"It is one thing to praise discipline, and another to submit to it." -Miguel de Cervantes
In the Dwarven Lands
Dwarves, it appears, are much trickier than we surface people every dreamed. They, too, have a civil war on their hands. And until it's resolved, they won't be helping us, because their council isn't allowed to make decisions like that.
I really have no idea who would be a better ruler, but I admit hearing criers yelling on behalf of the prince, Bhelan, set my teeth on edge immediately. And now I've heard rumors that he killed his older brothers. Even if they are rumors, that's very, very unsettling.
I've never been very devout, but their worship of ancestors seems quite odd. Or is it worship? Are they being held as exemplars of behavior, or beings who may intercede, even when dead? It's terribly confusing.
At least one thing is good: it's nicely warm here, what with the lava pools. And I've managed to get accommodations that are more private, though we're still trying to be circumspect.
We've tried approaching both sides and found the same thing we had heard – neither can help us until one is king. With so little to go on, I admit that Harrowmont seems steadier. We've begun to do some things for him, to demonstrate our support, and this has only strengthened my resolve to support him; the prince was trying to keep Harrowmont's fighters out of this "proving" thing that the dwarves do.
There's no two ways to put this. The dwarves fight in an arena, killing each other for sport and for "honor". I don't see anything honorable about it, but Harrowmon insisted that fighting for him would be absolute proof that we supported him.
I went in myself. I did not want to send anyone else. Firstly, while my friends are all fearsome in their own right, I have healing that Alistair and Leliana lack, but I have offensive magics that Wynne is uninterested in learning. And I didn't want any of the three to feel the guilt of killing some poor dwarf who just wanted to support his prince.
I don't think that I killed any of them. I tried to be careful with the cold spells, because shattering someone is about as bad as it gets.
Still, there were other fights where people died, and the crowd cheered. It curdles my blood, and I want to get out of here as soon as I can. Afterward, we were carried on a tide of "fans" to a bar, and I spoke with a ale-soaked dwarf who told me about his missing wife, and how as a paragon she could support one of the candidates and help us out.
Harrowmont agrees that that would certainly help his cause. It looks like we'll be going into the same deep, dark tunnels that Alistair has told me all Grey Wardens come to to die. My joy knows no bounds.
(scrawled) She is done writing for now because this is the last time we're going to have an actual bed for some time. And that's all I'm saying, nosy reader person.