the log that had been placed by the fire, nearly bumping into Alistair, who looked amazed.
"Cousland?" Athalos' eyes widened, "As in Teyrn Cousland?"
Internally, Charlotte cursed herself. It had been habit to use her surname; she used to do it with men at the Landsmeet and in the market at Amaranthine to deter their advances. Not that she had been seeking the particular attentions of any one man; more that she had been trying to avoid those of individuals whose intentions she sensed to be less than honorable. And this man reeked the unmistakable stench of a cad.
Before Charlotte could reply, Alistair fiercely reprimanded him. "That is none of your concern. She is a Grey Warden, just as you and I are. Leave her be."
Althalos raised his hands in defense, "My apologies! I only meant to know whom I should be paying my respects to, if we are sitting with Ferelden's finest at our campfire."
Merek glared at the young man, "Why don't you go actually make yerself useful fer once instead of botherin' new recruits?"
Rising, Althalos grinned wolfishly and shrugged. "I might, but as the son of a servant, you can imagine my dislike for work. Isn't that right, Lady Cousland?"
Albelin. Now she remembered; his family had served Arl Bryland's for generations. His father was a good man and Arl Bryland's head servant; she'd always heard he had a son, but apparently he hadn't taken to the family business.
Flushing, Charlotte remembered the betrothal letter. And now we will be sisters, you and I. How delightful! Charlotte shivered.
If things had been different, this man's family would have helped Charlotte run her household. Now that she was a Grey Warden, she would be serving alongside him – and all his resentment and smarminess as well.
"No, I'm afraid not, Warden Althalos. I knew your father, and he never turned away from a day of work in his life. It must be something within you."
Althalos looked furious, but said nothing. He turned heel and stalked off, casting aside the iron bowl into the dust, where it rolled with a pank! and settled upside down a few feet away.
Borin was impressed, "I've never seen him so angry! And by the hand of a lady, no less! Normally he just charms them."
Charlotte's lip nearly curled, but she remembered her mother's training too well. "I hate men like him; they think they're so entitled."
"Well, ya certainly dealt with him, lass! Although I'd be careful from now on, he's one to hold grudges. But yer alright with me!" As if to prove it, Merek slapped her heartily on the back, knocking the wind out of her. "Let's get something ta eat!"
The men lead her to the Camp Mess and all plopped heavily down onto the dining benches, where Bridget materialized with bowls in her hands a few moments later. Charlotte stared into the teeming portion of meat stew and felt a little nauseous after so much excitement at the thought of food.
"Rn't 'oo 'oin 'o eet 'at?" Alistair asked, his cheeks full like a squirrel before the first frost.
Rather than answering, Charlotte picked up a spoon and inquired of the group. "Do you really fight ogres?"
Merek nodded somberly, "Aye. They're very large and unbelievably strong. Ya must be extra careful if ya decide to fight one. Ey, Bridge, do you have any ale?"
Merek accepted the tankard gratefully and drank while Borin attempted to reassure Charlotte, "You look like a deft fighter; there are tricks you can use which make an ogre's size a disadvantage for the creature. I wouldn't worry if you have to face one. If nothing else, you'll have all of us to fight at your side."
"How many Grey Wardens are there in Ferelden?"
"Eh, about twenty," Merek wiped a considerable amount of foam from his beard. "Duncan 'as had a worse time than a Chantry priestess in a whorehouse recruitin' since King Maric was lost at sea. Fereldens don't believe we're needed anymore."
"Foolish, how little they know of such things, and yet they still make judgments." Borin looked angrily into his food, his narrow face sharpening. Charlotte struggled not to blush at the mention of a whorehouse.
"Alright, young friend. It will all work out in the end. Once they've realized what we must do, they will come to our side again." Merek shook Borin's shoulder reassuringly, "Man grows used to everything; sometimes he needs remindin' of things!"
Alarmed, Alistair looked at them both and then Charlotte as if in warning.
"Pardon me, miss," Merek offered sincerely, his beard quivering and still a bit foamy from the ale. "I shouldn'ta said as much in front of ya, but I'm guessing yer a strong lass. You'll know soon enough. And don't you worry!" He slapped his massive hand on the table, "We'll all work together!"
Borin smiled kindly again, and they all rose from the table, thanking Bridget and rubbing their stomachs.
"Off with you!" she flapped her hands, trying to reach their bowls. "I've got to prepare dinner and I don't want you lot finishing it off before it's even started!"
The men trundled outside, Charlotte following quietly behind them. Once they had exited the tent, Merek slapped Alistair in the back again and wished Charlotte luck. Borin surprised her by offering the blessing of his Gods, then nodded at Alistair and walked away. Both departed side-by-side back into the Grey Warden encampment.
"Merek is fun, isn't he?" Alistair grinned.
"Yes, he has a kind soul. Where is Borin from? I've never seen tattoos like that before."
"Borin is from an Avvar tribe in the mountains. His family encountered a horde of darkspawn once and they all died, except for him. Duncan was not far at the time and found him, tainted with darkspawn blood. He saved his life by making him a Grey Warden."
But how? Charlotte wondered. She knew better than to ask; Alistair already looked uncomfortable, like he had told her too much.
At that moment, an enthusiastic barking captured their attention and Mastodon came bounding up, his pink tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth in a toothy grin. Ser Jory and Daveth were behind him.
"I see from the scrolls you were successful. Well done, Alistair." Duncan joined the group, his demeanor muted.
Suddenly, Alistair was serious; he cast a worried look at Charlotte and asked Duncan, "Are we to begin the ritual?"
Duncan nodded, "It is time. The mages have been preparing while you were in the Wilds."
Ser Jory looked uneasily at Duncan, while Daveth (much improved now that he didn't fear an amphibious transformation) stood, at the ready.
"Alistair, please escort them to the old Temple. I will meet you there." Without further instruction, Duncan accepted the vials of Darkspawn blood from Alistair and addressed Charlotte. "I will take Mastodon to the kennels. He will be safe there until after the Joining."
Suddenly, Charlotte was afraid. The tone of Duncan's voice suggested a longer parting and she bent quickly to scratch Mastodon's head. "Alright, boy. You be good for the kennel master, now. You promise?"
Mastodon glared suspiciously at Duncan and Alistair; the latter shifted on his feet and looked uncomfortable.
"It's alright, boy. I know what I am doing. Now, you have your orders. Go with Duncan."
Mastodon whined.
Charlotte stood abruptly and raised a commanding eyebrow. This look was her final warning; reluctantly, Mastodon heeded his mistress and trailed disconsolately after the Warden-Commander, glancing fearfully over one shoulder.
"Big baby, he'll be fine." Charlotte carefully ignored how hard her heart had started pounding.
"Yes, he will." Alistair agreed. They set off.
The old temple turned out to be the derelict space in which Charlotte had first met Alistair. It had been grand once, with arches that extended like wide eyes into the blue sky. A stone ramp led to the circular tower which now stood open to the elements. Alistair waited with them there, growing increasingly stone-faced.
Ser Jory seemed unable to tolerate the tension any longer. "Warden Alistair, what is this? Why are you looking so concerned?"
"The Joining is a… tough ritual. There is some… risk involved."
"The more I hear about this "Joining," Ser Jory complained, "The less I like it." Angrily, he glared at Alistair.
Daveth made an impatient noise in the back of his throat, "Are you blubbering again?"
"Why all these damn tests? Have I not earned my place?"
Equally impatient, Charlotte retorted, "What, you think that winning a grand melee earns you your place?"
Alistair gave her a warning look.
"All I'm saying is, I have a wife in Highever who is expecting. If I had known… If they had told me there was such great personal risk…. It just doesn't seem fair."
"Well, we're here now, there's nothing much we can do about it." Daveth replied with finality. Ser Jory fell into an anxious silence.
Charlotte was equally nervous; so much so that when Duncan approached from behind, she jumped. Ninny, she chastised herself. Be strong.
Duncan crossed the tower to a table that had been assembled near the crest of their circle. Charlotte watched as he set down a large silver goblet on its surface, his face grim. Duncan seemed to collect himself, then turned to face them all, his voice soft.
"At last we come to the Joining. The Grey Wardens were founded during the first Blight when humanity stood on the verge of annihilation…. So it was that the first Grey Wardens drank of darkspawn blood and mastered their taint."
Horrified, Jory whispered, "We're… we're going to drink the blood of those creatures?"
Duncan regarded him sternly, "As the first Grey Wardens did before us, as we did before you - this is the source of our power and our victory."
"Those who survive the Joining become immune to the taint, we can sense it in the darkspawn and use it to slay the Archdemon." Alistair explained. Ser Jory was no less horrified, while Daveth looked impressed and surprised.
Charlotte gulped, "Survive?"
"Not all who drink the blood live, and those who do are forever changed. This is why the Joining is a secret." Duncan bowed his head, "It is the price we pay."
Inwardly, Charlotte felt her heart nearly leap from her chest. She could die?
Passionately, Daveth told Duncan, "I'd sacrifice a lot more, if it meant ending the Blight." Duncan merely nodded, his expression solemn. Charlotte realized this potion must have been how Borin was saved from the Taint.
"We speak only a few words prior to the Joining, but these words have been said from the first. Alistair, if you would."
Alistair bowed his head and closed his eyes; his voice grew soft with reverence. "Join us, brothers and sisters; join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant; join us as we carry the duty that cannot be foresworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten and that, one day, we… shall join you."
It felt like a prayer. Charlotte's mouth had gone dry. She thought of the last few days, of everything she'd lost, and she realized she did not want to lose her life –but, like Daveth, she could not bear the thought of so many others being killed in a Blight. She thought of Borin's unknown loss, his family torn asunder while Fereldens believed they were safe. In light of the fact that she had nearly no family left, save Fergus, and she wasn't even sure he was alive, it seemed selfish to put herself first when she could possibly do so much more for everyone else. Including her brother, if he still lived.
Duncan retrieved the goblet in both hands. His surcoat delicately flapped against his ankles as he walked towards the circle; the Gryffin embossed breastplate he wore gleamed a little in the sunlight. All the recruits stared raptly at the goblet, waiting for him to call the first person who would drink from it. In her mind, Charlotte prepared herself, trying to be ready if he called for her.
"Daveth, step forward."
Daveth's shoulders went back; he strode proudly into the center of the circle, accepting the goblet out of Duncan's hands. Resolute, he looked at Duncan, Alistair, and Charlotte one last time, then drank deeply from the silver bowl.
Duncan quickly intercepted the goblet, then stood carefully back. His eyes fixed on Daveth with an intensity that made Charlotte stare at Daveth in alarm.
At first, he seemed to feel nothing. Then, suddenly, he clutched his throat as if it were on fire. Screaming, Daveth fell to one knee, moving his hands to cradle his head in agony. Concerned, Charlotte stepped toward him and gasped. Daveth threw his head back as if to look at her, but his eyes were completely white. Anguished, he cried out one last time, then fell to the ground and lay still.
In the farthest corner of the temple, Ser Jory was shaking, his breath coming in short gasps. Duncan bowed his head respectfully forward, and murmured an apology to Daveth, which Alistair mimicked. That done, Duncan offered the silver vessel to Jory.
"Step forward, Jory,"
"But I have a wife, a child!" Bewildered, Ser Jory drew his blade. To his right, Alistair closed his eyes as if in pain, and Charlotte looked in terror at Duncan.
"There is no turning back." Duncan put down the goblet and drew one of his own daggers, his face set.
The knight shook his head, desperate. "No, you ask too much - there is no glory in this!"
Without warning, Duncan lashed out as quick as a flash. Before Ser Jory had fully raised his sword, Duncan had disarmed and impaled him, planting his dagger deeply into his gut. Closing his eyes, Duncan withdrew his weapon and let Jory fall, murmuring, "I am sorry."
Chest heaving, Charlotte waited as Duncan sheathed the weapon stained with Jory's blood. He retrieved the goblet and approached her slowly. "Come forward, Charlotte."
Alistair watched her pleadingly, evidently concerned she would go the same way as Jory. Charlotte was brave but not stupid; she had no desire to fight Duncan for her life. She glanced at Jory's slumped body, a large stain growing under him and soaking into the stone. At least with the blood she had a chance.
Hands shaking, Charlotte took the silver cup and stared at the black potion inside. It smelled even more horrible than the blood she had smelled in the Wilds; a stomach-turning combination of oil, darkspawn blood, and herbs. Taking a deep breath, Charlotte lifted it to her lips and thought of Oren. She thought of her mother and Nan and Oriana. She thought of Borin, watching his family die in the mountains. She thought of Fergus, lost in the Wilds and possibly lost to her forever. Then, she thought of Father, offering her one last dance.
Charlotte closed her eyes and drank.
Fool.
Angrily, Loghain's lip curled as he imagined Cailan smugly toasting the future he had constructed on the pillars of betrayal and deceit. That Warden-Commander hadn't sounded too certain, but he had evidently humored his ruler in favor of whatever prizes it offered him. They were both fools.
Loghain made his way around the back of the Tower of Ishal. He had posted one of his own to guard the front, telling everyone that it was sealed until the battle in order to protect the beacon at the top, which would serve as Loghain's signal to charge. That had been the original plan; only now was Loghain adding to it in order to head off even bigger disaster.
He had known for some time Cailan was doing something stupid and untrustworthy, but he hadn't wanted to believe he was collaborating with the Orlesians – had not fully committed to his plans until coming to Ostagar. He knew Cailan was unhappy with Anora; she had confided as much, lamenting her inability to bear him a child. Loghain also knew the kingdom needed an heir, but the idea that Anora would be put aside so easily…It was amazing, really, that Cailan had managed to get this far. When Loghain had searched that poorly locked treasure box in the King's tent, his stomach roiled at the letters from the Empress. How easily she manipulated Ferelden's King – and how pathetic that he thought himself the orchestrator!
Thirty years had barely passed since Loghain and Maric had driven the Orlesian scum from their borders. How many hundreds of men died, sacrificing their lives to bring about freedom and justice, only for the son of their rebel king to welcome back those who had raped their wives, burned down their homes, and murdered their children? It made Loghain sick to think of it – if Maric were here! What would he say when faced with a son who would marry the leader of a country that imprisoned them for nearly a century?
The Tower was the most impressive ruin by far, still standing proudly over the fortress with minimal decay. Loghain had scouted it carefully upon his arrival, attempting to anticipate any attacks there, and discovering the place where he had later ordered that his men would light the beacon. Luckily, he was able to circumvent the overgrown ramps and front entrances where his men were waiting to stop any intruders from disturbing the barracks inside or reaching the beacon. He knew that they would allow him to pass without a second thought, but he didn't want someone remembering his presence here later, at this time before the battle. It could prove… inconvenient.
Loghain let himself in through a back entrance that led into one of the bottom chambers of the Tower. Above it, the first layer of barracks had been erected for some of the soldiers in Loghain's army. He could hear them dressing, talking, laughing. Nearby, the calls of hounds somewhat alarmed him. Some warriors had elected to keep their battle hounds near their beds, putting together makeshift Kennels for them on the second floor. They could be perceptive creatures; he didn't want one of them discovering him. Loghain waited patiently in the shadows, making sure no one was nearby, being careful not to get seen.
Satisfied that no one had been alerted to his presence, Loghain crossed through the first room to the only other room on the bottom level, down a short hall. His boots echoed a little on the stone, but he proceeded quickly, preferring to disappear into the room expediently rather than take time for stealth. The second chamber's door was heavy, carved not from stone but from metal, with elaborate filigree curling up the face of it to the pointed top. Self-indulgent magistrates; Loghain ignored his mild disgust at their taste and heaved it open, coughing a little on the stale air.
This door he had not shared with anyone. It had been his secret weapon from the first; now, he stared into the open mouth that had collapsed from the ground in the middle of the floor, the stone around it cracked and distended from the force where it resisted the force which rent it open. Loghain had managed to seal it, should it have not been useful. There had been a door, evidently thrown from its hinges from another room and left here for storage. Loghain had covered the hole with it, only to remove it this morning, when he realized what he had to do.
No darkspawn had yet poured from it. Loghain knew they were probably too stupid to find this entrance on their own. The tunnel underneath the tower suggested their handiwork, but it seemed they had forgotten it, and when Loghain followed its path, he found that the exit into the Wilds had been sealed by earth. When those Warden recruits went out for Duncan's palaver, he had decided to act.
With the exit into the Wilds reopened, the darkspawn needed a little bait. This would be his final contribution; from that, it was up to the Maker, but he was certain that, faced with possible occupation by the Orlesians, the old man would be on his side. In the corner, Loghain went to his final chess piece.
The elf was small with red hair; he wore a green tunic and tan breeches. Loghain had drugged him with some herbs to make him sleep, then left him tied here. No one would miss him, and if they did they would assume the elf had performed some transgression, blaming him for his absence. Loghain ripped away his blindfold, and the young man looked sleepily up at him, his hair mussed and eyes fluttering open.
"You are to be a tool of our salvation," Loghain murmured. "Whatever you were before, you are going to do a noble thing now. I thank you."
Groaning, the elf opened his mouth and tried to prop himself up on one shoulder. His legs and hands were bound behind his back; he fell over and looked at Loghain again, his expression beleaguered and confused.
Loghain grabbed him behind the shoulders and dragged him over to the opening in the ground. Their movements echoed loudly in the silence, one's feet a continuous hiss against the floor, while Loghain shuffled. The boy was waking up, stirring against him, finding some internal resistance. Loghain admired him for that.
Propping the young man up, Loghain grunted, catching his breath. He was still a fit man, but the boy was made of muscle and currently unable to support any of his own weight. Loghain hoped the grogginess would help with the pain.
"He..her..hel…"
The boy's head lolled back, his jaw open, a bit of drool trickling out.
"Hush now. Take it like a man." Loghain wrapped one arm around him, positioned him over the hole, and slit his throat.
The boy gurgled as the blood poured, gasping horribly for air. Loghain released and gently shoved him away, careful not to touch his blood. The elf tumbled forward, rolling into the hole until he collapsed to a stop in the darkness. Loghain could hear him heaving, trying to breathe as his throat opened and wept red.
Loghain waited; once there was silence, he sheathed the small blade, wiping it carefully beforehand and discarding the towel into the hole. The darkspawn would smell the blood and come for him. Loghain knew this was true.
The opening stared back at him; it almost seemed to breathe. The darkness was like an invitation, beckoning him in. What Loghain had to do was difficult, but it was his duty. He could not allow anyone, not even Cailan, to jeopardize the freedom of Ferelden. The darkspawn threat was frightening people now, but soon it would pass; already they had secured three victories against them at Ostagar, with few skirmishes lost. They would win the battle against the larger raid that evening, and in its wake their king would betray them. They would be so distracted, so impressed by his victory, that it would be too late before they realized what had happened. And, without Loghain's sacrifice, no one would be able to stop the Orlesians from taking everything they had coveted for so long.
From far away, Loghain heard more men. They were preparing for tonight; soon, he would join them. Before then, he had one thing left to do.
Loghain looked into the hole once more; he could not help feeling it was sentient, smiling at him, approving of what he had done. He didn't know why, but it gave him a chill, and he removed himself quickly, before whatever evil that lay in wait there could touch him.
With a swish of his cloak and the whine of the door, the metal clacked shut behind him. In the darkness and silence he left behind, something stirred.
Woo! The fun really picks up now - all the plotting can begin! Please send reviews and thank you for reading!
