Caradhras, Origins Theme, Oh Grey Warden, Sun and Steel, Blackout, The Colonel

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Disgrace of Redcliffe

The Dame of Sahrnia

Connor was in the Fade and he couldn't wake up. He tried and he failed and no matter what he did- it wasn't working.

He couldn't will it, couldn't force it, couldn't shock or scare or bully himself free.

He couldn't even conjure himself here and try to calm down, because something truly horrifying was happening to Connor outside the Fade: he was moving. It had happened once or twice on those long journeys by ship, falling into an unguarded sleep on a moving vessel had changed how the Fade presented itself, and that same eerie, horrible sensation had gripped him now. He was moving. He was falling.

"Wake me up!" He screamed without voice, "Stop this! Put me down and let me wake up! Please! Please stop this!"

The Fade was rarely the same place twice, but it could be similar. Like any proper Mage Connor avoided the realm of dreams whenever he could, but he still knew its rules: if you slept in the same physical place each night, eventually the Fade would morph to accommodate that fact and try to reflect the real world back at you as you slept. That was how one demon had created a mock-up of Connor's workshop, it was how the Fear Demon had built Vigil's Keep to try and catch the Vigil's mages: if they could convince you the events around you were real, then they could trick and take control of your mind.

But right now nothing was familiar. Nothing could pretend to be solid. No demon or spirit could catch up with him as the Fade howled and scattered like sand in a high wind- but no matter how far Connor fell he would never find the desert below. He was falling, trapped in a thrashing grey nothing that made what little he could sense of himself tumble and spin wild and frightened through the unformed air. His mind trailed behind his sleeping body like an anchor whose chain was too short to catch and stop the boat. He had nothing to tether himself to, no craggy dream-cliff or cave, no broken walls, no midnight grass. No demon could focus on him, no dreamer would cross his path.

He was falling.

He was moving.

And there was no waking up.

Warden Captain Genevieve Bouclier, Dame of Sahrnia, Orlesian Counsel to Vigil's Keep, opened her eyes and with one breath she roared.

A door opened and brought light to the darkness clutching her. Her skin was brittle and cold, arms and legs numb with a freezing pain that resisted her when she sat up. But she made her body move, forced her gut to clench with the last of her scream. When she drew her next breath the darkspawn taint sleeping in her blood ignited across her icy chest.

A hand tried to push her back down and the captain rolled her elbow up and back to knock the offensive touch away. The last thing she remembered was Nathaniel Howe crumbling hard to the floor and some thug throwing Genevieve and her chair to the ground as they rushed past her.

A voice over her was speaking but the taint was louder, reaching her ears and burning, burning- ripping through the cold shadows marring her vision, shoving through the cluttered dredges of the last night's drinking. She tore back the blankets and the cold air made her legs tremble, the taint's needles and shards of glass pushing through her veins outward from her chest, nicking and scratching her shoulders, bleeding slowly over her hips. Her heart kept screaming in outrage as her lungs drew in cold air and her blood did battle with the lingering poison.

"Warden-" She stood, the little woman in leather armour tried to stop her, and Genevieve took the challenge by both wrists, twisted her arms out painfully, and stood without releasing the guardswoman. She hoped the blue light of the taint burning through her eyes was terrifying.

"Where are my men?" She stated hard and firm in King's Trade, everything about her throat and mouth felt stale and harsh, but she spoke and didn't care what her voice sounded like.

"Here- they're here, Grey Warden, I swear to you- ah!" She twisted the wrists in her grasp again, the taint demanding violence.

"Where are my weapons and arms?"

"By the bed, M'lady if you'd only-"

"Where is here?" She hissed.

"The guard's barracks of Castle Denerim!" The guardswoman shouted and Genevieve finally released her. The taint was winning out against the cold grasping foul and unwanted through her flesh. Her balance felt stable, eyes clear, and there was reason to be had in the face of compliance and answers from the woman slowly retreating from her. "Guard Captain Kylon had you all brought here last night after the upset in the Gnawed Noble tavern by the market district- Wardens don't just drop like flies, he said."

"We don't," She stated. "Not without help. I will speak with him."

The guardswoman fled and Genevieve refused to let go of her indignation- anger fed the taint and the taint was the only thing purging the lesser filth from her body.

She'd been stripped to her black shirt and trousers, but when she took a moment to actually search around the stiff cot she'd woken up in, she found what was missing.

Maker, she still felt cold, teeth chattering as she pulled on the heavy, still-damp blue of her silverite-woven tunic. With stiff fingers she bound the laces that walked across her collarbone and up her throat. Her vambraces she laced more slowly still, but the belts of her chevron breastplate obeyed her stubborn hands and her pauldrons and faulds found their heavy, weighted places across her body. Whoever had removed her boots had left the silverite greaves attached, and her gauntlets and helmet were resting next to her sword and the round silverite shield she owned to replace her much-abused kite shield from Orlais. This one was etched with the Warden griffon over Sahrnia's mountain and the open blossom of an Orlesian rose. It was a gift from Carver.

When she left the room there was a short hallway that led to a general barracks common room: long tables, weapons and arms in racks along the walls, stacked decks of cards and assorted men and women in standard leather armour. The few guards present had the decency to look uneasy when she stepped out in her restored armour, and their Captain distinguished himself by his judging scowl and immediate move to meet her. Perhaps she had been in Ferelden too long already, because she appreciated his boldness.

"Now see here, Warden," the man said to her. He was mature and wore his armour well, straight nose and thick, dark auburn hair brushed over his head. "Just because something foul may be afoot doesn't give you the right to manhandle my recruits."

"Are you Captain of these barracks?" She asked, avoiding the main topic only for a moment.

"I am." He answered. "I am Guard-Captain Kylon of Castle Denerim. And you?"

"Warden Captain Bouclier of Vigil's Keep." She said. "My first thought upon waking up was to assume danger. Your recruit has my apologies and your men my thanks for caring for my belongings. Where are my companions, and how did we come to be here?" The Captain extended an arm back the way Genevieve had come.

"The men and the elven woman are down the same hall you just came from." Good, this man seemed competent at his job. "The sergeant and his men who patrol the market district came at the sound of brawling at the Gnawed Noble. Armed men were inside and had chased patrons out of the back room where you and your companions were passed out blind, one of yours with a knife in his back and enough blood on his face to show it was a one-sided affair." Her heart burned, the taint squeezing the hot blood through her veins. Nathaniel had been with them, he'd fallen with a scream. No, he could not have died like that.

"Is he down this way?" She indicated the hall, but the other Captain shook his head.

"No. The medic on patrol had him brought to the castle and immediately handed over to His Majesty's healers." That was good. She didn't know the justification, but it was still good. "Not standard procedure for a drunken brawl, but I've never known a Grey Warden to pass out drunk- and I've seen His Majesty enjoy himself at Tourneys. Last I heard he was going to make it, but that was hours ago."

"Once I've roused my companions I would like to see him." And then she caught herself with a breath, because- "Describe his face to me, I want to make sure it's who I'm thinking of."

"Long black hair, full Warden armour," the Captain relayed, but it was with a tone of voice that resisted further questions. "I think he wore a blue sash of some sort." Warden Howe. Genevieve swallowed hard and nodded.

"Thank you, Captain." She turned to walk down the way he'd shown and the officer fell in step with her. He had more to say but it was good, valuable input.

"The medic said it was a plant called embrium mixed with the herbs from your wine that knocked you lot out." Kylon informed her. But the plant was familiar to her and the rank caught her ear. He could have meant his own medical officer, or it was Connor- he'd named the drug himself before Genevieve had lost her focus. The Captain showed her which door and she opened it. "The brew-master confessed outright to taking a sizeable purse of coin in exchange for adding the petals while the wine heated. Morals may fail against silver but it's good to know most people can't let a guilty conscience fester when it comes to wronging Wardens… Captain?"

"Where is he?" The air and words slipped from her lungs. Genevieve stood there in the doorway and she saw Carver and Hassick asleep on two rough cots just like the one she'd woken up on. But it was just the two of them. Hassick's crossbow and Hawke's longsword were laid out on the third, empty cot in the middle of the room along with their carefully removed armour. Kylon said something useless and she corrected him immediately: "No, one is missing."

"The one upstairs, you mean?"

"That is Warden Howe." She explained, shaking her head and feeling herself losing hold of the taint in her blood. Fear was beating back her anger, causing the fierce burn to fade away. "We are a company of six in Denerim: myself, Warden Athras of the Dalish, and four Ferelden-born freemen." Only three of the men were accounted for. Only three. Where was Connor? "The fourth is a mage with auburn hair and scars across his eyes, he wears a medic's badge at his throat, he-"

"I can see this upsets you, Captain, but there were only five Wardens when my men-"

"We are six!" No, no, don't take it out on him, don't lose control like this. Find Connor: that was what mattered most. Carver would help her and that was who she went to first, Carver would lose his mind if they told him Connor was gone or in danger.

"We did find a mage's staff amongst your company's belongings, Warden Captain. We assumed it belonged to the Dalish…" Kylon's voice was uneasy as Genevieve snapped the covers off Hawke's sleeping body. He didn't react to the cold or her hands shaking him harshly. "Captain you can't just shake someone out of embri-"

"A Warden you can!" She shouted, remembering the way Connor had struggled but still explained the draught the Mages at Vigil's Keep drank to fight off demons. "Warden Lieutenant Hawke you will wake up!" He had the taint just like she did, he could wake up as soon as his heart began to pound and his instinct to fight fought through the herb's demand to sleep. "If I have to cut you, Carver, I will! Get up!" She tore off her gauntlet and slapped him.

She hit him again, harder this time, and he finally grit his teeth and the cords of his neck tensed. His arms flexed and his face twisted, his body trying to move and struggling to wake up- but the struggle was enough. He felt pain and felt something holding him back from reacting to it. Carver Hawke had carried the taint for over ten years: it would be enough.

Hassick she could not afford to be as careful with. He had only been a Warden for a season: the taint was a reaction you had to condition yourself for, to know when to conjure up your own anger even when fear or panic wanted to take control first. She pulled back his blankets just like Carver's, who was now rolling and trying to grunt his way through the cold drug, and she took Hassick hard at the throat with her bare hand. She pressed, forcing her palm down until his breaths seized in his chest, and when his face twitched she held on longer, until his fingers curled and his lips tried to pull open and choke. When she let go he gasped, face contorting in pain before his jaws locked together, cheeks flushed as his cold, brittle lungs clamped down under the weight of his own breaths. His eyes were blind when they cracked open but Genevieve didn't stay to comfort him, she had one more Warden to find.

"Evie-?" Carver gasped, pushing himself up on one shoulder.

"Dress yourself, they've taken Connor," was all she said to him as she left the room, ignoring Captain Kylon's baffled reaction to how she handled the two distressed Wardens.

"Have you gone mad!" Kylon shouted at her.

"A member of my company has gone missing and the others are taking too long to get on their feet again, Captain, how would you have me respond?" She demanded, shouldering open the door to where An'eth had been kept. The Dalish hunter was curled up tightly on her side but she was not asleep: her white lips were thin and trembling, teeth chattering as her entire body shook. It reminded Genevieve of how Connor had been the morning after the demon attack, but there was no time to play nurse today and Genevieve barked at the junior warden as soon as she stepped inside.

"Warden Athras, you will stand up!" She ordered, and An'eth's feverish eyes opened blindly at the noise. "Rise! Your heart has no room for these tricks and poisons! Rally and stand!"

"It- it's so cold…"

"Did your companions die at the Joining for you to be 'too cold'? Is your clan disgraced by nothing but a flower?"

"C-Captain-!?" The girl clenched her eyes shut and there was shouting from the room next door.

"You were poisoned last night and the man who welcomed you to the Order is missing. Get angry, Athras! Get up, and get dressed!" And then, before she could storm out and leave the Elven Warden to fight through the toxic mess swimming through her blood, Evie saw what tried to chill her heart but just made her temper reignite all over again.

There on the ground next to An'eth's shield and sword and spear: Connor's staff. She picked up the obsidian-flecked weapon and carried it with her from the room, where she found Carver trying to get answers from Kylon, who was telling the Warden to sit and calm down.

"What did she mean?" He was repeating, teeth chattering and balance weak as his knees stayed bent and his feet stumbled trying to hold him up. "Who took him? Why? Where is he?"

"Warden, you're unwell-"

"Where is he!?"

"Lieutenant." Genevieve said sharply, grabbing his attention and holding it. "You will dress and arm yourself, and then we will go see Lieutenant Howe where he is being taken care of. Neither myself nor Captain Kylon will repeat ourselves over and over again about what happened last night, all of you will be ready and awake before you get your answers."

"Did Perth do this?" he demanded, his voice stronger and fending off his shivers.

"Dress and arm yourself, Lieutenant." He stood there and he stared at her, and Genevieve lifted her chin at him as a challenge. "My rank or your seniority, Hawke. One of us leading this company until Nathaniel is well enough to give orders, and this is the only time we will discuss it." She made the offer and hated that she had to. Grey Warden ranks were fluid, their companies typically small with a command system that webbed out more than it linked up or down. Constables outranked Captains, Captains to Lieutenants, Lieutenants to Sergeants, Sergeants to Corporals, and Corporals finally to Ensigns and the Recruits at the very bottom of the hierarchy.

But this was Ferelden. Genevieve had not gone to Vigil's Keep on orders from an Orlesian Warden Commander, but by Commander Surana's good graces. Nathaniel had trust and loyalty that worked almost better than rank to make sure Genevieve answered to him, and Hawke had seniority after spending several years in Surana's service. But their commanding officer was compromised, their corporal was missing, and Geneveieve was Captain of the Grey.

"Aye, Captain." He deferred to her. Good.

"Hurry up, Lieutenant," she ordered curtly. "Wherever Connor is he is going to wake up soon: and we are going to be ready for when our Mage shows these fiends the mistake they made in harming him."

He did wake up. He did.

He realized it when the howling and spinning and all the vast nothingness became cold. Cold. Connor was so cold… He was too cold to fear demons, too cold to try opening his eyes- he had eyes. He was awake.

But he wasn't alone, no, and he couldn't see, no. He was moving- it was awful, make it stop- he didn't want to be moving!

"Stop…" he barely heard the noise flutter past his lips, but he was so cold, so cold, so cold…

"Drink." A voice told him, and his neck hurt where his head pried up, eyes taking in light but no figure or form. He was too scared to know what happened next, felt only the edge of a water skin, but then it became the whole spout shoved past his lips. And then- and then a flood of something.

It wasn't water. It didn't taste like water. His mouth was caked in stale disgust from food and drink and laughter- but he could taste this anyways. It tasted bitter. Metallic. He tried to spit it out, closed his tongue against the back of his throat and fought to breathe out. His lips tingled, it was too strong- too potent- it would stop his heart if he drank- no no don't make him drink it…

Fingers at his throat, no, don't do this. He tried to feel the taint around the firm, brittle fingers that prodded down hard on his throat, tried to choke him, forced him to breathe-

He hacked and breathed in the liquid, but then he swallowed it, and then more of it, and more. He spat and tried to move away when the mouth of the skin was taken back, heat crawling through his gut and chasing back the cold that had gripped him so hard. He was moving, his body was being shaken, his ears almost deaf to the jangle of buckles and clod of hooves. He was on his back and could feel neither the wind nor the sun- he was in a carriage. He was so cold but already overwhelmed with warmth that bled through his skin and dragged his blind eyes shut. His lips tingled and his throat was numb, his limbs too heavy to move.

"Sleep, my poor, poor boy…" No, not her voice. No- let him go, stop moving, stop this… stop… no…

The howling nothing of the Fade recaptured him, and there was nothing he could do.

Lieutenant of the Grey Nathaniel Howe had been taken hard and deep in his left flank with a thin dagger. The blade had pierced up into his lung and lanced something else Evie didn't know enough about to put names to, but she knew a deadly injury when one was described to her, and in her chest the taint and the fear were coming to direct blows again.

Howe had been stabbed by a dagger crowned with a crow's skull. It could not have been left in him by accident: he had been almost as affected by the poisoned wine as the rest of them. Whoever had stabbed him had left the dagger in place to keep him from bleeding out and to deliver a message.

Antivan wine, Antivan herbs, Antivan Crows.

Castle Denerim's 'healers' were apothecaries and surgeons. The Breach wrought by Corypheus had devastated the bond many of Ferelden's Spirit Healers had shared with their benevolent Fade counterparts, and most of them had been chased from cities and onto the swords of Templars during the war. The Inquisition had saved some mages and the College was actively accepting the war's survivors into its open arms, but the Fereldan capital had been insulted and cut ties with the Mages after the involvement of Tevinter Magisters at Castle Redcliffe. There were no magical healers at His Majesty's court, and the city chantry didn't have any in their employ either.

The surgeons were skilled, yes, and the apothecaries wise to their trade, but they had no magical abilities and a wound Connor could have eased and mended at least part way in only a few minutes had taken them hours to control and try to put in order. Had he not been a Grey Warden, Howe would be dead.

"His tolerance to pain and blood-loss are incredible," the weedy little man in charge of Howe's care tried to explain to them when Genevieve asked why their commanding officer, unconscious on a bed of bloodstained white linens, would not rise when they touched his hand or called his name. "But so is his resistance to the pain-relief and sleep aids we gave him. I was hesitant to give him even more embrium after what we found in that wine the guards brought back, but if we're careful with it he should come down from it easily."

"What do you mean, come down?" An'eth asked, her lips still white but her focus better than Hassick's, who still kept trembling from his chills. The apothecary gestured to the marksman before explaining.

"Embrium is a gift from the Maker but also a lesson from Him about temperance." The apothecary was moving steadily on in years, and his voice was wheezy and breathless as he explained himself from under his thick brown robes. "It eases pain and breathing, and it warms the blood so that even very ill or very injured patients can sleep- but the cold feeling your friend is still experiencing is one of the drawbacks. A person can become dependent on embrium in order to calm down and sleep, and the chills leave the body weak and susceptible to fevers that the reagent's own symptoms can mask until it's too late. Warden Howe is in good hands here, he'll be uncomfortable tomorrow when we let the embrium wear off completely, but he needs to sleep and heal first. Shall I make arrangements to have him taken to House Surana?"

"You can do that?" Genevieve asked.

"Tomorrow, not today." Was the answer. "He is a Grey Warden and I'll not stand between a man and his liege. I don't know how Wardens handle things like this however, usually when a guardsman or one of His Majesty's knights is badly wounded I send word to their families."

Hawke correctly stated that they would leave that to House Surana's chamberlain, and Genevieve agreed to have Howe taken to the estate as soon as he could be safely moved. His face was badly bludgeoned and gouged, deep bruises around his jaw and eyes, the deep cut from a boot's heel dug into his cheek. But he was alive. It was horrible leaving him alone in that room with the apothecary but they had to.

King Alistair could not see them: he was locked in the same hall as yesterday but this time the doors were barred and the shouting from inside was uniform and blustering. The Landsmeet was not meeting in full, but there were enough Banns gathered for a regional discussion of something that would take the King's entire day. When Hassick asked the herald at the barred door who had called the meeting and was holding the court in such a loud and chaotic session, he told them it had been Arl Eamon Guerrin of Redcliffe's demand.

Arl Guerrin's Knight and a Crow Dagger in Nathaniel's back, and now Connor's father himself blocking the Grey Wardens from seeing the King? These Dog-Lords didn't have the subtlety of The Game down yet, but they were certainly playing.

They reached House Surana and as soon as they were let inside Genevieve demanded two horses be readied from the stable.

"Hassick. Anyone you know in the city, anyone you used to know, anyone you think you know! Find anyone who saw anything! An'eth, you're a hunter: go with him."

"Yes, Captain!"

"Aye, Ma'am!"

Genevieve and Carver only stayed at the estate long enough to tell Chamberlain Shianni what in the Maker's Name had happened last night. She was stricken but not overwhelmed by it, insulted on her Arl's behalf at the wrong struck against them.

"I won't tell Seneschal Varel unless I have to- but I'll send our two guardsmen to watch Warden Howe at the castle."

"Will you be safe without them here?" Carver wisely asked, and the Chamberlain only smiled, running her hand down the smooth front of her silver-threaded apron.

"If the four of you are here then my staff and I have nothing to worry about. And if the four of you aren't then we still don't have any problems."

"It would put both of us at ease if the servants were dismissed for today, Chamberlain. I sincerely doubt the Arl would dock anyone's pay in light of the situation."

"There are only a handful of us anyways, but I'll take your word as permission to make no changes to the ledger. Very well, Captain, from now until tomorrow morning, House Surana will be empty. I will check the alienage for the elves I know work at the Gnawed Noble, anything I find out I'll send to you." Genevieve didn't question how Shianni would manage that feat, she simply thanked the Chamberlain and let the woman attend to her duties.

Only Alistair and Nathaniel would be able to tell them if the King had sent his summons to the Warden Commander yesterday or not. Genevieve wanted to send a message to him now just in case the hours were against them, but Carver made her hold off as they hurried to House Guerrin for an audience. Genevieve was ready to meet her countrywoman.

The Arlessa was not in residence.

"She was at Castle Denerim yesterday." Genevieve said, clinging tightly to her temper and resisting the urge to let the taint bleed light from her eyes. She rejected her fear this time, took hold of the cold, cold, cold disgust welling in her breast.

"Her Grace departed this morning in her carriage." The servant at the door announced simply, like she were commenting on the weather. "She claimed to miss her daughter and spoke of great fatigue." This morning? Then they would catch her.

"What of Ser Perth?" Carver asked. And the girl was a good liar…

"Ser Perth? I had not known he was in Denerim at present, he rarely leaves young Lady Rowan's side." But it was a dangerous and deceitful lie she told them, and Genevieve cut their intrusion on the house's doorstep short. They returned to House Surana seething…

There were ravens in the house's modest rookery, and Genevieve wrote in her smallest, neatest print as much information as could fit on the slip of paper:

'Crows in Denerim. Guerrin taken. Howe injured, will live. No proof, suspect House Guerrin. We will find him. -B.'

Hassick and An'eth were back from the market district with plenty more than Genevieve had hoped as she and Hawke saddled their horses, supplies gathered and ready.

"Wheel tracks too thick for a city wagon cut into the mud by the back door," An'eth reported, her chills burned away by anger as she slung her shield onto her Halla's saddle and hoisted her spear up over her shoulder before climbing onto the white animal's back. "Some of the tracks were walked over, but at least two horses, maybe four pulling it." Not a wagon: a carriage, and a rich one to have so many animals. The Arlessa had not left this morning: she'd fled last night and Genevieve would put a crown on that bet.

"I want to blame the brew-master," Hassick snarled, checking his two long daggers with an angry hiss and snap before righting his crossbow over his back and mounting up. "I want to, but no man working in this city can turn down two month's wages on a single jug of wine. Perth made the order, paid the price of the wine and walked away: it was a second man who offered eighty silver for a pouch of red petals to go in the drink for us."

"And you're sure he was telling the truth?" Genevieve demanded, snapping the reins to get her horse moving, Connor's Forder and the house's old work animal left behind in the stable as they left.

"Story never changed no matter how many times I asked him." That was not a yes, and it didn't sound good enough.

"His story never changed no matter how many times you hit him." Nevermind, An'eth's scathing comment eased Genevieve's worries.

"It's Denerim, it's a rough town, Arthas!"

Genevieve had never travelled into Southern Ferelden before. She had fought in the Frostbacks at the Inquisition's order and down across much of Orlais, but of the east she knew only the northern half of the country and its Bannorn. She knew Redcliffe's location from maps but, thankfully, the roads were simple creatures and Carver knew how to take them from the city gates and up onto the Imperial Highway.

This was no pleasant country ride. They did not trot along and tell jokes and stories to one another under the dark grey sky, facing into the cold winter wind. Once their horses were free to run, they ran.

A mile of running, a mile at a canter, a mile again of running. The extra weight of tents had been left behind along with the luxuries of bedrolls and extra clothes. This was not going to be long or comfortable journey: it was almost a week and a half from Denerim to Redcliffe at a normal pace, and by the Maker's Grace Genevieve would not let them get that far!

They overtook caravans, country wagons, and merchant travellers. They rode hard to the south and followed the Highway with its high, smooth stones that the horses could travel easily. Midday had already passed before they left the city and Hassick reined hard to speak with a patrol of the King's Men marching north: had they seen a carriage of Redcliffe or Denerim carry quickly to the south?

The men said yes.

Their horses stopped for no one else with Genevieve's shield on her arm and her griffon standing proud against the rain when it began to fall and beat down on them. Ferelden fields and hills of deep winter green swept past them and as afternoon bled into late evening, they saw something:

Crates and boxes? A wooden barricade? It would not stand any longer than the next patrol from Denerim or the local Bann. Through the middle it was little more than a stretch or two of plain timber, the crates no higher than a man's chest. There were men ducking and moving behind the barricade but making no move to tear it down. Had they found their Crows, or were these Ser Perth's missing knights?

"Wardens!" She shouted, taking her helmet up from its strap at her belt and shoving the heavy silverite walls down over her head. It was close and cold and heavy, crushing her hair and dampening the striking clatter of her horse's hooves on the highway road. The wind was cold but the taint burned under armour and she used her knees to guide her horse to the left: her shield to guard the flank and left hand on the reins, sword drawn in her other hand as the rain spat down on them.

Carver's horse came up through her place, his winged helmet spitting water and his sword long, aggressive edge bared in the creeping darkness. An'eth's Halla glided over the stones, rearing its horned head with a high bleat as the elven Warden hefted her ribboned spear.

Hassick's crossbow spat twice in the rain, two cracks of black plunging one into the crates and another through the throat of a coward hiding behind the wood. Let them be highwaymen, let them be Crows, Genevieve did not care they were in her way.

Her shield screeched as several crossbows answered Hassick's attack, the silverite taking the glancing shot without issue before Carver's horse screamed. The animal reared its head, lost its footing and its charge and toppled violently in the rain, blood streaming from its face. The Warden astride it barely kept his sword as he swore and pulled his feet free at the last moment to follow his horse's fall and roll from its kicking, writhing weight. Genevieve couldn't watch him as her own mount kept its charge, but An'eth's spear howled against the wind and caught one of their enemies through his shoulder, throwing him to the ground without killing him.

Not Highwaymen: Genevieve's horse took to the dark sky with a leap and the man directly on other side of the barrier refused to cower and duck away from its hooves. She saw the blade and swore, her horse's shrill scream echoing Carver's dead mount as its weight came down on the blade, blood mixing with rain and the point of the weapon forcing the saddle to buckle under her thigh. She kicked her feet free from the stirrups and braced.

The horse landed hard enough to break its own legs, back legs kicking and Genvieve's greaves cutting and scraping across the stone bridge, she rose to her left, shield up, stepping over and away from the dying animal and taking her attacker full to the chest, knocking free the twisted dagger drawn to fight her with.

"That horse was worth more than your mother's thighs ever made!" Her sword circled over her head and she swore in her native tongue, Orlesian curling and slashing past her lips the way her sword cut the air before she turned, shield covering the first attacker, and she rammed the pommel with a roar into the helmet of the second who tried to rush her from behind. She caught him over one eye, the rebound of her wrist enough to let her pull and swing her arm down, steel cutting through leather and snagging on chainmail across his arm.

The first one made a bold move and jumped at her shield, grabbing it at its round edge and trying to wrench her arm down. She ripped her sword free from the second man's armour and pivoted to take the strain off her shoulder before she hurt herself, and plunged the blade through his body. His mail rent wide open, blood thick and reeking in the cold as it hit the guard of her sword, sparing her hands from his filth.

"Die, rat!" She hissed, shield braced on sword, and she turned her whole body and both weapons to rip the blade sideways through as much of his torso as she could take out before pulling the blade from his disembowled corpse. "Kneel, snake and lift your eyes to the Maker!"

"Orlesi-" Not Crows, because her language offended the fool before Hassick's crossbow cracked again and blood fountained from the far side of his skull, the body dropping as dead weight.

"Where is he!?" She stepped over the corpse and watched Carver's sword come down once, take the rebound and strike again, flail back and plow forward with the pommel onto an unmarked shield that failed and fell. The broken guard gave the Warden all the time and space he needed to cleave head from shoulders in one swift, decisive blow. "Where is he!?"

Carver's flank was protected by An'eth's Dalish shield, the green varnish on the diamond-shaped barrier sending the rain down off its face in thick drops. The hand-axe she wielded chopped and slashed, its back end hooked and sharp enough to catch the helmet of one attacker and rip it sideways: his head and shoulders followed with a clumsy stumble that led his gut into An'eth's armoured knee. Her elbow took him at the base of the neck, and when he fell the pointed end of her shield slammed down on his neck a second time with a satisfying crunch.

The crates next to Genevieve toppled and her shield rose before she saw Hassick slammed down under another man, but when the attacker brought his daggers up in a great show to stab through the Warden, Hassick's hand ripped something from his belt and he forced his upper body to bend forward, giving him the reach to smash the glass vial against the man's half-obscured face. There was an immediate hiss and howl of something bitter and awful charring the air, and the attacker dropped his knives to claw at his face, screaming.

"That's courtesy of Compounder Ansera!" Hassick laughed, taking one of the fallen knives, rising to one knee, and plunging the dagger down into his enemy's shoulder. He drew and stabbed again, and again, until the blood and acid layered the wet ground

The road became quiet after that. The only sound beyond the rain, the wind, and Genevieve's own heavy breathing were hoofbeats echoing off down the highway. When she looked, she saw only the outline of an armoured man on the back of a frantically galloping horse.

"We follow-" She said.

"On what!?" Carver shouted. She looked at him and saw him with his bloodied sword standing there with knees bent like he was still ready to fight. He laid his sword down on the stones and reached up with both hands, wrenching his helmet off and showing his flushed and gasping face. "We've one halla left alive between the four of us! She's a full damned day ahead of us with a four horse carriage spiriting down the Highway! At her pace she'll be at Redcliffe Castle within four days- on foot it'll take us that long just to get to South Reach where maybe the Arl will give us horses!"

"Carver-"

"No! I'm not being insubordinate, Captain, I'm being realistic!" He was so wound up he tossed his helmet down hard with a clatter at his feet. "We have no proof! We have no concrete way to say 'yes, she has him, that bitch stole our friend'! We know she did- she had to, no one else in this entire bloody kingdom could have done it! But all we have are Crows and Highwaymen, and the moment she enters Redcliffe castle, there is no way to get inside!" Was it rain, sweat, or tears running down his face? Did it matter? There was no taint or twisted anger in Carver, just pain that shook his voice until it broke.

"We're not the Inquisition. And if we do anything to embarrass the Grey Wardens it will come down harder on Surana's head than anything before it." He said, shaking his head like he was dizzy. "Even if we walk all night we won't be back in Denerim before dawn. Even if we leave again without sleep, it's four days to Vigil's Keep. It's three more to Highever- the place Surana actually is, and then it's another week back to Denerim and one more to Redcliffe if we aren't held up at court first!" He shouted the last part so hard his voice went raw and wet.

Was it rain, sweat, or tears running down her face? Did it matter?

An'eth pulled her helmet off, face stricken and elven eyes wide with more fear than Evie had ever seen in her before. She was shaking her head.

"We're Grey Wardens… we can't just…"

"Why did they take him?" Hassick demanded over her quiet plea. "Why!? Arl Eamon disowned him in front of all of us! Why would they do this? Why send the Antivan Crows of all people after him!? And if it wasn't House Guerrin then who?"

"He said he knew something," Genevieve finally spoke, her voice thick and the words hardly able to carry. "Last night. He said he needed to tell Surana something important today, that he was going to write to him."

And it came over them heavily, frigid like the embrium that they had each clawed their way free from, numbing like the rain slowly drizzling over the carnage of the Highway. It was something they'd denied, not wanted to consider, something not even spoken between Evie and Carver when alone at House Surana. If a family had a secret, a secret that one of their own was willing to take to their political rival, a secret he hadn't even been able to speak to his closest friends, and that family had means, had money, had power, then what was the obvious solution to their problem after cutting off the traitorous limb?

"They made a point of not killing Howe," Genevieve whispered. "And for the rest of us, we weren't even robbed." The Crows charged a premium for every life taken.

"It doesn't explain the carriage or the Arlessa's flight from the city!" Hassick shouted, desperate and grasping. "It doesn't explain an ambush lying in wait for us! These weren't highwaymen!"

They searched the bodies. A numb, difficult task in the darkness and the rain. There were no letters, no orders. No guild or lord crests on their weapons, on their armour, on a single thing they owned. These were Fereldan mercenaries, men who could fight but not in service to a Bann or Arl, not officially. The one who had escaped would have been the only one they may have found anything on, and he was miles away in the night.

They walked one mile back along the Imperial Highway in the pouring rain. An'eth's Halla was the only mount to survive and it carried their saddlebags at a slow walk. They stopped in the dark and sat against the wall of the highway. There was no mage to light the road or point in pitching tents. They were soaked, and they were cold, and they were lost.

"He's gone."

Genevieve's heart broke and Carver did not sleep all night for his tears…

I've only written up to 22 which I'll post on Wednesday, but I have a lot of homework this week to get through so Friday's update... ehh... we'll see if I can get some work done. Definitely gonna try it, so fingers crossed!

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