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Prompt # 11: Disaster

Management

Calmahsir Surana looked upon the scene of a massacre. No, it was worse than that. It was more like a bloody abattoir.

The Grey Warden patrol had apparently made camp in a clearing not too far from a local town, but the surrounding forest was barely recognizable as such now. The once majestic trees at this end of the Knotwood Hills were barely recognizable, little more than charred stumps by this point. Among the charcoal lay bodies, tents, molten metal of all types . . . Prominent among the debris was silverite, parts recognizable from the armor he had commissioned from Wade for all his charges. There was far too much silverite armor for one patrol, however, and an upturned breastplate bearing the flaming Sword of Mercy still surrounding a charred carcass told him who the rest of the armor belonged to.

Templars.

Even several days removed from the event, the stench was excrutiating, but Surana had smelled worse. Not even securing a handkerchief over his nose, the elf dismounted his horse to inspect the mess, and that was when Stroud spoke.

"What do you make of this, Commander Surana?" His orlesian accent was heavy and grated on Surana's nerves. He wasn't quite old enough to share the earlier Fereldan generation's hatred of Orlais, but with his own observations during the Blight and after, and stories from Loghain, whenever Stroud opened his mouth, it set the Hero of Ferelden's teeth on edge.

It didn't help that his opinion of mages, let alone elves, was less than charitable, and he did little to hide it. Surana had always been gifted at reading people, but it didn't take his impressive skill to know that his mustachioed replacement barely tolerated him. When he'd arrived at the keep, Stroud had almost ordered Surana to get him a drink before he realized who he was talking to.

Therefore, Surana took his sweet time in answering Stroud's question. The rest of the team they'd brought to investigate the missing patrol was already picking over the perimeter, so Surana gravitated toward the apparent middle of the conflagration.

Oddly enough, the area here was barely touched, as if the blaze of the tent had protected its insides from the rest of the fire to some degree. Here there was a slightly charred blanket and a scattering of belongings, as if someone had scooped things into a bag in a hurry. There were still valuables lying among the bodies closer to the perimeter, so it was unlikely this was the work of a thief. No, this was someone of the patrol, spooked and fleeing. Hmm, he thought to himself, a surviving witness could be invaluable.

It was then that a scrap of color caught his eye near the closest templar body. He knelt to investigate, fullplate and leather creaking from the unaccustomed position, and found something odd. The piece of bloodstained knitting looked familiar, a much-loved length of drab green and orange wool, cut roughly as if with the edge of a sword that pierced more than just the knitting. Surana glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then surreptitiously bit his lip to draw his own blood and concentrated on the dried, bloody cloth. The blood certainly carried the taint and more than a hint of very powerful magic. His eyes flew open in momentary shock and concern he was glad nobody saw as he added everything together.

Oh shit. Anders.

Surana quickly masked his emotions again, but as he rose, his eyes darted around for a blonde body, hoping against hope that the mage, one of his first recruits, was a victim and not a cause.

This devastation was far too much for one person on its own. Even a single emissary or disciple couldn't have caused this sort of carnage single-handedly, and there was no evidence that a darkspawn raiding party had caught them. They had been taken by surprise, some bodies torn open bluntly, as if with human hands, some with teeth marks that looked eerily human, and one Warden whose head had been neatly ripped off. Coupled with the presence of templars and the reek of the Fade in the place even days later left Surana with only one conclusion:

Abomination.

Except that wasn't quite right, either. He'd seen the results of abominations before, the . . . residue they left from their transformations and what they did to their victims. All of it was absent. Even the teeth marks were too human. Abominations irreparably changed their forms upon possession, possibly because the demon taking over didn't understand that it couldn't change its form at will anymore. Most somehow folded a flap of skin over their host's mouth, preventing bite marks of this type entirely, even if the teeth had remained miraculously intact.

Nothing quite added up, but Commander Surana had an idea of who would know . . . and a feeling that he never would. Knowing the blonde mage's proclivity for hiding and escaping, he knew he'd never see Anders again. If he wasn't among the dead, it was entirely likely that he'd be blamed, and not even a Grey Warden mage would be trusted anymore. The idea that mages could walk free in society would be pushed back another hundred years. Not an idea he could afford for his own vision of the future.

Perhaps it would be best for everyone if Anders stayed missing and unconnected to this . . . disaster.

This would have to be played very carefully.

"Do you have the duty roster for this patrol?" Surana asked calmly when he remounted his horse, commented toward Stroud.

"Of course, ser," the orlesian commander nodded and reached into his pack, handing the parchment with his ostentatious handwriting to the elven hero. Surana only recognized a few of the names, mostly new recruits from just before he'd left to take care of some business in the Deep Roads a few months ago. Only Anders' name did he know well. By rights, he should have been at the top of this list, the most senior warden among the lot, but that position was occupied by one of the newer recruits.

Smug, biased, racist, mage-hating, orlesian bastard.

When Surana had announced his plans to set off for the Deep Roads a few months ago, several of his recruits had volunteered to accompany him, but in light of Jerrik Dace's entreaty for secrecy, had declined any assistance. The Wardens had sent over another commander from Orlais to take over in his stead, and he left without considering what sort of person he was leaving in charge. Only when he returned to the Keep and obtained a report from Garevel did he realize how big an oversight he'd made. His carefully crafted team was no more. Oghren was the first to transfer away, since Stroud's views on excessive drinking were quickly established. Around the same time, Velanna had disappeared mysteriously in the Deep Roads. Following that, Nathaniel transferred to the Free Marches, dissatisfied with Stroud's attitude about Velanna's disappearance and his constant haranguing about Nathaniel's father. Sigrun had been uncharacteristically quiet since Surana left and vanished with no explanation a week after Nathaniel. Justice had dropped dead on the doorstep of his host's wife not long ago. And Anders had been saddled with some holier-than-thou recruit named Rolan, ordered to take him everywhere. It was rumored that he kept far too close an eye on the mage for simple prejudice, and the templars had stopped complaining as soon as he survived his Joining.

Surana could guess what had happened. The name was right there below Anders'.

"Is there a problem, Commander Surana?" Stroud finally asked after the elf had spent ten minutes staring at the same page.

"Was Rolan a templar, Stroud?"

The heavily mustachioed man bristled and opened his mouth to protest or argue semantics, but Surana stopped him with a gesture. "Did I, or did I not leave specific orders to have any templar-trained recruits kept fifty feet away from Anders at all times?"

Stroud attempted to scoff, "Any templar could hold his own against that sorry excuse for—"

"For his safety, not theirs," Surana continued dispassionately, "Considering that I know what a templar can do to a mage from first-hand experience, do you think I particularly care about their wellbeing against a single mage? Anyone should be allowed to strike back to protect himself."

Stroud swallowed.

"You have countermanded orders I specifically set in place before my temporary departure, alienated the senior wardens I left in place, caused unrest in the local nobility through idiotic ruling, and put warden patrols under unnecessary danger by mere group composition. You have absolutely no sense for the mental health and wellbeing of those under your command." Surana delivered his list of Stroud's inadequacies without raising his voice in the slightest. Not even one of the escorts could hear what passed between the two commanders. "As far as I am concerned, this disaster is your fault. I will see you demoted and transferred before the day is through."

Stroud had gone pale. "But, you can't—"

"The Void, I can't. I'm the Hero of Ferelden, and the king and queen both owe their positions to me. Be thankful I don't make it an execution."

In the days that followed Stroud's departure for Ansburg, Commander Surana finalized the official account of the incident. He expertly crafted the story of a captured darkspawn Disciple emissary who took the distracting arrival of a templar patrol as an opportunity to go berserk. Only the fates of the wardens with family were officially reported to Weisshaupt. If anyone asked, Anders' body was not recoverable, concise language for anything from an unrecognizable corpse to transformation into a ghoulish slave.

When he set his pen down, Surana vainly hoped that his friend was still alive and whole somewhere, and that he'd appreciate the misdirection someday.