Chapter Twelve: Angel of Fire

Lothering was dead.

Or at the very least, its death was not far coming. That grim sentiment was on the lips of every man and woman in the village, from the Templar standing watch over the southern gate, to the crowds of refugees that huddled behind the meagre walls, to the local citizens, trying to hold on in the face of the inevitable. It was a death delayed, forestalled, but approaching, remorseless as the passage of day to night. The fire had gone out of these people with the death of the King, and no one had any illusions that the village would last long against a determined attack.

In the meantime, it was all they could do to keep from destroying themselves. Tensions between the locals and the refugees had begun to boil over, both sides resentful of each other and lashing out in their fear, and the local Templars were hard-pressed to keep order. No sooner had Sagramor and company passed through the gate then they experienced a taste of this, as a burly farmer immediately barred their path, staring them down with suspicious eyes. "Have you come up from the south? What happened to those bandits?"

"They're dead now," explained Sagramor. "They shouldn't be able to threaten Lothering any further."

"And you think that's a good thing?" the farmer asked contemptuously. "Now who'll keep these blighted refugees away? There are too many of the bastards swarming around the place as it is, some of them even Chasind! Doesn't Lothering have enough problems with the darkspawn and that murdering giant without their lot asking for a handout?"

Morrigan gave the man a venomous glare, and he instantly backed down, mumbling an apology before hastily turning tail. "If that fool is an exemplar of this village, perhaps 'twould be best for the darkspawn to destroy this place," she spat.

"Yes, because condemning an entire group of people for the actions of one man is the moral thing to do," Alistair remarked scathingly.

"A lecture on the evils of collective punishment from a Templar? Will wonders never cease?"

"Let's just try and get the supplies we need," Sagramor grumbled, Ragnar following obediently at his heels. "Between the various farms, the Chantry and the village's own resources, there should be something of use we could purchase."

"If we can afford it," Alistair groused. "Limited resources and high demand? Yeah, there'll be some price gouging, and I really don't have that much on me."

"There's a few sovereigns in my pouch," the elf reassured him, "but you're right; the vultures are circling and it won't last us forever."

"Well, maybe we can barter for what we need, or help out some of the locals in return for supplies. What about that Hawke girl you were talking about before?" asked Alistair. "You think her family would be willing to aid us?"

"Not a bad idea. I was planning to pay them a visit in hopes of repaying Hawke's assistance anyways, so it's worth a shot. For the moment, keep an eye out of any opportunities to barter or trade, and no one wanders the village alone. Some of these folk might be desperate enough to stab us in the back for our purses or the promise of Loghain's bounty, so keep your eyes open."

So ordered, the party wove its way past the refugee camp, taking in every miserable detail. It was becoming increasingly clear that Lothering was wrung dry, the village's resources already stretched to the breaking point, and not for the first time, Sagramor worried about their own supply situation. The food they'd taken from the bandits would serve for the next several days, but after that, they'd be right back where they started. If necessary, they could solely live off the land to their next destination, but weary as they were, none of them had the stomach for such a trial again. Sagramor was perhaps better suited to dealing with privation than the others; making do with little was an essential survival skill in the Alienage, but even he could not fight darkspawn on an empty stomach, and he was painfully aware of how little protection his damaged chainmail provided.

Even more dispiriting was the growing realization that he could do little to keep this village from its fate. Loghain's treachery had condemned Lothering as surely as it had the King and the Wardens, and without an army like that lost at Ostagar, nothing could be done to prevent the horde from destroying this place. The guilt rising up stubbornly in his heart, Sagramor glanced over that the frightened masses, the weight of duty becoming more burdensome than ever. How did one even begin to solve a problem like this? Gaining allies against the Blight was a worthy goal, but until a new host was assembled to confront the darkspawn, it would be the common folk of Ferelden who would suffer the most. Damn you, Loghain. By the blood of my people, you will answer for what you have done.

"So, what do you think?" asked Alistair. "Shall we try the tavern first?"

There were moments in every man's life that profoundly affected his future, often idle choices that would have far-reaching consequences beyond the scope of their conception. Entirely without realizing it, Sagramor, left weary and dirty and emotionally drained by their flight from the Wilds, made on a whim a choice that would alter his life forever. "Ehh, why not? Might as well get a pint before it's all gone."

"Dane's Refuge, 'tis called," Morrigan explained. "'Tis across the bridge on the other side of the stream. I would not advise bedding there for the night, Warden, 'tis likely to be an uncomfortable experience."

"Right now, a hayfield would serve. Let's just go the pub. With a bit of luck and the Maker's favour, we can get what we need there without any problems."

The Maker was clearly displeased with them.

Like the rest of the village, Dane's Refuge was packed to the brim, with nearly every square foot of the tavern serving as shelter for those displaced by the Blight. There were even families packed in the attic beneath the thatch, fearful eyes peering anxiously through the gaps in the floorboards. The main taproom, normally full of men carousing after a hard day's labour, was instead occupied by yet more refugees, all of them vainly trying to keep their distance from the half-dozen soldiers crowding the bar, rough-looking men in chain- and splintmail bearing the wyvern of Gwaren. "Another ale, you scum!" their leader, bearing a lieutenant's insignia, barked, hurling an empty tankard away, heedless of who might be struck. "And not the usual swill, either. We're Loghain's chosen! We'll have the best, or you'll answer to him."

Before any of the party could duck back out of the tavern, the officer caught sight of them, drawing his longsword with a wicked grin. "Well, look what we have here, men. On your feet! I think we've just been blessed."

"Oh, wonderful, Loghain's men," Alistair hissed, gripping the hilt of his own blade. "This can't be good."

At Sagramor's side, Ragnar growled in warning at the approaching spearmen, and the elf cursed his foolishness. He should have known Loghain wouldn't depend on a bounty alone to eliminate the Wardens; he hadn't gotten this far by being stupid, and the so-called Regent would be willing to go any lengths to conceal his treason. You just had to get a drink, didn't you? he cursed inwardly, sizing up their situation. The elf and company were outnumbered and still worn down from their journey northwards, while the soldiers were well-rested and better equipped. Even worse, the tavern was simply so packed that it would be difficult to avoid hitting innocent civilians, though judging by the way Loghain's troops swaggered towards the party, they were far less concerned with such matters. "Didn't we spend all morning asking about an elf by this very description," one of the soldiers asked, "and everyone insisted they hadn't seen him?"

"It seems we were lied to," the officer growled, fixing the tavern's crowd with a hateful stare. "What made you think treason would be tolerated?" he demanded, refugees shrinking away at his fury. "These are Wardens, murderers of your King and enemies of Ferelden!"

The tavern's sullen silence was his only response, and Sagramor could sense the burning hostility that lurked in the hearts of the refugees, a resentment against the boastful soldiers and their demands. Loghain's men had apparently long since worn out their welcome, but for these untrained farmers and herdsmen to take up arms against the teryn's own soldiers was a horse of a far different colour. Staring up into the officer's sneering visage, the elf knew that reason would hold no sway here; they would not disobey their liege lord or miss out on the bounty for the sake of mere facts. "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean," Sagramor insisted, right hand inching towards his belt knife. Let him get close, you'll only have one shot at this…

Without warning, soft fingers suddenly close around his wrist, and Sagramor found himself staring into a woman's vibrant blue eyes, his grip on the knife slackening. How could she have snuck up on him like that? It was a fair question, for the newcomer was lovely enough to turn any man's blood to smoke, and it seemed impossible that he might miss such a radiant woman amidst Lothering's fearful misery.

It was a Sister of the Chantry, clad in the vestments of her faith, the fit of her robes doing little to conceal either her dancer's physique or her more feminine dimensions. She was fairly young, no more than a few winters over twenty by his reckoning, pale, slender and roughly his height, blessed with a youthful vitality. Her fire-red hair had been cut short and left unembellished save for a single delicate braid woven on the left side of her hair. A stray bang fell over her right eye, framing a kind, warm face with generous lips and a faint blush to her cheeks. On soft-soled slippers, she glided between the rival parties, and Sagramor felt his breath hitch in his throat, words dying unspoken as she moved to intervene. "Gentlemen, surely there is no need for trouble. These are no doubt simply more poor souls seeking refuge," she spoke, her voice betrayed the dulcet, sensual accent of Orlais. "The Maker would ask us to give freely to those in need, no matter their origin."

"More poor souls?" the officer scoffed. "They're more than that! Now, stay out of our way, Sister. If you protect these traitors, you'll get the same as them."

"Please, Sister, there's no need to get involved," said Sagramor, eager to keep any civilians from getting caught between their blades. To attack a priestess of the Chantry was to invite damnation, but Loghain had done far worse to steal the throne. "We don't want you getting hurt."

"The Maker is my shield and my comfort, ser elf," the red-haired woman reassured him, turning those wondrous blue eyes towards the Warden once more. "I am not afraid." Steadfast, she held her ground before Loghain's troops, seemingly oblivious to the general confusion of Sagramor and company. "These good folk are under my protection, Lieutenant. The Maker smiles upon their quest, and I will not see them harmed."

"And who are you to defy the wishes of Teryn Loghain, Sister?" the lieutenant demanded, leveling his blade at the woman, much to the horror of the onlookers. "He is the Regent and rightful master of Ferelden! Why should I heed anything some Orlesian strumpet has to say?"

"Because I hear the voice of the Maker, Lieutenant, and He will not allow you to hinder their mission. Please, stand down. There is no need for violence."

The Maker… speaks to her? Sagramor questioned, closing his mouth with an audible click. It was a central point of Chantry doctrine that Andraste was the only mortal the Maker had ever directly spoken to; indeed, would ever directly speak to, at least until such time as He returned to the world once the Chant had spread to every corner of the earth. To suggest that you were the recipient of his words as Andraste has been was either heretical, insane or so supremely arrogant you might as well be mad. Beside him, Alistair grimaced at the notion. Despite that, he had to admire the young woman's courage in standing against a half-dozen armed men without so much as a kitchen knife to protect her, however misguided she might be. "Perhaps you should stand clear, my lady. We don't want you getting caught in the crossfire."

"He is with me, ser elf. I am where I am needed."

"Enough of this!" the officer roared, patience fraying. "Your have your orders, men. Kill the Sister, and anyone else who gets in the way!"

"You'd murder an innocent woman, a harmless priestess?" Sagramot asked, horror giving way to anger. "All to cover up Loghain's lies?"

"Shut up, knife-ear! Simmons, make it happen!"

"Right, move aside!" one of the spearmen demanded, jabbing his weapon towards the red-haired woman. "Move aside, or I'll-"

And the harmless Chantry Sister attacked, exploding with finely honed movement. Like a steel trap, her left hand seized the ash spearshaft just behind the point, giving a firm tug and wrenching it away. Simultaneously, her right hand shot forward, slipping through the gap between the man's chin and collarbone, punching hard into the hollows of his throat. Choking, the spearman staggered back, and she gave one final tug, ripping the spear clean from his faltering grip and arcing the blunt end towards his head like a quarterstaff, the wood giving a savage crack as it connected. In the space of mere moments, one of the soldiers was down for the count, and the girl had her weapon leveled towards the officer's throat. "You will not harm them. Please, stand down before more of you are injured."

"Kill them!" wailed the lieutenant, lunging for the priestess. "Kill them all!"

Effortlessly, the girl deflected the blow with her spearshaft, leaving the soldier open to a swift right hook from Sagramor, pitching him into the nearest table. "Watch where you strike!" the elf commanded, his greatsword's reach a liability with so many innocent people crowding the space. "Keep the civilians out of harm's way!"

It was the sort of sound tactical advice that Alistair and Morrigan had come to expect from Sagramor, but Loghain's troops were in no mood to hold back. Refugees cried out in panic as the two parties clashed, jostling against each other in their haste to flee. "Keep it contained!" shouted Sagramor, anxious to prevent a stampede from breaking out. Behind him, Morrigan chanted a spell, and the hysteria suddenly ebbed from the crowd, their fear washed away in a magically-induced stupor. The nascent riot stopped in its tracks, the sorceress turned her spells upon Loghain's men. One of their number screamed in horror, his weapon forgotten as he tried to block out the nightmares that assailed his senses. Those closest to him drew back fearfully, quailing at the presence of magic and opening the way for Alistair and Ragnar to strike. The former rushed in without stopping, turning the momentum of his charge to his favour as he hammered a spearman down with the flat of his shield. The latter dodged a vicious spearthrust with an agility that belied the hound's size, and lunged for his attacker's throat.

"Show me what you're got, knife-ear!" the officer spat at his opponent. Eagerly, Sagramor accepted his challenge, chafing at the bit over the threat to the beautiful priestess. Ducking a wild slash, the elf slammed his open palms hard against the man's ears, the sudden pressure battering his eardrums and producing a dazed cry of pain. Sagramor went to break his foe's sword wrist, but even discombobulated as he was, the man countered fast, his other hand punching into the elf's gut and throwing him back against the bar, spilling tankards. Cursing the elf, the tavern's patrons scattered from the thrust of the officer's longsword. Sagramor dodged, but just barely, the blade ripping loose links of chainmail free, steel rings falling like dried petals.

After all I've been through, I'm not dying in a bar brawl! Sagramor told himself, anger giving him wings. As the Gwaren lieutenant lifted his sword for a fatal overhead strike, the elf darted forward, kicking him in the groin. Pale fingers knotted through the officer's short hair, and before he could recover from the dishonourable blow, Sagramor masticated his face against the bar, spilling blood, beer and broken teeth everywhere. A kick to the inside of the man's right knee dislocated the joint with a savage crack, and one last collision between his head and the polished oak left him stunned and bleeding on the vomit-strewn floor.

Beside him, the rest of the party was busy taking down the remaining soldiers. Closest was the red-haired priestess, weaving like an errant flame around every enemy strike, her captured spear abandoned. Dodging a sword thrust from her current opponent, she pivoted on the ball of her foot, spinning about and driving her elbow into the soldier's throat. The sword fell, and like lightning, she snatched it out of mid-air. Twice came the flash of steel and the soldier cried out in pain, slashed on both arms, deep enough to incapacitate but not to kill. A shapely leg darted out from beneath her skirts, sweeping the soldier's feet from under him, two hundred pounds of bone and flesh and metal crashing to the ground with enough force to rattle the tables.

The tide had turned, but the fight was not yet won. "Throw down your arms!" Sagramor demanded, wading back into the fray. Thus far, neither his comrades nor the people of Lothering had suffered any serious injury, but the longer the brawl dragged on, the more likely that would change. One of Loghain's minions was dead, neck broken by the snarling Ragnar; the rest were either unconscious, incapacitated, or vainly fighting against the superior skills of the Warden and his companions. One of the latter was busy grappling with Alistair, trying to rip the shield from the former Templar's arm. A bar stool across his back put the man down, and Sagramor stomped on his head for good measure. "Stand down or suffer the consequences!"

"Never!" came the officer's enraged cry, and Sagramor turned to see the battered human hobble towards him, fists clenched around the shards of a broken winebottle. His defiance lasted only as long as it took the priestess to lay her captured blade at his throat, and he cast his impromptu weapon to the floor. "Alright, you've won! We surrender!" he pleaded, eyes darting fearfully to where Alistair and Morrigan were rounding up his beaten troops.

"Good," the priestess exclaimed, sheathing her blade within the silken waistband of her robes. "They've learned their lesson and we can all stop fighting now."

"Depends on what this bastard has to say for himself," Sagramor remarked, relieved to discover that neither the priestess nor any of his companions were badly injured. That they could have been hurt for the sake of Loghain's ambitions enraged the elf, and he turned on the officer with a vengeful glare. "Care to retract your slander against the Wardens, you cur, or are you actually stupid enough to believe in Loghain's poison?"

"I was there!" the officer proclaimed. "The Teryn pulled us out of a trap, one set by the Grey Wardens to lead the King to his death!"

"That's a lie!" Sagramor barked. The tavern was far less crowded now, with most of the civilian population having fled out the back door during the brawl, so Sagramor finally had the needed room to draw his greatsword. "You will withdraw such insults, or I'll make sure you'll never utter another."

"I withdraw nothing, traitor! I am a loyal servant of Teryn Loghain, Regent of Ferelden, and I will not bow before knife-eared scum and Orlesian whores! I-" The prick of the greatsword upon his left cheek reminded the lieutenant that he had lost this fight, and Sagramor could see how the man's pride warred with his caution in that moment.

Before Sagramor could permanently still the man's lying tongue, the Sister once again intervened. "Show mercy, Warden. He and his men are beaten; there is nothing to be gained by killing him."

"It'll put an end to his slander," Sagramor retorted, the truth of her words obscured by the shame of their defeat at Ostagar and their blacklisting. "Most of my Order died fighting for Ferelden, Sister; they deserve better than to have their memories tarnished and their deeds belittled by scum like this!"

"If they died with honour, then the Maker knows their names," the red-haired woman responded firmly. "Whatever might be said about them will not change what they accomplished in life. Not even the lies of other men." A gentle hand fell on his shoulder, and her soulful blue eyes ensnared him. "The Grey Wardens are heroes one and all, are they not?"

And heroes don't kill defeated, unarmed men, Sagramor reminded himself, breathing deep to force the anger away. "Barkeep! Have these men harmed anyone in Lothering since their arrival? Have they stolen? Murdered? Raped?"

Peering fearfully from behind the bar, the tavern's owner finally worked up the courage to speak. "Not that I know of, Warden. Threatened a few people and harassed some of the staff, but nothing more than that."

The greatsword came down, and the officer breathed a sigh of relief. "That's some nice armour you're wearing," Sagramor remarked, examining the suit of chainmail worn by the foe. "Forged in Gwaren, I would assume."

The officer gave a weak nod, eager to placate the elf. "That's right. Good stuff, this. The Teryn makes sure we're well-equipped."

"Wonderful to hear. Take it off."

The officer hobbled backwards, shocked. "Beg your pardon?"

"You heard me, you pox-ridden scum, get that armour off! Strip, the lot of you!"

The Sister was right; killing these men outside of battle was dishonourable, and it would not benefit the cause of the Wardens or bring back those slain in Ostagar's gorge. Yet Sagramor was unwilling to let them go unpunished for their lies, and the officer's armour would be a decent replacement for his own ravaged chainmail. Those soldiers left unconscious during the brawl were roused, and in the space of a few minutes, their weapons, armour and valuables lay piled on the floor. "I want you to send a message to Loghain," Sagramor addressed the soldiers, now left in hairshirts and smallclothes, the jeers of the tavern crowd reverberating off the tavern's timber beams. "Tell him that the truth of his desertion at Ostagar will not be buried, and the Wardens survive to oppose him." Shocked whispers sounded from the crowd; this was the first they had heard of the truth behind the Teryn's retreat. "Tell him that not even a Teryn can evade justice forever. And be certain to tell him he'll have to send better soldiers than the likes of you if he hopes to stop us! Now clear out!"

At that, the soldiers fled out of the tavern, moving as fast as their wounds would permit. At his side, ," the red-haired priestess remarked, giving him a heart-quickening smile. "I am glad you found it in your heart to offer those men mercy."

"'Twould have been wiser to slay them," Morrigan retorted, glaring distastefully at the ruinous mess left in the wake of the fight. "Doubtless we'll have to fight those men again in the future, and yet more if Loghain catches up to us."

"Not on this day, Morrigan," answered Sagramor, snatching a suit of chainmail from the pile. Alistair was of like mind, taking a splintmail hauberk for himself and bundling the rest together with strips of leather; those, along with the spare weapons, could be bartered off for the needed supplies. "Besides, it might unsettle Loghain a bit; push him to making a mistake we can exploit."

"So you say."

"It could have been a lot worse," Alistair stated, giving the tavern keeper an apologetic nod and some spare silvers for the damages. "Lot of civilians, no room to use our swords? We're damned lucky."

"Well, we did have some help," said the elf, giving the red-haired Sister a small bow of respect. "Are you all right, Sister?"

"I am well, thank you. I apologize for interfering, but I couldn't just sit by and not help."

"You did have me worried there for a moment," Sagramor admitted. "In truth, I had no idea priests were so capable in a fight."

"I wasn't born in the Chantry, you know," the young woman explained. "Many of us had more… colourful lives before we came into the Maker's grace. Let me introduce myself. I am Leliana, one of the lay sisters of the Chantry here in Lothering, or at least I was."

"A pleasure to meet you, Leliana. My name is Sagramor Tabris, of the Denerim Alienage. My companions, Alistair and Morrigan," said Sagramor, gesturing to each in turn. "Oh, and my hound Ragnar, of course."

Ragnar gave a happy bark at the mention, and Leliana smiled at the hound's antics. "It is very nice to meet you all. They said you were a Grey Warden. I wasn't expecting an elf, but I suppose elves want the Blight defeated as much as humans do, no?"

"Indeed," replied Sagramor, letting the comment slide for the moment. Wardens were rare enough that few people had ever met one face-to-face, and centuries of prejudice against the elves had sunk their roots deep.

"And your companions? Are they Wardens as well?"

Weighing the need for secrecy against her innocent question, Sagramor decided to indulge her. After that ferocious brawl, the entire town likely knew they were Wardens, so discretion had ceased to be useful in that regard. "Alistair is. Morrigan is not of the Order, but is a valuable companion nonetheless. If I may ask, Leliana, what's your interest?"

"I heard about what happened at Ostagar, and those who were lost," the priestess responded. "You will need all the help you can get, so I will be coming with you."

"You wish to fight the darkspawn?" Sagramor asked incredulously, stumbling over his thoughts at how eager she was to throw herself in harm's way. "Stopping the Blight is not the same as intervening in a bar brawl, Sister. I- why do you want to join us?"

"I told you; you will need all the help you can get. And like I said before, the Maker told me I should aid you," came Leliana's earnest reply.

"That… will require some elaboration," said Sagramor, his misgivings about the young woman returning. She was definitely a better fighter than he had expected, but such a boast could not stand without scrutiny. Beside him, Alistair gave a nervous laugh, while Morrigan rolled her eyes scornfully.

"I know it sounds absolutely insane," Leliana pleaded, recognizing the disbelief in their faces, "but it's true! I had a dream, a vision sent by the Maker!"

"More crazy?" quipped Alistair, shooting Morrigan a mocking glance. "I thought we were all full up."

"I promise you, it was real!" the red-haired woman insisted. "Look around you. Do you think the Maker wants this chaos and despair? To see people left to suffer at the hands of such creatures? If there is anything I can do to help set this right, I must, in His name."

"There are things you can do to help besides fighting," Alistair suggested. "The Chantry does a lot of good work that doesn't involve stabbing darkspawn in the face. Is this vision of yours why you left?"

"Not in the way you think," Leliana assured him. "They did not force me out; I left of my own volition. I'm a lay sister, not an ordained priest, not even an initiate. I break no oaths by travelling with you."

"Well, what about magic?" the former templar mentioned. "If dealing with mages is going to be a problem, it might not be a good idea for you to come along."

"How rich! 'Tis the pot calling the kettle black!" laughed Morrigan.

"I've worked with mages before, ser," Leliana assured him. "Against the Blight, we must all set aside our differences to succeed, correct? I will not have any issues there."

Before Alistair could raise another objection, Sagramor interjected, "You seem to be a good swordswoman, Leliana, but what other skills to do you have?"

"I'm an even better archer," Leliana stated with more than a hint of pride. "During my travels in Orlais, my skills with a bow were highly prized. I know how to move quietly and blend in with the crowd, even how to pick locks, all talents which could be useful to you. I know I can help you save Ferelden from the darkspawn, and swear I will serve your cause faithfully. Please, let me help."

The conviction of her plea touched something in Sagramor, and the elf found himself giving serious consideration to her request. Leliana had proven very capable in a fight, and she was one of the few people they had encountered to offer their aid; the Wardens were not so rich in allies that they could afford to turn any away. Moreover, Sagramor knew he was in no position to judge her based on experience. He had yet to fight in formal war when Duncan found him, and was an elf and a murderer besides, but in the end, the slain Warden had seen something in him that others had overlooked. He had taken a chance with the elf, given him an opportunity to prove his value, and Sagramor would be forever grateful. It was an example worth following. Leliana was willing and capable, and that was all he need concern himself with. The rest would attend to itself in time. "I must warn you, Leliana, the path ahead is a dangerous one, and you may not see the end. Are you absolutely certain you want to commit yourself to this?"

"The Maker is with me, Grey Warden, and the innocent must be protected. I will stand with you to whatever end."

Sagramor couldn't help but smile at that. I'm meeting the most interesting people, aren't I? he mused, shaking Leliana's hand. "Then welcome to our little company, Leliana. Glad to have you with us."

"Perhaps your skull was injured worse than Mother thought," Morrigan muttered.

"Enough, Morrigan, please. So tell me, Leliana, where's your equipment?"

Before the Sister could reply, the trod of mailed feet interrupted, and Sagramor turned to see four templars barge into the tavern, blades drawn and ready. "What in Andraste's name is going on here?!" barked their leader, voice booming behind his full helm. "Unregulated magic? Reports of a brawl? In the Maker's name, you will all—Sister Leliana?"

"Hello, Ser Maron," Leliana said soothingly, the templars lowering their weapons in confusion. "These good folk beside me were defending themselves from an unprovoked attack by Teryn Loghain's men. Those soldiers are gone now, and should not pose any more danger to Lothering."

"Sister, you… you stand with these people?"

"Yes," Leliana replied, giving her new companions a warm glance. "Just as they stand with me."

With a quick wave, Ser Maron ordered his fellows to sheathe their blades. "Knight-Captain Bryant will need to hear of this, Sister. I'd ask that you all come with me."

"Do I have your word that none of my companions will be harmed?" questioned Sagramor. He knew the templars had their duties to fulfill, but he wouldn't abide anyone imprisoning his companions just for defending themselves. Morrigan in particular looked justly displeased at the notion; they would be unlikely to give her any clemency. "We mean no harm to the people of Lothering, but I won't allow our mission to be obstructed either."

"What he says is true, Ser Maron," Leliana pleaded. "Let us speak to the Knight-Captain. I'm sure we can reach some kind of accord."

After a moment's consideration, the templar at last relented. "Very well then. Just keep your weapons sheathed. People are frightened enough as it is."

From across his heavy oak desk, Knight-Captain Bryant blinked away fatigue. "Well, given that Sister Leliana has vouched for you, and seeing as how no one was killed, I'm inclined to let the matter drop, Grey Warden," the heavyset Templar informed him, sweating in the close, stifling air of the chantry. Just like Dane's Refuge, the Lothering chantry was packed full of refugees and other unfortunates, though Bryant was fortunate enough that his office remained private so he and Sagramor could discuss matters. "Besides, given all the problems Lothering has to deal with, I'm hesitant to take on any more than necessary."

"Understandable," Sagramor replied warily. His prior experiences with Templars of the Chantry had not been pleasant ones, but Bryant seemed an accommodating fellow, more concerned with protecting the people of Lothering than furthering Loghain's ambitions. "I can assure you, neither myself nor my companions seek to cause any trouble here."

"Does that include the apostate girl?" Bryant asked, smiling grimly as the elf tensed up. "I would be a poor Templar indeed if I could not recognize a mage when I saw one. Do I have your word that she means no harm to the people of Lothering, and that you will intervene if she poses a danger?"

"You have it."

"Then I'll permit her to remain free. In better days, I would not be so lenient towards an apostate, but we have more than a lone hedge mage to be concerned with. Besides, I'm well aware of your Order's martial reputation, and we templars are already stretched thin as it is without losing half my troops to your blades." Bryant gestured idly towards the main hall of the chantry, where the sobs of orphans, widows and wounded accompanied his words. "It is the people of Lothering I must concern myself with above all else now."

"Anything we can do to help this village?" asked Sagramor.

The Templar shook his head mournfully. "I do not know. We intend to evacuate as many as possible before the darkspawn arrive, but our efforts are being hampered by the bandit gangs lurking just outside the township. There are many in Lothering who would seek refuge elsewhere, but the bandits show no mercy to those they come across, and I can spare no men to shepherd them."

"Which, in turn, is causing the food situation to worsen, as people would rather remain here than take their chances being ambushed on their way to greener pastures, thus increasing demand on your scarce supplies," Sagramor finished for Bryant, nodding in understanding.

"You have the right of it. Even worse, we've heard rumours that Bloch the Skinner leads them."

"Sounds like a charming fellow," Sagramor quipped, grimacing. "A particularly infamous bandit then, I assume."

"Correct. He was a hedge knight once, Maker knows how many years ago, but in recent times has turned to full-fledged banditry," the Templar explained. "He's a tricky one too; the Bann of Lothering has dispatched forces against him twice, and while they wiped out his gang each time, the Skinner has always managed to escape and plot his evil anew. Before Ostagar, he was a perennial bother; now, with the Bann's troops gone and tensions between Loghain and the Bannorn looming, he's a genuine threat, and is probably seizing this chance to settle some old scores."

"How many bandits does he have?"

"It is uncertain. We know that several groups have positioned themselves along the roads to the north and east, along with another band south of the village on the Imperial Highway. We've had some reports of others raiding isolated steadings beyond the village's defenses, though by the time I can muster anyone to investigate, they're usually long gone. My guess is that many of his men are routiers fleeing the defeat at Ostagar. We know for a fact that Bloch routinely press-gangs rival bandits to his cause; he may be doing to them as well. If they refuse, well… he's well-named, let's put it at that."

"If nothing else, you won't have to worry about that group to the south anymore," the elf assured him. "My companions and I slew them all when they attacked a family of elves."

"Truly? Then you have my gratitude, ser Warden. Here," said the templar, tossing him a pouch of coins. "The Chantry and Lothering's village council have put out a standing bounty on the bandits; slay any more, and we'd be happy to reward you. Don't bother trying to take any prisoner; Lothering wouldn't have the space to house them in the best of times, and the felon's cage is being used to hold the Qunari."

"Qunari? Did I hear that right?" demanded Sagramor, not believing his ears. The Qunari were a mysterious and hostile race of giants that dwelt in the north, their powerful and technologically advanced civilization driven to spread their alien faith over all of Thedas. Their arrival during the Steel Age sparked a desperate, religiously-motivated struggle for control over the continent, and it took several Exalted Marches before they were finally driven back to their land of Par Vollen. It had been nearly 150 years since the Qunari and those nations who followed the White Divine in Val Royeaux had last gone to war, but there were many in the Chantry who kept cautious eyes looking northwards, fearful that the hard-won peace would not last. A Qunari isn't the sort of being one would normally see this far south, especially in a parochial village like this. "What's a Qunari doing here?"

"Murdering freeholders, apparently. We caught the beast a few weeks ago, the blood of an entire family on its hands, and locked it away to rot. It didn't even try to resist. Personally, I'd put a sword through it, but the Revered Mother counselled mercy, so it yet lives. The darkspawn will take care of it when we're gone."

Mentally filing that news away, Sagramor tossed the coin pouch between his hands, assessing the weight. It had to hold at least thirty silvers, a decent sum for a few minutes spent killing brigands, and he carefully stowed it away in his pack. "Have you heard anything about what's going on outside Lothering, or word on Loghain?"

"Only a little. The Teryn has declared himself Regent for Queen Anora, but from what little we've heard, it's put the Landsmeet in an uproar. I know nothing more beyond that. Between bandits intercepting any messengers, frightened rumour-mongering and our relative isolation here, we're heard nothing conclusive."

"One last question before I let you return to your duties, Knight-Captain."

"Ask it," the templar replied with a sigh.

"Do you know where I might find the Hawke family? I met a warrior by that name at Ostagar who helped me about, and I wish to repay her family for her assistance."

"The Hawkes? Yes, they have a steading a few miles north of the village. A quiet sort for the most part, though not unfriendly. They're always willing to lend a hand when asked for, but otherwise keep to themselves. I don't think I've exchanged more than a dozen words with them; Sister Leliana would know far more about them then I would."

An isolated steading means they're ripe for attack, Sagramor thought, blood running cold. First opportunity, he'd see the Hawkes safe. "And what about Leliana? Do you know much about her?" he asked, curiosity demanding he voice the question.

"Only that she has served the Maker and His Chantry faithfully. We don't really inquire about the pasts of those who come into His light."

"No, I suppose not," said the elf. Answers could wait for the moment, and it was far better they came from Leliana then the gossip of others. "By your leave then, Knight-Captain."

"Good luck to you, Warden. Remember what I said!"

Closing the door to Bryant's office behind him, Sagramor stepped out in the main hall, slipping his way past the priests singing the Chant and the tearful masses praying for deliverance to where his companions had gathered, Ragnar barking in joy at his master's return. Quickly, he shared what he had learned from the Templar. "I guess it was too much to hope that those bandits we killed were the only ones," Alistair grumbled, now wearing the captured splintmail armour. "We'll probably have to deal with them sooner or later."

"We'll keep our eyes open," responded Sagramor. "Though I am intrigued about this Qunari prisoner. Leliana, do you know anything about this?"

"Yes, I've been bringing him food and water ever since he was confined, though he has no interest in either," Leliana elaborated, her Chantry robes replaced with a set of functional leather armour, thighs protected by a skirt of studded leather strips, and her long legs highlighted within knee-high boots. The longsword she had taken during the fight at the tavern had been thrust through her belt, along with a pair of long knives. A quiver hung at her back, along with a polished yew longbow, left unstrung so as not to sap its power. Her equipment looked fairly old, but it was in decent condition, and Sagramor wondered how long she had been waiting to join them, assuming her talk of visions was true. "The Revered Mother said he slaughtered an entire family, even the children. Many of the villagers have demanded his death in retribution for his crime, yet he admitted his guilt and did not resist when the Templars took him prisoner."

"Guilty conscience, maybe?" suggested Alistair.

"One would hope so," said the elf, brow furrowing in thought.

Morrigan noticed that look immediately. "You have a plan regarding this Qunari, then?"

"One that depends on getting a chance to speak with him, but yes," Sagramor answered. "Let's see about getting supplies, then we can talk to the prisoner and check in on the Hawkes."

"Shouldn't take too long," Alistair stated, turning towards the door. "Well, we've got all this armour to pawn off, it should be- oof!" His next suggestion was cut off, as a knight in red steel chainmail collided with him, mumbling in forgiveness. "Watch it!"

"I beg your pardon," the knight apologized, giving a penitential bow. "I did not see you approach."

Alistair's eyes widened at the sight of the man's heraldry, depicting a grey tower atop a red cliff, and impulsively, he stuck out his hand. "Ser Donall?"

The knight gave him a questioning look for a moment, before a broad smile split upon his hardened, unshaven face. "Alistair? By the Maker, how are you? I… I was certain you were dead!" he declared, shaking his hand eagerly.

"Not yet, no thanks to Teryn Loghain," the former templar replied, his tone going cold at mention of the traitorous nobleman.

"So I've heard. Believe me, Alistair, I won't turn you in, nor will any man of Redcliffe, I promise you that," Ser Donall declared firmly. "If Arl Eamon were well enough, he'd order us as much."

"If he's well enough?" Alistair demanded. "What… what do you mean?"

"The Arl… he's sick, Alistair," Donall admitted morosely.

"How sick?"

"Sick enough that Arlessa Isolde permitted a mage to try and heal him, and sick enough that all his spells were for naught. It's an illness that threatens his life, and it's beyond the understanding of any healer."

"When did this happen?" Alistair asked, going pale with shock. Behind him, Leliana spoke a quiet prayer for the nobleman's recovery.

"Only a few weeks ago," explained the knight. "His health has declined quickly, and nothing we can do seems to help him recover. Our only hope now is a miracle. The Arlessa has ordered that every knight of Redcliffe search for the Urn of Sacred Ashes, for Andraste's mortal remains are said to be capable of curing any illness."

"The Urn…" gasped Leliana, eyes alight at the possibility of recovering it, and Sagramor felt his own faith stirring at the notion, inspired by all the tales and Chantry lore he had read. The Urn was the vessel holding the ashes of the Prophet Andraste, gathered from the pyre upon which she had been burned by the magisters of Old Tevinter, and smuggled away from beneath their very noses. It was the holiest of holies, an object of legend that every pious Andrastian longed to behold… and if this Arl Eamon depended on a lost relic for survival, then his condition was grim indeed. "Have you found any clues to where it might be hidden?" the red-haired woman asked, barely containing her excitement.

"Regrettably not, my lady. I came here in hopes of taking advantage of the chantry's library, but my talents are better served towards battle than chasing down tales. I fear I shall return to Redcliffe with nothing to show for my efforts. With luck, the others might have been more successful."

"Maker's breath," gasped Alistair. "I know we're still deciding where to go next, Sagramor, but I'm more convinced than ever now we need to head to Redcliffe."

"I understand, Alistair," replied the elf. "Ser Donall, my companions and I still need to track down some supplies, but if you'd be willing to wait a few hours, we could accompany you west."

"That is a kind offer, ser, but I must refuse. I haven't found any leads on the Urn, but at the very least, Redcliffe must be informed about the situation in Lothering and be prepared to shelter any refugees coming from the east. Still, if it's refuge you seek, I'm sure the Arlessa would give you all a warm welcome."

"First time for everything, I guess," Alistair muttered with an unexpected coldness.

"If there was ever a time to set aside old quarrels, this is it," urged the knight. "Everyone knows the Arlessa did you ill; even the Arl would admit that if pressed, but we have enemies enough without reopening old wounds. Make your peace with her, please, for the Arl's sake if nothing else."

"Suppose I have no choice, really. Still, it was good seeing you, Ser Donall."

"You as well, Alistair. Best of luck to all of you."

Ser Donall left the Chantry, and in his passing, Morrigan gave a small, mocking laugh. "Usurping thrones, robbing travellers and now indulging in pious drivel. It seems that every man in this country is a fool of some description."

"Those knights are on a sacred quest, Morrigan," Leliana admonished her. "To find the Urn of Sacred Ashes is a noble goal, and to use it to heal the sick and unfortunate even more so. The Maker may yet smile on them before their quest is done."

"'Twould be far better for them to cease traipsing about the countryside for a hidden relic and instead prepare themselves to fight the darkspawn. Are there any in Ferelden who actually wish to save this country from the Blight?"

"Well, to start, there's us," Sagramor reminded her. "Let's get a move on; I want to be out of Lothering and on the road by nightfall. Leliana, tell me whatever else you know about this Qunari, I would have words with him…"

In the wooded hills north of Lothering, Bloch the Skinner listened patiently as his spy finished his report. "So Lothering is defenseless then," mused the former hedge knight, stroking the stubble on his scarred and battle-worn face. Around him, the other bandits wisely kept their mouths shut, new recruits and old hands alike dreading an encounter with the long dagger he kept at his belt should they speak out of turn.

"We far outnumber them," the other man spoke, garbed in a labourer's tunic. Bloch had specifically chosen the man for his subtlety, and his discretion had paid off. "Many of the militia have already deserted their posts to see to their families, and the templars are too concerned with stopping any potential riots to safeguard against outside attack. There are some Wardens in the village, but only a few."

"Wardens?" Bloch snapped, and the man quailed beneath the gaze of his singular eye. His left orb had been left milky and unseeing from one of his raids against the people of Lothering, the constant pain of the wound doing little for his temperament. That dark-haired warrior woman had a great deal to pay for. On some nights, he would lie awake on his cot, hands clenched about his swordhilt in anticipation of the punishment he would mete out to his enemies, from the girl who had taken his eye, to the nobles who had sneered at him behind his back, to the Marcher bankers who had connived to bankrupt him and leave him the poorest tournament knight in Ferelden. "You're certain of this?"

"Yeah, I saw them in the local tavern. Some of Loghain's men were there, but the Wardens fought them off. Seemed like an elf was in charge, too; had a mage with him and everything."

"Did they notice you?"

"No, they couldn't have. I was just one more body in the crowd, and the Teryn's men were keeping them occupied."

"Wardens," Bloch whispered. He had some eighty bandits at his command spread out across the territory, the largest such group he'd ever controlled, and with the presence of so many routiers and broken soldiers in their midst, less like a gang of thieves and more like a genuine warband. And with Lothering stripped of fighters, the Skinner and his men could rob with impunity, unconcerned with any reprisals. Yet, even then there were complications. Bloch was, for lack of a better term, a professional brigand, so he mistrusted the routiers who followed him mostly out of fear. They were better-trained than most of his lads, but their hearts were not committed, and for all the dreaded reputation of his skinning knife, he knew such men could not be relied upon in the long term. Give them a victory, however, and they'd find their dedication, and a two hundred sovereign bounty would be a victory indeed. And if the Wardens had killed the group he'd sent to watch the Highway south of Lothering, then that was just another bit of payback to be extracted from those who'd wronged him. "Send word to the rest of the lads. I want everyone here and ready to move on Lothering in the next two hours."

"Everyone?"

"Yes, everyone," the bandit chieftain snarled, clenching a fist at his tremulous tone. "Forgot the blockades along the roads, we're done pinching a few silvers from random travellers or rustling cattle from farmholds. Get a team watching Lothering in case the Wardens make a run for it, but otherwise, get the rest of the boys here now. There's a prize waiting for us in Lothering, and it won't come easy."

A/N: Sorry for the delay on this installment, everyone. Lots of real life stuff has been demanding my attention lately, including a major reno that's been a big source of stress, so the process of writing this chapter was nowhere near as smooth as I would like. Still, think it turned out alright, but as ever, I'd love to hear what you think.

Next chapter wraps up the Lothering arc with Sten's intro, some more Hawke and wacky hijinks with bandits. Hope you all enjoy, and thank you for all your continued support!