Genesis of a Dragon

by InkInThePen

A dwarf denied the throne, a noble bent on vengeance, a tainted Dalish hunter, a mute carta enforcer, a one-eyed elven criminal, and an arson-prone mage from a different reality all walk into a bar. The bar is Thedas and Blight is on tap and it's happy hour. The script is broken, ignored, or occasionally set on fire as the Wardens forge a new path to the future of Thedas.

17. To Make A Warden Grey (Part 2)

62

The final days of travel brought them closer to Ostagar. Duncan had set out with the intention of collecting one, possibly two additional recruits. Now he had six.

He'd defiantly gotten more than he'd bargained for. Though given the threat they were facing, it was likely for the best. These recruits might be just what Ferelden needs.

Orzammar's loss was his gain—Aothor's experience and leadership capabilities were shining through in the way he drilled with the others, offering encouragement and challenge to them where it was needed and applying his sharp mind to strategy. There were other Senior Wardens who could take over once the Calling claimed him, but Duncan would not be surprised if the former prince found himself bearing the title of Commander again someday.

With whatever divide existed between Aothor and Liri supposedly healed there was one less point of tension Duncan needed to worry about. He did not know what words they exchanged, but he was satisfied that the two dwarves seemed content to put their differences behind them. In fact, they even seemed to be getting along well, in so much that Aothor seemed to find her generally chaotic nature at least as amusing as it was troublesome, and she no longer attempted to ignore his existence.

Liri, along with Edmund and Aothor, had even begun showing the basics of hand-speech to the others as they travelled during the day. Liri insisted they start with the most important vocabulary words, and according to her the most important vocabulary was various obscenities. If nothing else, it severed to improve humors across the group. Duncan made sure to supplement the expletives with actually useful signs and words. It would be some time before any of them mastered it, but they were starting off strong.

Isefel's interpersonal skills were proving to be of monumental benefit in pulling together the others and she was quickly becoming something like a glue that held them together. She shared Liri's familiarity with the harshness of an impoverished life, connected with Rosaya through the differences and similarities of the cultures of their race, and had confidence enough to stand on equal ground with Aothor and Cousland. There was some exasperation on her part towards Edmund about the flaming-sword fiasco, but Duncan suspected it stemmed more from a concern for his wellbeing and the safety of the others than straightforward irritation.

With Isefel having taken Rosaya under her wing, Duncan found that most of his worries for the younger elf were being assured. Though she was still quiet and rarely conversed with the others, when she did so it was with much less bite than before. She was faring much better than he'd even dared to hope— they stopped twice each day to allow Edmund to re-cast Marethari's spell on her, which always seemed to improve her condition a bit. While the mage was getting more comfortable with the spell, the more it was used the less overall effect it seemed to have. He could still hear the song of the taint in her veins, but the fact that she still had the strength to walk and the coherency to banter with the others spoke of an unbound inner strength and will.

Rosaya was not the only one faring much better than before—Cousland was also progressing with his general attitude towards the others and his own recruitment. The fall of Highever was certainly the lowest moment of his life—it would be some time before he truly moved on from it. The former noble was coming to terms with his new life and building relationships with those around him, or at least making an effort at it. While he still seemed to have a quick-fused temperament, he had a knack for evaluating situations and individuals quickly for what they truly were that gave him a clarity and direction.

Whereas his hound was a point of contention between him and Isefel, Lady was a bonding element between Cousland and Rosaya. The Dalish elf began taking Lady with her in the evenings and always returned to the camp with a fresh kill for dinner. In addition to hunting fresh meat, Rosaya had a knack for foraging herbs both medicinal and flavorful that helped to improve the quality of their trail rations, which also served to improve the mood of the group after a long day of travel and to endear her to the others even more.

While Cousland was beginning to form bonds with the other recruits, there was still one very obvious sore spot in the form of a certain mage.

Though they all moved together as a very tight group, Edmund managed to find nearly impressive ways to avoid Cousland. Cousland's issues with how Highever was handled continued to butt up against Edmund's unapologetic view of the matter, as well as the mage's generally secretive nature and Cousland's desire for transparency. Whenever they spoke to one another it was icy and brief and always two steps away from a full-blown argument over even the smallest of matters as even their personalities came into conflict.

Duncan understood Edmund's hesitancy to share what he'd told him with the others—the mage likely doubted how much they'd believe him. But sooner rather than later he'd need to come clean.

Duncan considered what Edmund told him about Ostagar. No battle was ever a certain victory—there was always a chance for failure. Ostagar's only hope was to last out long enough for additional forces to join the fight, but if the darkspawn drove at them in mass numbers…

Even if he wanted to remain optimistic, he needed to keep the mages words in mind. Edmund had been right in all of his accounts so far, the five additional recruits a testament to his accuracy. If he was correct on this matter as well, perhaps they could take the forewarning and at least come up with some sort of alternative plan.

It would come down to convincing the King and his advisors, and whether or not he would be able to do that was something he could not determine until he saw the situation at the front for himself.

They began descending into the pass at the edge of the wilds, and on the distant horizon the shape of the fortress began to come into view. Perched across the divide, covered on all sides by soldiers and surrounded by an army camp below, Ostagar was bustling and in the throes of preparation.

"That… is a big tower," Isefel said, staring up at the peak of the Tower of Ishal rising above the tree line as the descended into the pass.

"The Tevinter Imperium built Ostagar long ago to prevent the Wilders from invading the northern lowlands," said Duncan, "It is fitting we make our stand here, even if we face a different foe within that forest. The king's forces have clashed with the darkspawn several times, but here is where the bulk of the horde will show itself."

He noticed a change in his recruits as they approached—resolve and determination, and perhaps just a little bit of nerves.

Or maybe a lot of nerves, judging by how Edmund constantly twisted his staff over in his hand as they got closer and the way Rosaya seemed to shrink at the sight of so many heavily armed and armored humans milling about the space.

"Well… I guess this is it. One way or another," Edmund said as they crossed the first bridge to the heart of the ruin-turned-army camp. "Feels like it's been a long time coming."

"Indeed," Duncan said, offering him and the Dalish elf what he hoped to be an assuring smile. "The Blight must be stopped here and now. If it spreads to the north, Ferelden will fall."

Looking back to the arched bridge, Duncan could see a man approaching them with a small encourage of guards, golden armor glinting in the morning light.

"Ho there, Duncan!" he called out, raising his arm in greeting, as if somehow any of them could have missed him in his ornate attire.

"King Cailan? I didn't expect—"

"A royal welcome?" Cailan chuckled at Duncan's obvious surprise, moving his hand to Duncan's shoulder as he clasped the young king similarly. "I was beginning to worry you'd miss all the fun!"

Duncan sighed but could not help the smile pulling at his face. "Not if I could help it, your Majesty."

"Then I'll have the mighty Duncan at my side in battle after all. Glorious!" Cailen turned to the odd batch of recruits he'd been politely pretending to not notice before. "I'd heard from the other Wardens you found some promising recruits. I take it this is them?"

"Allow me to introduce you, your Majesty…"

Cailan shrugged, moving to stand by Duncan so he stood before the recruits directly. "There's no need to be so formal, Duncan. We'll be shedding blood together after all. Greetings, friends. It's a pleasure to meet you all—the Grey Wardens are desperate to bolster their numbers, and I, for one am glad to help them. Might I know your names?"

"Atrast vala, King Cailan," said Aothor, bowing in the traditional dwarven fashion. "I am glad to see you are well. I am Aothor, and this is Liri Brosca, of Orzammar." Liri gave the king an appraising sort of look before offering a casual salute.

Cailan chuckled and returned the salute. "It is good to see honorable stout folk outside of Orzammar."

"Honorable, hm?" Aothor mused, stroking his beard with a wry smile. "How much do you know about dwarves, your Majesty?"

"Some, though certainly not as much as I would like. You'll have to regale me with some tales of your people—I'll have the finest dwarven brew brought up from the palace cellars… after we've dealt with the Blight, of course," Cailan said with a small laugh. "I have been to Orzammar. King Endrin invited my father to a Grand Proving, long ago. How does Endrin far these days?"

The smile vanished quickly from Aothor. "I am uncertain, your Majesty. Last I saw the king he was well, but… the city is experiencing some complicated times."

"On the plus side, crime rates are down. Because I killed a lot of the criminals," said Liri with a shrug, earning some well-deserved looks of curiosity and confusion from many of the others around them. "Though honestly the fighting's probably gotten worse… plunk one big boss, and three other small ones scrap over the old territory… eh, not my problem anymore." It occurred to Duncan that aside from Edmund, none of the others knew the dwarves recruitment stories. Something to be addressed later, if they got the chance.

"Well… that certainly sounds like a story worth hearing once we bring the brew out," Cailan said as he regained his composure. He turned to the rest and looked them over quickly. "I can see by your staff that you hail from the Circle of Magi. I trust you have some spells to help in the coming battle?"

"Oh, maybe one or two. I'm sure I'll find some way to be useful." Edmund said with a shrug, before seeming to remember himself and dipping into a clumsy bow. "Edmund, by the way. Edmund Amell."

"Pleased to meet you. We have too few mages here, and another is always welcome. Magic will no doubt be of great use against masses of the darkspawn."

"Just tell everyone to steer clear if you see this one starting to cast," Isefel added with a small laugh. "I would hate for our soldiers to get caught in the resulting explosions." The recruits shared a small laugh at his expense, and Edmund just rolled his eyes.

"Yes, very funny. I've never actually hit anyone on our side, you know. If anything I've only proven that I'm quite efficient in the roasting-darkspawn-department."

"Also the roasting-swords-department," added Isefel with a grin.

"I'm never going to live that down, am I?" Edmund said, directing his question more to the answerless heavens than to the group around him.

"Nope. Or the sewers. That… that was really bad," said Liri.

"Hey, I wasn't the only one involved in that. If you're going to give me shit about it, you could at least include them too," said the mage, gesturing to Aothor and Cousland.

Cousland just shrugged. It wasn't hard to see that he seemed to be enjoying the mage's building irritation. "Sure, but neither of us walked straight into a river while also wearing full gear."

Edmund ran a hand over his face, muttering various creative expletives under his breath. "Guys, can we not air out all the dumb shit I've done over the last week in front of the king? I mean, timing. Really."

A quick look to the monarch in question showed that Cailan was obviously and understandably confused, while simultaneously wearing the expression of a man trying his best not to laugh. "Well, I can see you've already had your fair share of adventures. I'm sure if you asked my wife about the times we got ourselves into trouble she could relay similar anecdotes of absurdity," he said, no longer trying to hide the smile on his face. "I see you are elves, friends. Might I know your names?"

Rosaya quirked a brow, hands falling to her hips. "I highly doubt it, but anything is possible."

If Duncan had known that Cailan would be greeting them personally, he would have warned Rosaya and prepared her for the encounter. But apparently when suddenly face to face with a human monarch, her default was snark. Which was something he would not necessarily have expected from the normally withdrawn elf.

The others seemed equally as surprised as him, but Cailan was quick to laugh it off, thankfully unoffended and wholly amused. "You've got yourself a lively one, Duncan. And here I thought all Wardens were stodgy priests! From where do you hail? One of our Alienages?"

Duncan cringed and the rest of his recruits shifted uncomfortably as Rosaya's previously neutral expression soured. Things had been going so well, too.

"No," she said stiffly, straightening her posture as she stared down the king. "I am Rosaya Mahariel of Clan Sabrae. My people are not yours—my people are Dalish, and we do not bow to human lords."

"Dalish?" Cailan said, furrowing his brow as he took her in. For a moment they just looked at one another, but then Cailan inclined his head to her in a short bow. "Of course. Forgive me, my lady, if I have caused offense. It is an honor to meet a huntress of the Dalish. I hear your people possess remarkable skill and honor."

Rosaya blinked, clearly taken aback by the kings response. "I… I will admit I was unsure… of how you and your people would view mine. I am surprised to hear you think of us as such. Glad, but surprised. I thought most shems considered the Dalish to be dangerous vagrants."

"To be fair, your people can be a bit…" Cailan hesitated as he selected his words. "… stand-offish. Not that I blame them, of course. I tell you this: you are most welcome here. The Grey Wardens will benefit greatly with you amongst them, I am sure of it."

"We will see," she said with a shrug, looking away.

Cailan turned to the second elf carefully. "And… would you be Dalish as well, or…?"

Isefel chuckled as she dipped into a brief bow. "No such luck, your Majesty. Isefel Tabris from the Alienage in Denerim."

"Tell me, how is it there? My guards all but forbid me going there."

"I suspect there is a reason for that. Several, in fact," Isefel said, shaking her head. "Your Majesty, if we are going to speak of the condition of the Alienage, I'm afraid it will have to be a longer conversation than we have time for at the moment. It's not something easily summed up other than to simply say it's not good."

"There are events in Denerim you should be made aware of regarding the nobility and the treatment of the elves," Duncan added, reinserting himself to the conversation. In recent days he hadn't been as frustrated in a situation as he had been in Denerim. If there was something to be done to prevent such events from happening again…

Cailan frowned deeply. "I see. Then I would like to speak to you at length about this matter after the war is attended to. Please, do not hesitate to bring your concerns to my attention. I know you believe I do not care, but I truly do. Soon, things will change for your people. For the better, if I have my way. The darkspawn threat must come first, but I feel that what you have to say is something I need to hear. And you… you are Bryce's youngest, are you not? I don't think we've ever actually met."

Cousland nodded as the king turned his attention his way, bowing appropriately to his monarch. "Indeed, Your Majesty. I believe I may have seen you a few times when visiting the court with my family, but we've never been properly introduced. Peter Cousland, and it is an honor to finally meet you, though I wish the circumstances were… different. I bring urgent news from Highever."

"Is it about your father? Your brother has already arrived with Highever's men, but we are still waiting for Teyrn Cousland. Fergus has been concerned about him." There was a tension to Cailan as he spoke—no doubt he noticed the muscle working in Cousland's jaw as the man visibly worked to keep himself composed.

"He isn't coming," Cousland said, the words barely audible as they passed from him. "Our castle was taken, and he died in the attack."

Cailen started, blinking as he processed the words. "Dead!? What do you mean?" The king turned wildly to Duncan as he searched for clarity. "Duncan, do you know anything about this?"

"Teyrn Cousland and his wife are dead, your Majesty," Duncan said gravely. He noted the widened eyes of the two elves of the entourage as they were also first hearing of this event, though neither said anything. "Arl Howe has shown himself a traitor and overtaken Highever Castle. Had we not escaped, he would have killed us and told you any story he wished."

"Lady Landra and her son Dairren were among those slaughtered, along with her handmaid Iona and a great many other innocents," Cousland continued, something haunted in his eyes. "I have no doubt that he continues to terrorize not only anyone left in the castle, but also the residents of the town."

"I… I can scarcely believe it," Cailan turned away from them, running a hand through his hair and staring out into the distance. He pivoted back to them, determination and drive replacing the shock. "How could he think he would get away with such treachery!? As soon as we are done here, I will turn my army north and bring Howe to justice. You have my word."

"Is there nothing to be done sooner?"

Cailan shook his head, an apology in his eyes. "I am sure Howe is aware his actions will cost him his life, should they come to light as they have. But I'll need a considerable number of troops to bring him to justice and right now the darkspawn must be dealt with. Rest assured, the time will come."

"I… I suppose that will do," Cousland said, taking a breath to still himself before bowing to the king again. "Thank you, your Majesty."

"No doubt you wish to see your brother." Cailan cast his gaze out from them towards the expanse of the forest beyond the ruins. "Unfortunately, he and his men are scouting in the Wilds."

"Do you know when he will return?"

"I apologize, for I cannot predict when he will return. But you will see him once the battle is over, I'm certain. I do wish there was more I could do. All I can suggest is that you vent your grief against the darkspawn for the time being."

Lady let out a long whine, also looking out to the trees. Duncan suspected that both the mabari and her master were using no small amount of self-control to keep themselves from bolting into the trees to start searching.

A runner from the camp approached their gathering and spoke briefly in hushed tones with the king. The runner took off, and when the man in golden armor turned back to them there was a distinct irritation about his demeanor. "I'm sorry to cut this short, but I should return to my tent. No doubt Loghain waits eagerly to bore me with his strategies."

"Your uncle sends his greetings and reminds you that Redcliffe forces could be here in less than a week," said Duncan, moving to stand before his recruits again. His stay in Redcliffe had been brief and right before his visit to the Circle, but Duncan had no doubt Arl Eamon's forces would be of significant benefit to the current troops.

But his words seemed to have the same effect on the king as water off a duck's back. "Ha! Eamon just wants in on the glory." The intense demeanor from a moment ago, replaced with something more jovial and confident. "We've won three battles against these monsters and this one should be no different."

"I didn't realize things were going so well," said Aothor, neutral save for a single arched brow.

"I'm not even sure this is a true Blight. There are plenty of darkspawn on the field, but alas, we've seen no sign of an Archdemon."

Duncan folded his arms as the young king began to pace. "Disappointed, your Majesty?

"I'd hoped for a war like in the tales! A king riding with the fabled Grey Wardens against a tainted god…" He sighed, shaking his head forlornly. "… but I suppose this will have to do. I must go before Loghain sends out a search party. Farewell, Grey Wardens!"

Duncan bowed to the king as he turned with his entourage and departed, and a few of his recruits did similarly.

"Well… never thought I'd ever meet the king, but here we are," Isefel said, watching as Cailan and his guards vanished into the bustle of the ruins. "I hope he's the kind who makes good on his word. For all our sakes."

"He is an honorable man—I believe he intends to fulfil his words to each of you." said Duncan, leading his recruits across the bridge and towards the fortress. "And what the king said is true. We've won several battles against the darkspawn here,"

"If there hasn't been significant threat on the field, then maybe this isn't a true Blight after all, just a large raid." Cousland offered as they began moving.

Duncan shook his head. "So some believe, but I disagree. Despite the victories so far, the darkspawn horde grows stronger every day. By now, they look to outnumber us. I know there is an Archdemon behind this. But I cannot ask the king to act based solely on my feeling."

"Why not?" Liri asked, catching up to walk at his side not occupied by Aothor. "He seems to like you and the Grey Wardens a lot. He might listen."

"Yet not enough to wait for reinforcements from the Grey Wardens of Orlais," Duncan said as they entered the main of the camp. "King Cailan seems to believe our legend alone makes him invulnerable."

Aothor frowned, folding his arms over his chest. "That's a problem. And I can't exactly be reassured when I hear the king using the word 'bore' in the same sentence as 'strategies.' If he's a glory hound bent on heroism, this is going to go very badly for a lot of people."

"He's a young ruler, and eager to prove himself, but I don't think glory's the only thing in his head," said Cousland, scanning the camp around them. "Morale is high. He's likely trying to keep it that way. And while maybe he's a bit over eager, I think he realizes he has to make do with what's currently available to him. I don't think the darkspawn will politely wait until we're ready for them, after all."

"Still, if it is possible at all, I believe we should hold off until we have a larger force. We sent a call out west to the Grey Wardens of Orlais, but it will be many days before they can join us." He had already sent letters when the raids first started—he would have expected a raven back by now. Even without his sending word, surely all the southern Wardens were beginning to notice a change in the darkspawn, if not actively hearing the Archdemon as he did. Surely aid would come. "Our numbers in Ferelden are too few. We must do what we can and look to Teyrn Loghain to make up the difference. To that end, we should proceed with the Joining ritual without delay."

"A hot meal might be nice, first," said Rosaya.

Duncan chuckled. "I agree. I will have someone see to preparing a meal before we attend to the ritual."

"What ritual?" Isefel asked.

"Every recruit must go through a secret ritual we call the Joining in order to become a Grey Warden." Duncan turned to Rosaya and extended his senses towards the young elf—no longer was the taint inside her so tightly contained as it had been on their journey. "The Joining is what will cure you of the suffering your tainted blood surely brings you. If it had been possible, I would have done it before now."

"And this cure is… some kind of immunity, right?" She asked. She was sharp to remember—he'd given Marethari a cursory idea of the cure in order to get her to agree, and Rosaya had clearly kept it in mind.

"It is a secret… and not something so simple as an antidote," he said, careful with his words. Edmund and Aothor already knew what the Joining entailed, and at this rate he wouldn't be shocked if the Dalish girl pieced it together for herself. "Suffice it to say that the Joining is what will make all of you Grey Wardens."

"Well then, let's have it done," Aothor said as they came to stop by the fire outside of the Grey Warden's command tent. "What do you need us to do, Commander?"

"I have a few matters I must see to and a few tasks for the rest of you, but otherwise you may feel free to see yourselves around the camp. All I ask is that you do not leave it for now," Duncan said, clasping his hands behind his back as he turned to them. "The first matter is that of equipment. Each of you should speak with the quartermaster and acquire more suitable gear. After the Joining is complete you will be outfitted with Grey Warden uniforms."

"I feel some upgrades might be a bit overdue," Isefel said, pulling at her sleeves.

"Indeed. Secondly, there are two other Grey Warden Recruits also in this camp: Ser Jory and Daveth. Isefel, Cousland, I would like you to seek them out and bring them here. Finally, there is another Grey Warden in the main part of the camp as well by the name of Alistair. Aothor, Liri, I would like for the both of you to find him and let him know that we will be beginning soon."

"What about us?" Edmund asked, gesturing to himself and the Dalish elf.

"Rosaya, your directive is to rest as much as possible." The taint's effect was still isolated, but it was beginning to spread once again despite the mage casting the healing spell on her but a few hours ago. The Joining would need to be performed by the days end, and no later. The young elf bristled but nodded—while she clearly did not want to be shown concern, she was becoming more accepting of the reality of her condition. "Edmund, I have an errand I'd like you to run for me, but there are a few matters I must check on first. The rest of you are dismissed."

The four filtered into the camp. Their various tasks should not take much time, and hopefully they could begin with the preparations for the ritual before the day grew too long.

Edmund and Rosaya followed after him as he moved from the fire into his own command tent. The space was sparce and covered in a thin layer of dust as most everything within had been largely untouched in his absence from the front. Without his presence there, the other Wardens tended to congregate with the army.

He gestured for Rosaya to take a seat in one of the chairs at the edge of the tent. The Dalish elf did so, taking at a small knife and working away idly at the wood of her bow. Duncan sat himself at the desk, glancing over the stacks of reports and messages collected on the surface.

"Help me sort through these," he said, portioning off a section and passing it to Edmund. He turned to the rest of the papers, glancing through them in something of a hurry.

Most of them were copies of reports from different groups that had scouted the wilds. So far they had been unsuccessful in locating the Deep Roads entrances the darkspawn were using to emerge from below ground.

From the scout's information they could get a general idea of where the bulk of the horde gathered. Estimated numbers of the enemy force continued to rise, as did his concern. Attempting to bring the fight to the darkspawn in the woods would lead to a slaughter. Funneling them out of the trees and towards the fort was still their best option.

Other reports were of the battles that had transpired in his absence from the front. An update on positionings, a record of casualties, and tracking supplies. All these things were well and good, but he had yet to find what he was looking for.

"There's an update from Sam here," Edmund said after a while. "The three of them got back to the camp earlier this week. All the other Wardens are still accounted for, though apparently one took a bad hit in the last battle and won't be fit for combat until the mages tend to his wounds."

"I see," Duncan said, pausing briefly as he though. "Have you found any word from Orlais? Or Weisshaupt?"

"Ahh…" The mage haphazardly flipped through his stack of papers. "No, not in my stack. Most of this is about requisitions. Why are they sending you these reports, anyways? I though Ferelden would have their own people for this stuff."

"As one of the commanding officers here it is important for me to be kept in the loop regarding supplies and field updates, even though my jurisdiction is not over the main troops. The paperwork is a necessary evil in this line of work." Duncan pressed against his temple, trying to ward off a building headache.

He sent his raven to the Orlesian Warden headquarters at Montsimmard over a month ago with a request for aid. There had been plenty of time for a reply to be sent, but they'd received no word back.

"Duncan…?"

Duncan did not acknowledge Edmund as he spoke, instead taking parchment and ink from the drawer and setting to write. Whatever the reason, or the chance, the situation was growing too dire for their few number of Wardens to handle. He needed to make sure the Wardens of Orlais received and heeded his message.

"What's going? Lose something" Rosaya asked, pausing her carving momentarily.

"No, it's the fact that what I seek isn't here at all. I would have expected at least a reply from the other Wardens abroad by now, but there's nothing." He folded the letter and sealed it. "At best, the raven got lost with my request to them, or the raven back with their reply didn't make it. At worst, my request was ignored. But since the other Wardens should be growing aware of the situation, I will assume it is the former."

Perhaps it was not as bad as he feared. But leaving it to chance didn't sit well with him. With Edmund's previous warnings turning in his mind, he decided he needed to make sure other Wardens were headed to Ferelden.

He turned to Edmund, holding the letter out to him. "Take this to Oliver. He should be with the other Wardens in the army camp."

"What is it?" He asked, taking it and sticking it in his bag. The mage was contemplative, gears in his own mind turning.

"A contingency," Duncan said. "Go quickly and tell them I expect them to act without delay."

Something about his expression shifted as he seemed to decide something for himself, but he said nothing but "Yes sir," as he turned and left the tent.

"Well…" Rosaya started, putting away her knife and slinging her bow back over her shoulder. "I guess things aren't going the way you'd hoped."

"Very few things do, in times such as this. But that is why I make an effort to stay adaptable," he said. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm a bit weary, but there's not much I can do about that. And the noise of the camp is a bit…" she paused like she was searching for the right words. "Obnoxious."

Distantly hounds howled and armored footfalls clanked as squads marched by and captains shouted orders. "Yes, I can imagine it can be a bit much for one unfamiliar with such environments," said Duncan.

Rosaya sighed, but nodded. "You said it yourself—we have to be adaptable." she said, rising to her feet. "I'm going to find some lunch, and maybe look at what sort of gear is available."

"I can send for someone to bring food," Duncan said, checking his senses on her again. She was becoming restless, and so was the taint. "You really should rest as much as you can. Besides, I imagine the camp will be a bit overwhelming."

"All the more reason to get myself oriented," She countered, a challenge in her eyes. "I appreciate your concern Duncan… but honestly if I stay sitting in one place, I may very well lose my mind."

He could order her to remain. She might even heed it. Yet, he suspected if he ordered her to remain stationary, she might slip away all the same. Dalish were ones prone to wander, after all.

"Very well. But before you go…" Duncan's hands fell to his ebony dagger, unstrapping it from his belt. It was no longer helping with the progression of his own taint, but there was a possibility it could help with her. "Take this with you. It is enchanted against the Blight. Though it's magic has weakened over time, it should still have some beneficial effect."

She gingerly lifted the dagger into her own hands. She unsheathed it briefly, examining the blade. "It is a beautiful blade. Are you sure? I can't imagine this is something you part with easily."

"I do not want you to have left your clan and survived this long only for you to fall before the Joining can be completed. And you will get more use of it than I, I am sure," he said with a casual wave of his hand. "Go see to your equipment and meal. I'll trust you to know your own limits."

Rosaya smiled at that, nodding in acknowledgement of his words. She belted the dagger and ducked out of the tent.

Duncan looked back to the stacks reports on his own desk. Most of it was nothing he needed to do anything more with than look over, but he selected a few scout reports and folded them into his own bag in case he needed to reference them later.

With his recruits off around the camp, Duncan found that he was alone with his thoughts for the first time in a long while. He felt strangely at a loss. The calm before the coming battle was always strange, a barely holding peace before it all shattered. Based on the reports they could expect a large surge of darkspawn to hit the fort this evening. There would not be much time.

Duncan headed for the exit, determined to find the king and his advisors to go over strategy and possible contingency plans in case the worst occurred.

He left the tent, but the mission died in his steps as he saw an officer stomping in his direction, dragging a resisting Liri along by the arm. It was nearly impressive—they'd barely been in the camp a half hour, and already she'd found a way to stir up trouble.

Maker, what now?

The quartermaster didn't have anything better than the armor she had picked up from the Warden compound in Orzammar, but Liri did grab an extra stabby-looking dagger. Those were usually the best kind of dagger, in her opinion.

The others were mostly through getting fitted with better gear. Cousland was the only one who didn't get anything new, since his armor and weapons were the quality typically given to nobles like him, but he did pick up some extra potions and medical supplies.

The quartermaster had somehow mistaken Isefel for their groups servant when they showed up—how he'd completely missed the various stabbing implements attached to her person, she'd never quite puzzle out. Isefel corrected him with more grace than Liri would have, were their roles reversed.

The resulting encounter turned a bit awkward as the quarter carefully selected his words while showing them the equipment. Isefel was now properly armored at least, with heavy leathers and light chain worn under the dark coat she still elected to wear overtop. Liri couldn't blame her, it looked damn good. If she had a snazzy coat like that she'd wear it all the time too.

Something to add to the shopping list for the future, maybe.

It took the quartermaster some time to find gear that would properly fit Aothor. There weren't many dwarves in the camp, and those that were seemed to be working in the smithy with weapon and armor repairs. Hopefully Duncan had sent word ahead to the Wardens about the fact that they were dwarves so that when they actually got their Warden uniforms it would all fit right.

"Well, it might not be the most comfortable, but it'll stop a sword same as anything else," said the quartermaster with a huff as he finished equipping the prince.

Aothor briefly inspected his grieves. "Not the most cohesive set, but I suppose it could be worse."

"Don't worry, I'm sure the darkspawn won't mind if your outfit isn't very fashion forward."

"But why bother killing darkspawn if you can't do it in style?" Aothor said, completely deadpan, before glancing back to the quartermaster. "That will be all for now," he said as he turned and began leading them away.

"Right. Well, I'll just be here," said the quartermaster, poorly concealing just how badly he wanted them to go.

"Is it just me, or did that guy seem like he was hiding something?" Liri asked as they walked away.

"What makes you think that?" Aothor asked.

Liri shrugged, glancing back over her shoulder at where the quartermaster was assisting another set of soldiers. "He just seemed jumpy in the face of unexpected authority figures." Which was weird, because from her point of view she was just about the opposite of an authority. But Aothor and Cousland did have a certain presence about them, she supposed. Freaking noble boys. "Besides, I've been a criminal basically my whole life. You learn to recognize the type that has something to hide."

"Probably contraband goods," Cousland said, a bit more casually than she would have expected from how uptight he generally seemed. "Booze, smoke, anything the men typically want but can't access while they're on duty."

"Should we report him?" Aothor wondered.

Cousland shook his head. "It's not a big deal in the grand scheme of things, though he could be punished if he's caught. These soldiers are facing darkspawn. I say if they want to get a little buzz during the down time, let them. Morale would take a hit otherwise."

"I could do with a bit of 'morale' myself, honestly," said Isefel, also looking back towards the quartermaster. "I could probably convince him to give us access to his stock."

"Think you can get him to? He didn't seem too fond of us," said Liri.

Isefel flashed a dangerous sort of grin. "I can be very persuasive." Without further prompting from any of them, she sauntered back towards the quartermaster.

The three of them shared a glance. "So… is she going to seduce him, or threaten him, or what…? It was kind of ambiguous." Cousland wondered aloud.

"I'd just as soon leave it a mystery." Aothor shook his head, pulling absently at his beard. "We have actual jobs to be doing. I guess Isefel's going to be distracted by whatever she plans on doing for a bit, but in the meantime we should try and find the Warden and Warden Recruits Duncan mentioned."

"Right," Cousland said, back on task. "The trouble is, Duncan didn't give us anything to go on but their names. Which means we're pretty much stuck asking around until we find them. I know of Ser Jory by reputation so I might be able to find him, but I haven't the foggiest about the others."

"That'll be tedious, but you're right. We'll cover more ground if we split up," Aothor sighed, then glanced to Liri. "I guess you should just stick with me for now."

"I dunno, we could write their names on a sign and I could just walk up to people until I find who we're looking for." she suggested, mostly joking. "Or I'll just stay with you. That works too, I guess."

"Alright, I guess that's settled. We'll meet back at the fire in front of the Grey Warden command tent in an hour, agreed?"

The three of them exchanged nods and then they were off.

"You know, it would have been nice if Duncan had at least given us descriptions to go off of," Liri said and she and Aothor weaved their way through a cluster of human soldiers.

"Well, we know that they're men, and that they're probably human," Aothor glanced around them and sighed. "Which are the two least helpful descriptors in an environment like this."

At least the humans around them weren't shooting judgmental looks their way the way they did while she was in Denerim. It was easier to blend in with the bustle of the camp and most probably saw they were armed and assumed they were here to fight in some capacity or another.

There were a few elves moving through the crowd. Most of them looked like the ones she'd seen in the alienage, arms laden with gear as they shuffled along the edges of the crowd with their heads bowed. It was easy to see what made them different from Rosayas people—that kid probably wouldn't be caught dead running deliveries for humans.

She hoped the Dalish elf made it for whatever it was Duncan was cooking up for them. When she wasn't silently judging the people around her, she was actually kind of fun. If nothing else, it was funny to watch her fumbling attempts at making nice with the humans.

"Honestly surprised it was Isefel that went back for the booze and not you," Aothor mused. "Seems like you'd find that more interesting than helping me search around the camp."

"I mean, you're right. It would be more fun," Liri said with a small smirk. "But I don't drink, so it's not something I'm actually interested in doing."

Aothor's brows climbed with something like amusement. "You don't drink? Are you quite sure you're a dwarf?"

"Oh no, you've found me out! I am actually just a very short human! My cover is blown!" she said dramatically.

"I knew you couldn't be a proper dwarf. You haven't even sworn by the left ballsack of your Ancestors or anything. It's on me for not noticing the signs," he chuckled. "I suppose it's not any of my business. I was just curious, that's all."

"It's fine," she said with a shrug. "So, this Joining business… what do you think it's all about?"

He was quiet for a while, thoughtful. "I think there are some very good reasons they don't just tell us what it is. Perhaps the truth of what we're about the face that would deter volunteers and recruits, were it something more widely known."

Well, that just sounded like an awful downer. She couldn't say she really knew anything about Wardens, save that they killed darkspawn. And everyone knew that about Wardens. The rest was just a giant question mark.

"What are the chances that it's actually not a spooky ritual and instead silly team-building exercises and trust-falls?"

"Fairly low, but I'm not eliminating any possibilities," he mused with a low chuckle. "If it involves trust-falls, don't worry—I'll make sure to catch you."

Liri couldn't help but smirk. "Funny, cause I'd let you drop right to the floor."

Aothor rolled his eyes. "The comradery is touching. Really, it is."

"Someone's gotta keep you on your toes, Princey."

Aothor's grin vanished abruptly, but before Liri could ask what bothered him he pulled aside a squad leader and began asking about the Warden they were trying to find. Apparently he was met with a dead end, because he moved on to another group and repeated his questioning.

It didn't seem like anyone was sure of where the Warden was. A scout said he thought he'd seen the Warden by the mess, but by the time they got there one of the cooks said they'd seen him head off towards the kennels, and one of the soldiers there said he'd seen the Warden get chastised by a Chantry Sister and get sent deeper into the ruin.

On the whole, it felt a bit like they were being given the run-around. And to top it all off, several times humans who weren't paying attention literally tripped over them. It was a bit of a mess. She hoped the others were having more luck than they were.

They spotted a Chantry Sister, likely on her way to deliver a message to a congregation of soldiers or something, and Aothor pulled her aside to figure out if she knew where their Warden was. Liri held back—there was no need for her to be involved in the conversation really, and something else along the edge of the area caught her attention.

There was a man in a cage. He was about the most miserable person she'd seen since coming to the surface, and she'd seen some pretty unhappy people. Unable to help her curiosity, she slipped away from the former prince and over to the cage.

"Huh. Someone finally comes and talks to the lone prisoner. I don't suppose you've come to sentence me?"

What about her gave people the impression she carried any authority to do things like sentence prisoners? It was actually a bit flattering, even if she didn't understand it.

Liri just shook her head. The caged man sighed, leaning his head against the bars.

"I don't suppose you have any kindness in you? All I want is some food and water. They haven't fed me since they locked me up, and I'm starving."

Starving their prisoners? That was straight-up carta style. Though, on a cursory inspection, the prisoner didn't seem to have any signs of torture on his body. Maybe not as carta style as she thought.

She eyed the lock on the cage with a questioning look, gesturing for him to explain what he was doing in there anyways.

He seemed to get the gist easy enough. "I'm a deserter. Or so they think. I bet there's no arguing them out of that, though. Armies are funny that way," he said with a half-hearted scoff. Liri raised a brow, waiting for him to continue. After a few moments of staring at one another he sighed and continued on. "I wasn't deserting. But when you catch someone sneaking around camp in the middle of the night, what else are you gonna think? But it doesn't matter. All I want is some food and water."

She didn't doubt that. Liri could count his ribs.

Aothor joined at her side, apparently finished with whatever conversation he'd been having with the priestess. "So if you weren't deserting, what were you doing sneaking around?" Aothor asked, brow raised.

"Oh, I would have deserted eventually. Just not then. I was stealing, not sneaking." He said nonchalantly. Liri liked this guy's style. "I got one of those wizards drunk and took his key. It belongs to a chest they got here full of magical treasures. In fact, I still have it. Not like I can use it anymore anyways, but I'd trade you for some food and water."

"They didn't take it from you when you were arrested?"

"I swallowed it," the prisoner admitted somewhat sheepishly. "It has since… passed back into my possession."

Aothor had the decency to only look mildly disgusted, but Liri just grinned. A classic trick. She'd used it once or twice herself to hold onto lockpicks after getting arrested. Good times, good times.

"Do we really have time to be spending on this?" Aothor asked aside to her.

Liri shrugged. "Doesn't hurt to do something nice for the poor guy. If he's gonne die, he should at least die with a full stomach." She made a mental note to come back later and get this guy out of the cage. "You get any leads on that Alistair guy?"

"Yes. Apparently the Grand Cleric sent him with a message to the mages on the north side of the ruin, toward the mages station," he said with a nod.

"You can head that way," she said, "I'll grab this guy some food and catch up to you. It'll take, like, five minutes."

Aothor pulled at his beard but nodded. "Alright. Don't take too long, we need to make sure we get back to Duncan as soon as possible."

Liri waved him off before turning to the prisoner.

"You could try asking the guard for the rest of his meal—he's still got some left, I saw him put it in his coat," he said, pointing to where a guard stood lazily on duty just a few yards away. He looked more like he was napping on his feet than actually keeping watch, completely unaware of her presence.

She grinned—this would be easy.

Getting the loaf of bread out of his pocket was child's play, a simple reach and lift. For extra measure she took her dagger and cut the strap of his canteen and slipped it off his body. She was actually a bit disappointed at how easy it was.

Liri turned the half-eaten loaf over in her hand as she returned to the cage. Little skills like that had kept her from starving most of her life. Funny how even after supposedly leaving that life behind those tricks were still coming in handy.

The prisoner looked up at her approach, a hopefulness shining in his eyes. Liri passed the bread and water through the bars, and the man nearly looked faint from relief. "Much obliged. May Andraste herself rain blessings upon you." The words barely left his mouth before he all but inhaled most of the bread. "And, as I mentioned, here's the key." He placed the key into her waiting hand. Use it in good health, eh?"

Liri snickered, pocketing the key. She turned away as the prisoner began guzzling water and made her way back into the camp the way Aothor had gone. The chest would probably be worth checking out—if it had magical shit in it, Edmund would probably be interested in the contents. If nothing else she was plenty curious herself.

Finding the mages would be easy enough. She'd spotted the tell-tale glow from their tents as she and Aothor crisscrossed the ruin earlier. She didn't find the chest she was after among their tents, but rather in a sequestered corner away from most anything else.

Problematically, there was a right next to it, almost practically on top of it, staring dead-eyed at the world around him. No way she'd be able to get into it with him standing here. Resolving to come back later, Liri turned away.

Even though the mage's crate had to be put on hold, it might still be interesting to see if there were any actual pockets around the camp with valuable contents in them. She spotted a couple worthwhile marks, and now it was time to brush up on her skills.

Mostly she targeted men pushing through crowds or individuals moving or dealing with equipment, people preoccupied and easy to slip around unnoticed. Before long, Liri had a decent collection of silver growing in her own pockets. She even slipped an entire belt off of one poor officer as he struggled with moving a large crate. Not much of value in the attached pouches, but the leather itself was of fine quality.

Liri really shouldn't have pressed her luck. She especially shouldn't have gone for one of the off-duty kings guards, but the interesting key she saw him pocket got her kind of curious. Someone on an important team like that was bound to have access to some valuable stuff, after all.

In hindsight, she should have quit while she was ahead, done the wise thing and gone to catch up to Aothor.

But since when was doing the wise thing any fun?

It was a kind of embarrassing blunder to make. She angled her hand wrong as she tried to surreptitiously slip her hand into his coat, inadvertently tugging down on the cloth. She barely managed to pull away as the man turned around, but for a heartbeat their eyes locked and his expression shifted as he realized what she was trying to do.

Like any good thief would do when caught, Liri ducked under a passing cart and bolted, mentally cursing to herself. Leske was right—she never knew when to quit, and it always landed her into trouble somehow.

She ducked out of sight briefly but she couldn't stay hidden forever. She thought she'd be able to slip away into the busyness of the camp, but she underestimated just how much a dwarven woman with bright red hair would stick out in a human army.

Liri emerged from cover and was debating whether she should go and find Aothor or just get back to Duncan when a pair of humans she didn't recognize came up on either side of her. Neither was one she'd tried to steal from before, but her failed mark must have spread the word. By the time she realized they were after her she only had a hand on her dagger before one landed a swift kick to her gut, knocking both the air from her lungs and her body to the ground.

"You sure this is the one Elric mentioned, captain?" asked the one who kicked her as she struggled to get to her feet.

The captain grabbed onto her arms before she could do much more than regain her balance. "Not many other dwarves in the camp, much less dwarf women. Unless she's got a twin running around somewhere, I'd say this is our thief." Liri pulled pack and kicked at his legs, causing him to swear loudly, but he didn't let go. It was a shame he was so tall—her legs weren't really long enough to kick him in the dick. "Shit! Lieutenant, bind her hands."

"Penalty for theft is a lot steeper than you look like you can afford," the lieutenant sneered as tied her hands with ropes. Liri had been tied up enough times in her life where this wasn't really an issue—she knew how to get out of a bind. He brandished a knife when he was done, and suddenly Liri was reminded of Jarvia. "You know what we do to thieves in these parts, dwarf? Hands come off at the wrist. Bet you wished you'd kept your filthy fingers to yourself now, eh?"

That… would be problematic in more ways than one. Shit. She started twisting her hands in the restraints, inching them towards her dagger. Man, she was really out of practice with escaping.

"Hold on—I saw her arrive earlier. She's with the Wardens, one of their newest members." Said the captain, holding up a hand to stop his companion.

"So?"

"So, we don't have the authority to deal with the situation," he huffed, shaking his head. "Maker, what a pain. Take her over to the Warden Commander. We have to clear it through him first."

Duncan wasn't even that far—the Warden's tent was right around the corner from where they stood, and as chance would happen the Commander was exiting it at just that moment. Surprise quickly turned to resignment and then careful neutrality as he saw their approach.

Liri didn't think people got kicked out of the Wardens for theft, but suddenly she had her doubts.

"She one of yours, Warden?" The lieutenant all but growled the words.

"I'll ask you just this once to release my recruit, sir. Otherwise you may find yourself with a blade in your knee." Duncan said stiffly. The lieutenant looked down abruptly, realizing that Liri had just gotten a hold on her dagger and mostly freed herself from the restrains. The captain released his grip on her, but cast a withering look her way. She still felt tempted to stab him in the kneecaps. "Now, what is this about?"

"Well, your recruit attempted to steal. And from a member of the kings guard, no less. You are aware of the severity of this offense, yes?" he said, puffing himself up in a self-important way. What an ass.

Duncan remained carefully neutral, but his eyes flickered to her in something that was either amusement or disappointment. She wasn't entirely sure it wasn't both. "I'm sure there is another explanation."

"No there's not. Our man caught her with her hand in his pocket."

"Careful. You are talking about a Grey Warden. I would trust her word over your man. In any event, I can vouch for the good conduct of all the Grey Wardens here. Are we clear?"

"Yes, Warden Commander." The man was so red in the face she wouldn't have been surprised if it popped like a grape. With one more disparaging look her way, the soldier offered a begrudging salute of affirmation and stormed away.

Duncan pinched the bridge of his nose like he was trying to physically hold back a headache and sighed heavily. Liri nearly had the decency to be ashamed. Nearly.

"It appears I need to say something to you," he said finally, turning to her with his hands clasped behind his back. "You are a worthy and skilled recruit, and I well know of your talent with sleight of hand. That is a good thing."

Liri raised a brow. Not the turn she was expecting the lecture to take. "Really? And here I was bracing myself."

"It has already served us well, such as in the case of Highever. Grey Wardens use a diverse range of skills and tools to accomplish their missions. But the law is very hard on thieves. And Ferelden still bears mistrust towards our order, so practice these skills with caution," he said. "Your standing as a Warden will not always help you."

Liri found it curious that he wasn't outright telling her to stop. "I've gotta practice. These pockets are a lot higher up than what I'm used to."

Always the one to defy expectations, Duncan smiled. "Of course. Just… don't get caught."

Liri chuckled, resting a hand in her pocket briefly where two keys rested. Just because she got caught didn't mean she didn't get away with what she was after.

Isefel had not expected to find Rosaya at the quartermaster's station when she returned there, but there she stood, glaring the man down as he barked at her.

"Where's my armor? I was expecting it hours ago. And why are you dressed so preposterously?"

Isefel quickened her pace. What Rosaya was doing up and around the camp when she'd specifically been told by Duncan to rest she didn't know, but the way things were going, that wasn't her priority—making sure that she didn't get arrested for murdering the human was.

Rosaya folded her arms over her chest, head cocked to the side. "Unless you're trying to sell me a better set of gear, I don't particularly think my manner of dress is any of your business, shem." There was a dangerous tone in her voice, but the human was either unaffected or simply unaware of it.

"How dare you talk back to me, you knife-eared wench—" He stopped mid rant as Isefel came to stop at Rosaya's side, deflating slightly. "Oh, you again. What do you want?"

"I simply want to see to it that my fellow Grey Warden is able to acquire the goods she needs," Isefel said, perhaps annunciating their title a bit more than was necessary, but her patience for this man was running a bit thin.

"You're…?" The quartermaster blinked, looking back at Rosaya as if he was actually just now seeing her. Irritation briefly crossed his face before he quickly slapped on the artificial smile standard for those who worked in sales. "Yes, of course! Please forgive my rudeness, there are just so many elves running about, and you all look the same so I, erm…"

The human continued to dig a deeper pit for himself with that one, and as he seemed to realize as the words left his mouth. When he had done something similar to her earlier it was slightly more understandable. She had been an elf quietly accompanying a human man and some dwarves—it was the natural assumption many would make. But nothing about Rosaya, from her features to the style of her garb, matched any of the other elves in the camp.

"… it's simply been so hectic! I never thought…" Never thought that one elf could be a Grey Warden, let alone two, was the likely continuation of that thought. "Please, pardon my terrible manners. I am just the quartermaster, no one special…"

Rosaya scoffed, rolling her eyes. "If you can't even bother to know what your servants look like, perhaps you aren't paying enough attention."

"Yes, of course. You're very right. Did you… come to look at some arms and armor, then?"

They didn't spend long at the quartermasters stall, barely long enough for the quartermaster to hand Rosaya a quiver full of arrows and some pieces of armor before she stormed away from the makeshift storefront.

With the quartermaster as riled up and desperate for them to leave him alone as he was, Isefel doubted she would be able to just ask him nicely for any contraband goods he was holding onto. So she followed Rosaya as she headed to an empty bench and began sorting through the gear.

"You didn't stab him. Good job," Isefel offered as Rosaya fit a pair of protective gloves over her hands.

Rosaya rolled her eyes. "Please. I do know how to use self-control—I wasn't going to stab him. Not unless he did something first to deserve it."

"I hope you haven't had to deal with much like that around here," she said, concerned.

The younger elf shook her head. "He was the worst of it. I've gotten some weird looks, but most people seem to look right through me like I'm not right there. It's… odd. Truth be told, the confrontation was nearly a welcome change."

Isefel sighed. "I'm afraid it tends to be that way a lot. We're nearly invisible to them unless they want something from us—which often has its perks. There's a lot you can get away with when people don't realize you exist. But there are a lot of humans who just won't take us seriously."

"I just… I can't believe so many of our people willingly work for men like that." Disgust basically dripped off of her words as she spoke. "I see them everywhere, too—elves who run around from human to human getting yelled at and all but stepped on. It's infuriating."

"Not many are afforded other options. Sovereigns don't grow on trees, you know." She really was planning on asking the quartermaster nicely for access to his other stock, but another more satisfying idea was forming in her mind. "What do you say we lighten the load of his wares a bit?"

Rosaya raised a brow questioningly. "I thought you said we should try and play nice with the humans."

"That's still true. We need to do our part to not be antagonistic, but if we let ourselves be doormats a lot of them will just walk all over us, like how you pointed out," she said with a nod. "I was raised on the policy of 'do no harm but take no shit.' It's a difficult balance, but with assholes like that I think it's more than fair to cause him a bit of trouble."

"'Do no harm but take no shit?' is that one of your old elven proverbs?'" Rosaya mused.

"You know it," Isefel grinned. "I'm curious—how would you actually say that in elven?"

The Dalish elf paused for a moment, considering. "I think the closest equivalent would be tel'ea tuaun or'nuem, i'te'ver etunash. It captures the same sentiment."

"Nice, I'll try and remember that for next time. It sounds much more impressive that way." Isefel said as she looked back at the quartermasters set up thoughtfully.

"So, getting back at the quartermaster. A bit petty, but I'm here for it. What did you have in mind?"

"You see the crates set off to the side from the rest of the stock?" she asked, indicating them with a finger. "The unmarked ones. Purposefully set out of the way. That's probably where he has the good stuff stashed. Hidden in plain sight from anyone who he doesn't want to know about it, easily accessible so he can sell it at a moment's notice to those in the know."

Rosaya nodded along as she spoke. "What do you think he's holding on to?"

"I'm guessing food that's better than standard rations and drink with enough kick to get soldiers mind of the darkspawn. At least, that's what Cousland assumed he's carrying," said Isefel.

Rosaya folded her arms, not particularly enthused. "Really? That's your plan? Grab a couple bottles of alcohol and some snacks?"

"He probably makes a lot of money off of those goods. They're comforts from home soldiers can't get here and might be willing to pay an arm and a leg for. Every bottle we lift is less money that ends up in his pocket," Isefel said. "But yeah, that's all I've got, unless you have anything to add.

The Dalish elf was quiet for a moment as she thought. "You see those armor stands? The leg supports holding them up only stay stable if they're spread at that angle. Loosen or adjust them otherwise and they fall over." Rosaya rummaged through her bag briefly before producing a roll of thin twine and offering it to her. "You talk to him, keep him busy. I'll slip around the rubble and grab some goods from the crates, and on my way out I'll rig the set the trap. The next time he interacts with it it'll all come crashing down like a row of dominoes. Ultimately harmless, but it's sure to ruin his day."

"So it won't just be theft we'll get tagged for it we're caught, but also sabotage?" Isefel mused. She made a mental note to make sure Rosaya and Tathas never got the chance to meet—Rosaya might not have the same malicious streak Tathas did, but she didn't want to witness what their crafty natures might concoct together. Scratch that—between Rosaya's traps and Liri's apparent bomb-making hobby, they were already in for problems eventually.

Rosaya rolled her eyes. "He called me a knife-eared wench, and was probably about to go on to worse. If that's how he regards us just imagine what he treats his staff like when no one else is around? Frankly, he should count himself lucky a few missing goods and a simple trap is all the retribution he's facing."

That, she couldn't really argue with. And as long as they saved it for darkspawn and racists assholes, Isefel supposed a little bit of chaos was fine. Besides, it was a damn good idea. "Fair enough. I'll get him talking, put some pressure on him—he seems to get tunnel vision when he's angry. Wait for an opening. I'll keep him busy until you're clear."

Rosaya gave a thumbs up and without started towards the edge of the wall. Isefel tracked her carefully as she walked—the Dalish would have to climb over some rubble and a few stacks of equipment, but hopefully the huntress knew how to keep quiet.

Otherwise they were about to get in a whole lot of trouble over a really dumb thing.

Isefel marched over the quartermaster, chin jutted and arms crossed, ready to be a problem. "Excuse me? You sold me defective equipment. I demand a full refund."

"What? Are you daft? It's all perfectly good gear. Military grade, up to codes and everything," he said defensively.

"Then how do you explain how loose this strap is?" Isefel demanded, waving a bracer in front of his face. From the corner of her eye she could see Rosaya began making her way around the far side of his set up. So far, so good. "It practically falls right off. Something like that isn't just poor craftsmanship, it's a hazard."

The quartermaster folded his arms and huffed. "Well, that's hardly my fault, is it? If you've got a problem, take it up with the smithy. Not like I craft this junk." The quartermaster started to turn back, thoroughly done with her, right as Rosaya began climbing over some rubble.

Isefel stepped closer to the man, raising her voice in an attempt to keep his attention. "So you admit it? You admit that you sold me defective junk?"

It worked, thankfully, and he turned back to her in irritation. "Maker—no!" he denied. Rosaya ducked back down behind displays of equipment, safely back out of sight. "I'm telling you, there's nothing wrong with it. Besides, I don't do refunds."

"That's absurd! My life—the lives of all these soldiers—are on the line, and you don't even have the decency to provide suitable equipment." She folded her arms, looking down at him with nothing but disappointment. Nothing to get a human riled up like being looked down on by an elf. "A loose brace or a poorly made grieve can make the difference between life and death for a soldier, and we're risking it all against the darkspawn. You should be ashamed of yourself!"

She could not deny that a small part of her was deeply enjoying this. Experience had taught her that it was often simpler and wiser to leave men like him be, as trying to interact with them on level ground was an exhausting and futile experience… but still, it was just a bit gratifying to be able to give him grief like this.

She held her breath. From the corner of her eye she could see one of the displays wobble dangerously—Rosaya was setting her trap. Thankfully it stabilized instead of falling over, though it was certainly leaning precariously. They'd be in the clear soon. Just a little longer for Rosaya to get out from behind the set-up and move reasonable distance away.

"Maker's breath… fine. I'll replace the bloody brace, if that's what it takes to shut you up, but you're not getting a single copper back," he grumbled. He muttered what he surely thought were unheard gripes about jumped-up knife-ears and what he'd do regarding her ears if he had any say in the matter.

Unfortunately for him, Isefel heard every word.

"Hm, it wouldn't look good if you were caught short-changing the Grey Wardens, now would it?" she said. If he was going to be that much of an ass, she might as well try for as much as she could get. "Maybe you give me a better brace, return half the price of the damaged item, and throw in an extra set of throwing knives, my Commander doesn't have to hear about this."

The quartermaster sputtered. "Are you threatening me, elf?"

"That depends. Are you scared?" Isefel folded her arms, staring him down. From the corner of her eye she could see Rosaya slip away, bag visibly more filled than it had been before. They were in the clear.

She was toeing the line, now. He'd either comply or combust. She decided not to wait for him to make up his mind and pressed the brace into his arms. "Just get to it. I have important business to attend to."

For a moment he feared he was about to refuse her, but after a brief stare down he turned away, rummaging through a crate of goods to search for a replacement.

"You've got a fierce look about you, darlin. Here to fight?"

Isefel turned abruptly at the voice behind her, but with a bit of relief found the words weren't direct at her. A pair of soldiers stood just a short distance behind her, obviously waiting for her business with the quartermaster to conclude so they could get their own needs seen to.

She felt just a bit bad—much as she enjoyed harassing the quartermaster, she didn't want to hold other people up. It couldn't be helped, she supposed.

In any case, a dark-haired soldier with a bow was clumsily trying to strike up a conversation with a red-headed and rather severe looking female officer. By her strained expression, it was costing this woman a great deal of effort not to deck him.

"Yes," she said, nearly pained. "Officer Vallen of the second company. And you are…"

"At your service, my lady," he said with a suggestive wink, "So, any last wishes I can help fulfil before you head into battle? Life is fleeting, you know. That pretty face could be decorating some darkspawn spear this time tomorrow."

A long silence followed his words, punctuated only by the nearby quartermaster's occasional mutterings about bothersome elves. If a look could kill, the way Vallen was glaring at that man would have had him dead several times over.

Almost impressively he seemed unthreatened. "Shall I take that quiet glare as a no? Oh well, too bad."

"Here—take your damned gear and bugger off," the quartermaster snapped, inserting himself in the deteriorating conversation and all but shooing Isefel out of his stall. "Now, what can I do for you, good sir?" he said, turning to the human man with artificial cheer.

With Rosaya successfully a safe distance away and with nothing compelling her to stay, Isefel eagerly turned away.

It had been a long time since she'd just done something a little silly and impulsive like that. Most of the time she had to be the responsible one, but it felt good to just do something a little reckless for the hell of it. Besides, it was more for Rosaya's sake than her own, though getting the drinks out of the deal was certainly a nice personal perk.

The best kind of booze was booze you didn't have to pay for.

"Well, I'd say that went well," Isefel said as she caught up with Rosaya, counting the coins she'd gotten back from the quartermaster. "How did things go on your end?

"Pretty good. The trap's set up and I was able to get some interesting things," she said, showing off the new contents of her bag. "He had some high-quality potions and poultices, so I grabbed those. There are even a few that I'm pretty sure are lyrium. The assortment of food was a bit disappointing, but I did manage to find some dried fruits."

Isefel picked up one of the blue vials and turned it over in her hand. It emitted a soft blue glow and the glass seemed to tremble slightly. She put it back in the bag—it wasn't something she could use, but it'd probably be useful for Edmund in the coming battle. Three other bottles of less magical contents were also in the bag. Isefel picked on up and inspected the label.

"I don't really know what's in those… I just grabbed the most expensive looking bottles," Rosaya said.

"Hm… this one's Butterbile. I'd guess this is what he sells the most of. More of a punch to the face than a drink," she said, reaching for the other bottles. "Ooh, West Hills Brandy. Not bad. And this one… I've never heard of it. Abyssal Peach?"

Rosaya shrugged. "I figured it might be good. Peaches are sweet, right?" She opened it with probably less ceremony than a bottle like that deserved and promptly took a drink. The rim had barely touched her lips before she pulled back, gagging as she spat the liquid out onto the ground. "Creators, that's disgusting!"

Isefel patter her back somewhat awkwardly but couldn't help but laugh. "Do Dalish not drink or something?"

"We do. We have meads and the like," she said, slightly flushed. "But our clan never has much of it, and we have to make it all ourselves. So… apprentices are never allowed to have any."

She supposed that made sense. "That's alright. You don't have to drink it if you don't like it, you know."

Rosaya looked a bit grateful and passed the bottle back and instead went for the dried fruits. "Are you sure that bottle's actually meant for consumption? It tastes vaguely poisonous."

Isefel hummed in consideration before taking a sip from the Abyssal Peach. It was certainly strong. And probably best enjoyed in small quantities. "I guess it's something of an acquired taste," she said. "Anyways, I meant to ask—what are you doing up and around the camp? I thought Duncan wanted you to rest."

"And I could ask what you're doing robbing the quartermaster. I thought you were supposed to go find the other recruits with Cousland." Rosaya said, brow raised.

"Touché," said Isefel. She had kind of forgotten about that. Dealing with the quartermaster hadn't taken all that long, but already Cousland and the dwarves were well out of sight, off somewhere else in the camp. "I better get on that. And you… just don't push yourself too hard."

Rosaya sighed. "I know. I'll head back to Duncan in a bit, I promise." She turned, waving over her shoulder. Isefel noticed she took the dried fruits with her. Rude. "I'll see you later, okay?"

Isefel took another drink before closing the bottle and turning back to the camp. She ended up with more than she should reasonably drink on her own. Nothing wrong with holding onto it though—might make for a nice celebration after they finished whatever ritual they were about to go through.

She could hear the quartermaster's voice drift over on the breeze as he finished his deal with the human man.

"There you go, Warden. Happy to be of service."

"Right. Thanks, try not to get yelled at by any more elves!" He said cheerily, turning away as the quartermaster got red and the face and sputtered.

Warden. One of the men Duncan had wanted them to find? Honestly, what were the odds?

Isefel started after him, catching up to him halfway up the steps to one of the higher floors of the ruin. "Excuse me," she called out as she came up to his side. "Are you with the Wardens?"

He glanced back, cheeky smile at the ready. "For you, I could be."

"Huh. A charmer, I see," she said, looking the man over carefully. Even though he came on strong with the officer earlier he seemed more or less like the harmless sort. She'd better watch him, just in case. "I'm Isefel Tabris, a Warden Recruit."

"Really? Well, you're not what I thought you'd be."

There were many ways she could take that statement. "What did you think I'd be?"

"Not an elf," he said bluntly. "The other Wardens only mentioned a mage and two dwarves. Yet, here you are. Though it seems like my secret wish was fulfilled—I was praying for a comely lass with golden hair and poor eyesight."

Isefel raised a brow. "Poor eyesight, hm?"

He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, only just realizing how that statement fit in regard to her specifically. "Yes, well, you know what those Chantry Sisters are always saying. 'The Maker answers prayers in unexpected ways,' right?"

"True. Though I could also quote back a few proverbs about 'an eye for an eye,' and all that."

"Ha… right. Anyways, the name's Daveth, I'm a recruit too. It's about bloody time you lot came along. I was beginning to think they cooked this ritual up just for my benefit."

Daveth. Good. Looks like despite her brief distraction she'd still be able to get her job done. "Could be. Do you know anything about the ritual?"

"I happened to be sneaking around the camp last night, see, and I head a couple of Grey Wardens talking. So I listen in for a bit." He lowered his voice the way one might do when discussing a conspiracy. "I'm thinking they plan to send us into the Wilds."

"Really? I suppose that makes sense. Grey Wardens fight darkspawn, and right now the trees are bound to be crawling with them."

Daveth shook his head. "Not just that. Cannibals, beasts, and witches too. What isn't to be scared of? It's all too secretive for me. Makes my nose twitch. I guess we'll have to wait and see. Like we have a choice."

Well, whatever the Joining ended up being, it was becoming increasingly clear that it'd be no picnic. "I'll watch your back if you watch mine."

"Heh. I'll watch your back, alright."

Ah. As she guessed, flirtation was just his default. "Just try not to get too distracted back there," Isefel said, unable to help but roll her eye.

"I'll try to keep my wits about me. Anyways, I expect it's time to get to Duncan."

"You're right. I did sort of abandon the other recruits, but I was supposed to be looking for you anyways. And here you are," Isefel, turning towards the Grey Warden's tent and waving him along with her.

"Here I am, indeed."

A cacophony of crashing sounded behind them, along with some of the more creative expletives Isefel had heard recently. The quartermaster tripped the trap.

Daveth turned back at the noise. "What was that?"

Isefel kept walking. "Satisfaction," she said with a small laugh. "Come on, let's not keep the others waiting."

Ser Jory was a name he knew, but not one he could attach a face to. A knight from Redcliffe who was granted permission to transfer to Highever, if Cousland remembered correctly. He always made a point to know the names of the men under his command, but somehow Ser Jory had managed to slip through the cracks. Perhaps because he'd been assigned under Fergus and not him.

He kept checking the heraldry of the soldiers he passed, but he had yet to find any bearing Highever's laurel wreath. King Cailan had been right, then—Fergus had taken the whole of their force into the wilds already.

A strange dread pooled in him at the thought of finally confronting his brother. He'd rehearsed in his head over and over what he would say, how he would explain to him that their home was lost… but nothing felt right.

Cousland reminded himself that the important thing was that Oren and Oriana were safe. They hadn't completely lost everything. Even it would never be the same again, he still had his family. In time they could rebuild. His new status as a Warden would probably prevent him from being a part of that rebuilding… but at least they would be okay.

Warden life wasn't something he thought he'd ever enjoy, but he was learning it didn't have to be all bad. The other recruits were decent folk—most of them, anyways—and maybe it was time for him to experience the world away from his family and his home for a change.

He let out a long sigh, looking down at Lady. "This whole 'positive outlook' thing is going to get exhausting really fast."

She blinked at him, offering a sympathetic whine.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Not much to be done about it, is there?"

Lady wagged her little stub-tail, barking loudly.

"I'm going to pretend I didn't pretend to hear that," he said, rolling his eyes.

Ash Warriors stood assembled near the exit gate, faces covered in kaddis with their mabari painted to match. The leader of them spoke briefly with a servant, who ran off hastily after receiving instructions. He met Cousland's eye from across the way, and upon seeing him walking alongside Lady, offered a cursory nod before leading his men out of the camp.

Kaddis. That was something he'd need to get ahold of. They'd managed alright without it thus far, but the risk of Lady getting confused by the sensory cacophony that was a battlefield was going to be greatly enhanced in the chaos of a large fight.

The quartermaster was unlikely to carry something as specialized as kaddis. His best bet was to try and find more Ash Warriors or soldiers from the hound units until he could either buy or make his own.

He was just about to double back to the kennel master when he spotted a female soldier seated near a ballista on one of the outer walls in the process of applying a strong-smelling paint to a mixed-breed mabari.

Since it wouldn't hurt to ask, Cousland headed over. "Mind if I borrow that for a moment?"

The brunette woman looked up at him. A pungent red kaddis was smeared in a lazy streak across her nose and alarmingly blue eyes locked with his briefly. Something about the intensity of the hue struck him as both familiar and unsettling, but he couldn't quite place why.

Her dog seemed to parallel her in a way, patchwork colored coat matching her seemingly thrown-together assortment of armor. She'd more splotched the red paint on her hound than painted him. At first glance it looked like the hound was bleeding. Not how he personally would have gone about it, but to each their own.

The woman shrugged after a moment. "Sure, I don't see why not," she said, holding the container out. "Take a seat. I'm Hawke."

"Well met. Cousland. And this is Lady," he offered, seating himself nearby on the bench. Lady sat attentively before him, fully accustomed to the painting process. He started on his own face, tracing the familiar pattern across his cheek—though he didn't doubt it would come out asymmetrical since he wasn't using a mirror and he left his only freshly-healed scar unpainted, just in case.

Recognition of a sorts passed over Hawkes face at the name. A question flitted across her face, but she apparently decided not to voice it. "Odd to find someone with a mabari who doesn't carry their own kaddis," she observed instead as he dipped two fingers into the red paint and began applying it to Lady's coat.

He shrugged. "I'll need to stop by the supply officer, I suppose. I was in a hurry when I left home, didn't grab any," It was probably best to leave it at that. When one's home is burning around them kaddis isn't really on the list of priorities. "And there hasn't been a convenient opportunity to get some until now. Honestly, I didn't even think about it much until I saw the Ash Warriors on the other side of the camp," he said, glancing between her and her dog. "Are the two of you with the Ash Warriors, or with the other hound squads?"

"Nah, nothing like that. Shart's in his sunset years, and he isn't pure mabari to boot. He's spent most of his life shepherding druffalo and occasionally chasing off bandits. He's still tough as they come, but not built for direct warfare like those other hounds." Hawke knelt down beside her old dog and pressed a kiss on his nose. "So the two of us are with the ballista teams on the edges of the ruin."

It took a moment for the full effect of her words to hit him, but when they did he had to exercise a great deal of self-control not to laugh. "Your dog's name… is Shart?"

Shart barked happily, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. Lady seemed to eye the slobber disapprovingly, shifting slightly where she sat to scoot a bit further away from the hound. She'd always liked humans better than other dogs.

"It's as much a name as a general warning to the public," Hawke nodded. "Also, don't tell any of the Chantry Sisters, but his name is actually short for Shartan."

Cousland's eyebrows climbed straight into his hairline. "A bit sacrilegious, aren't we?"

"I find a bit of heresy amusing from time to time. Keeps the stick out of the ass, and all that."

He laughed, passing the kaddis container back to her. "How's someone like you end up in the army, anyways? Don't take this wrong, but you don't much seem like the soldier type."

"Oh? Then what type do I seem like?"

The type who'd spent more of her life fighting for herself than for others. The type that wouldn't be here if she probably had the choice. It was in her eyes—a deep and angry sort of fire that spoke of a general annoyance with life itself.

A fighter, but not a soldier.

Cousland also noticed that she had a very conspicuous flask poking out of her belt. His hunch about the quartermaster and the contraband goods had been correct. "Like the type who's more trouble than your average captain is willing to put up with." He settled to leave it at that, because if his intuition was right, that was also true.

"Careful with your compliments sir, or I may even be flattered," she said with a wink.

Not the reaction he was expecting. Not that he was complaining. "I can think of worse ways to spend an afternoon than flattering a beautiful woman. If you'd like, I could even do it on purpose."

She leaned in, dark hair draping over her shoulder and she twirled a lock around her finger. "Oh? And just what might you say, were you to do so intentionally?"

"Oh, I'm sure I could come up with something. My greatest challenge would be deciding where to start," Cousland drawled, unable to help himself. She leaned in continuously closer as he spoke. "I might start by complimenting your natural charm and wit, then perhaps suggest we find someplace more scenic to get to know one another…"

"Hmm. Do go on."

Without breaking eye contact Cousland reached down and grabbed her arm, which had been slowly inching towards his pockets. "… and then, I would ask that you please wait until we've at least had dinner before you start reaching into my pants," he said, only just managing to maintain a straight face.

She pulled back, though not as abruptly as he would have expected for someone caught in the middle of attempting to pick his pocket, and grinned. "Sharp boy," she said, standing with a laugh.

"Sly girl," he countered, brow raised.

She stretched her arms briefly and swung them at her side, taking a few steps away. "Keep your wits about you, eh? Maybe we could actually see about that dinner after the battle. You know, if a genlock doesn't eat your pretty face off."

Cousland laughed despite himself. This woman had some serious balls. He had to respect that. "Count on it. Careful out there, Hawke. Don't die."

"You either," she said, waving as she snapped for her dog and promptly disappeared into the bustle of the camp.

Cousland looked down to find Lady staring at him with extreme judgement. "Oh, don't give me that. I saw through her game the minute she got started," He said, rolling his eyes.

His hound huffed doubtfully, glancing at Hawke's retreating figure. It was a very nice retreating figure, he had to admit.

Lady nipped at his hand.

"Ow! Hey, that's very rude of you," he said, rubbing his hand. "Fine, I'll get back to work. It's your fault I was talking to her anyways. You're welcome for the kaddis, by the way. I know you enjoy getting painted. Sorry it's not your preferred color, but it will have to do."

Lady continued to grump but followed him loyally as ever as he continued through the ruin. A Chantry Sister stood before a fairly small congregation, at least by the standards of the other sermons he'd seen held around the camp.

"Children of the Maker, hear me…"

She spoke of darkness and death, and a comfort in the Maker's side and the purpose of the call. The words somehow rang hollow in his ears. After what happened to his home he couldn't help but doubt what kind of purpose—if any—the Maker could possibly be working in this world.

Mostly it just felt like everything was falling apart.

Needless to say, his relatively good cheer from just moments ago vanished. Talk of doom and gloom did tend to sour one's mood, after all.

He spotted a certain man knelt at the edge of the assembled listeners dressed in the armor of a Redcliffe knight but bearing the shield of a Highever soldier. Perhaps the man he was after.

"Ser Jory? Is that you?" He called to get his attention.

The man turned as he stood, moving away from the gathered congregation. "Greetings. You must be one of the new Warden Recruits we've heard about," he said.

"Yes," he said, extending an hand in greeting. "Cousland. Pleased to finally meet you."

Rather than take his hand, Jory's eyes widened before he dipped into a bow. "Cousland? As in Peter Cousland? Forgive me my Lord, I should have recognized you right away. I'm honored to be in your presence."

He motioned for the knight to stand. "Just… just Cousland, is fine. Now that I'm with the Wardens, 'Lord' rings a bit hollow."

"As you say," Jory said, straightening himself and instead offering a respectful nod. "I hope we're both lucky enough to fully join the Wardens. Is it not thrilling to be given that chance?"

Sounded like the knight was suffering from a case of hero worship. He wondered how deserving the Wardens were of the admiration. "I wouldn't be here if I had the choice. But… well, it ended up not being my choice."

Jory frowned at the remark but did not press. "I fought hard to get here. Impressing Duncan was not easy. Tell me, has anyone told you what this Joining ritual entails?"

"Only that it's dangerous, and it's all apparently a big secret." The more—or rather the less—that he heard about it, the less he liked it.

"I never heard of such a ritual. I had no idea there were more tests after getting recruited."

Cousland watched how Jory shifted his weight continuously as he stood in place. The knight was nervous and unsure despite his best attempts to remain calm.

"If I've picked up on anything, it's that nothing is as straightforward about the Wardens as they might like us to believe," he said, shaking his head. "Come on. Let's get back to Duncan and have this done with."

The ruin of Ostagar was its own sort of wilderness, and if she wasn't careful she feared she may very well get lost in it. Amidst the crowds and the yelling and marching of men in clanging armor, she felt small and very out of place.

Above the general noise there was an ambient hum, low but constant, carrying the same threat of dread as a lingering hornet's nest. Perhaps it was nothing, but there was a more frightening and realistic chance that she was actually hearing something. It had pressed against the base of her skull since their arrival in the ruin. Duncan's gifted dagger had helped to alleviate it some, but she couldn't fully shake it from her mind.

She'd noticed it before. She would hear a low hum or a slight melody as they traveled, an indicator along with her other symptoms that her sickness was flaring up. Usually the mage's magic had served to calm it again. Since last night, however, it nearly had no effect. It was almost like the sickness was adjusting to the spell, learning, growing beyond its ability to slow.

Rosaya knew Duncan was right—she should be resting. But resting brought quiet, and in the quiet there was nothing to distract her from the low but insistent hum and the subtle tingle beneath her skin.

Robbing the quartermaster had been a fun diversion. Rosaya hadn't expected Isefel to be the sort to get up to those sorts of antics, but then again, there was a lot about the older elf she didn't really know. She wouldn't have even gone along with it herself if the quartermaster hadn't been so overwhelmingly rude.

As it was, watching on as the armor stands fell over one after the other when he tripped the trap was nothing less that purely satisfying.

Her good cheer wasn't to last, however, which was just typical for her these days.

The gate leading to the woods burst open and a flood of soldiers poured into the camp. At first she just thought it was a scouting party, but her blood turned to ice as she took in the mangled and wounded men carried between pairs on stretchers.

Some wailed as their injuries tormented them. Some of them appeared to have already died in the transit.

The immediate area descended into urgency.

"Bring bandages!"

"Get water boiling and begin heating the scalpels."

"He's not going to make it. End it for him now, it will be kinder."

"Should we get the mages? Someone get the mages!"

"Damned robes are too busy with 'important preparations,'" a nurse said, tying a clean apron around herself. Rosaya had the fortune—or perhaps misfortune—to be standing by, and the nurse unceremoniously shoved a box of bandages into her arms. "We're on our own. Come on, we need to save as many of these men as we can."

She could have turned away. She could have set down the box and left. This wasn't her task, and these shems had no right to be ordering her about.

But Rosaya saw a man weep as a nurse attempted to set his broken leg and another scream as they pulled arrows from his flesh. These men, though not her people, were people, and they were in pain.

Her heart ached, and Rosaya followed.

"Arrow came out clean, but he's not out of the woods yet," an assisting soldier said as she and the nurse approached. "Wound's swelling and got puss like no tomorrow. Skin's turning grey."

"Damn. If it was his arm we could amputate, but torso's just a death sentence at this point," the nurse said, taking a clean cloth and whipping at the wound.

"The wound's poisoned," Rosaya added, leaning over to inspect the soldier. Did darkspawn use poisons? Probably something important to take note of.

The nurse looked over at her, almost just now registering her presence. This human's tunnel vision was not from a disregard for her, but rather for a concern for her charges. At least in this case it was nothing personal. "Yes… you…?"

"I'm with the Wardens," Rosaya said briefly. Without waiting for any further permissions from the humans she bent near the wound and sniffed it—sour and acidic, just as she expected. "I think it's a poison based on rashvine. Send someone to bring spindleweed and prophet's laurel. Boil them in water and pour it over the wound. He'll still experience some painful side-effects, but he'll live."

They stared down at her. Rosaya briefly wondered if somehow by helping she'd offended some human custom, or if they'd even take advice from some random elf.

"Right, you heard her," said the nurse, turning to her other assistants. "Other arrow wounds are bound to have the same problem so be sure to prepare plenty of the mix." The others snapped to action moments later, shouting for servants to run and prepare the herbs.

"Have you not had problems with poisons in the past?" Rosaya asked, holding a patient still as the nurse worked to bandage him.

She simply shook her head. "Nothing we didn't know how to identify or treat, until now. Usually we've been able to take care of it unless it's a case of blight sickness or contact with darkspawn blood. But these damn monsters keep coming up with new ways to make my job harder."

"They're probably using the resources of the land to develop upgrade themselves. Rashvine grows in the Wilds naturally, so it was probably only a matter of time before they got it in their heads to use it," she reasoned.

"You from these parts, Warden?" the nurse asked as they moved on to the next cot.

Rosaya shook her head. "I'm not a Warden." Not yet. "I'm just with them. And I've passed through the area enough times to be wary of it's unique dangers."

"Hmf. Not a lot of folk around here are familiar with the area. Our men have had just as many foul run-ins with the wildlife as they have with the darkspawn," she huffed. She didn't seem to have the caring disposition Rosaya would have expected of a nurse—but then again, in an army environment there probably wasn't much room for softness.

The human healers couldn't really compare to her clan's own medical practices. Not because they were inferior, but because of how vastly different their operations were in terms of scale and severity.

"Why aren't the mages helping?" Rosaya asked.

The nurse pursed her lips, a bitterness crossing over her. "Have to save their magic for important things, apparently. Simple soldiers like these aren't worth their precious energy. And they're in the middle of preparations for some ritual or other, I don't know. I'm not important enough to keep informed on what the powerful folk are up to; I just try and stitch up the men they get wounded."

After a few moments a soldier in splint mail approached the head nurse with purpose. "You asked for me? Is it the same as last time?"

"Yes. Thank you for agreeing to do this for us," the nurse said, nearly exhausted with relief.

The man smiled kindly, glancing about at the wounded around them with concern. "Of course. It's the least I can do… even if it is unpleasant. I'll get started and give you a count in just a few moments."

Rosaya turned away, deciding to leave them to it. The most severe cases were being treated now, and there was really no reason for her to linger. She moved to leave through the other side of the infirmary, but something stopped her, something she couldn't quite place.

She turned on the spot, trying to puzzle out what it was she felt, when a man in a cot reached out and grasped her arm, grip iron on her arm and face whitened.

"You… you need to convince them." The hoarseness of his voice made her own throat feel dry. "We've got to run. The darkspawn are coming."

Rosaya flinched back and pried his fingers off her arm as a nurse rushed over. Her skin buzzed with a familiar itch where he touched. As she pulled away it finally struck her—the hum she'd heard, the pressure she felt—this was the most concentrated it was in the entire ruin. The cots around her were sequestered away from the others around them, distanced and purposely set apart.

These men had the Blight sickness. They had the same thing she did.

"I saw them," the infected man whispered, "We're gonna die."

"I apologize," said the nurse, "He's been like this ever since we found him in the Wilds yesterday."

Rosaya glanced past the edges of the ruins around them. The trees, which all her life had been a marker of home, cover, and safety, now loomed ominously like a dark army of their own. There were reasons her clan never came to the Korcari Wilds unless they had any other choice. The few times they'd passed through they kept out of the deeper parts of the wood and left as soon as they could.

If this was how quickly the sickness could take hold without aid… Rosaya forced the thought away. She only suspected, and the strangeness she felt might just be coincidental. "Did the darkspawn do this to him?"

The nurse hung her head. "Yes. Those who come in contact with the darkspawn face a great risk. Many of them end up here. It is all we can do to see to it that they are… comfortable."

"You… you can feel it, can't you?" the wounded man stared clean through her—not like the other humans who just didn't register her, but like he was peering through her like a window to something else. Her skin crawled. "They take the land, turn it black and sick… and then you can feel it inside. They'll come out of that forest and spread. Like caterpillars covering a tree. They'll swallow us whole."

"That's quite enough out of you. You need to calm yourself, my good man."

"They were everywhere. I saw them."

Rosaya turned away with a painful realization. This man's maddened decline was the fate she'd left to Tamlen. It was what waited for her unless Duncan's ritual worked. Her head began to spin as a static overtook her senses, pouring over from the cots of nearby wounded soldiers and from her own being.

She gripped the knife Duncan had given her and a small piece of clarity washed over her, just enough for her to take a breath and force the sound and the static away.

She would not fall. She refused.

A voice rose strangely above the diluted noise of her own brain. The soldier in splint mail was again speaking to the head nurse. "I checked. It could be worse, only four new cases this time," he paused, a frown covering his face as his eyes drifted in her direction. "Five. Five new cases."

"Thank you. I'll have them moved right away."

There was a sound about him, as well. Subtle, a harmony of something.

The hum from the soldiers echoed off of him like voices off of a canyon wall and once again the volume increased. Afraid it would overwhelm her, Rosaya broke eye contact with the man and turned, all but fleeing the infirmary with only the vague destination of "away."

Duncan was right. She shouldn't have wandered.

The ruin was a blur as she moved through it. She needed to find some way to stop listening to the noise in her brain. Something louder. Her feet ended up carrying her to the loudest possible part of the camp—the kennels.

When she finally stopped she rested her weight against the wood of the pens, letting the howls, growls, and barks of the war hounds become the most prominent sound about her. Yet even here she could not escape the hum.

It was coming from nearby. It wasn't so overwhelming as it was in the infirmary, but something smaller and more subdued. One of the hounds.

Rosaya turned to leave but paused when she caught sight of the sickened dog through the bars. A brown mabari lay in a pile of dirty hay, awake but apparently too weak to stand. It watched her as she passed the bars of his kennel, as aware of her as she was of it.

The kennel master must have seen her staring, because only a moment later he approached at her side. "I'd hate to waste such a promising member of the breed, but the poor fella's not getting any better."

"It's sick, isn't it?" Rosaya asked softly, not taking her eyes of the dog.

"Unfortunately so. This is a mabari. Smart breed, and strong. His owner died in the last battle and the poor hound swallowed darkspawn blood," he said. So, the dog was in the same boat as her. "I have medicine that might help, but I need him muzzled first. That's the stickler."

"How come?"

"Well, if I try and he bites me I risk getting infected myself. Much as I'd like to save this hound, I can't risk it. Can't very well ask anyone to, either. I'd hate to have to put him down, but he's been so aggressive I don't think I'll end up with much choice."

Rosaya held out her hand. "Give me the muzzle."

"What?" He blinked in surprise. "I just said I can't have anyone risk it."

"It's not a risk for me." She was already infected. And if maybe she could spare the dog the same fate possible for her and those wounded soldiers, she had to try. "Besides, I'm good with animals."

He visibly hesitated, looking between her and the hound uncertainly. "Alright. If you think there's a chance. Let him smell you. We'll know right away if he'll respond. If he shows any signs of aggression, back right off, you hear?"

"Of course," Rosaya said, accepting the muzzle and turning back to the pen.

"Let's hope this works," he said, unbolting it. "I'd really hate to have to put him down."

The door closed behind her and Rosaya crouched to be at eye level with the hound. He stared her down, a low growl gathering in his throat as he hauled himself to his feet. The dog was sick and in pain. If it had lost it's master as well, this was a hurt that went deeper than just a physical ailment.

"Easy, soun dhar. It's okay," she said softly, extending a hand. "I want to help you feel better."

She'd already seen mabari intelligence for herself in Lady. It was present in this hound as well, shining in his eyes as he looked from her extended hand to the muzzle in her other and finally back to meet her eyes. Looking at him up close showed that he was just a bit shorter than Lady but carried more muscle on his bones with a sturdier build.

"I know you're hurting. You're probably scared and confused… but it's okay. You're safe." She crept forward a step more. The dog sniffed at her hand and lowered his stance to something less aggressive. Soon she was near enough that she could kiss it, if she desired. Or it could maul her face off. "Can I put this on you?" She asked, holding the muzzle up. "I know it's not very pleasant, but it's the only way I can help make it better."

The dog huffed. It's entire body quaked before collapsing to the ground, head flopping directly into her lap.

Well. She'd take that as a yes.

Rosaya fastened the muzzle around his head, yet the hound showed no sign he intended to get off of her. She suspected he was hurting as much from a lack of safe companionship as he was the sickness since the taint claimed his companion.

That made two of them.

"Ha! Well done," the kennel master said triumphantly. "Now I can see about treating the dog properly, poor fella. Say, are you headed into the Wilds anytime soon?"

Rosaya shrugged, tentatively scratching behind the dog's ears. His little tail started to wag just the tiniest bit. "Yes, well, if he ever gets off of me, I might."

"Might be never, if he has his way," he chuckled. "There's a particular herb I could use to improve his chances. It's a flower that grows in the swamps here, if I remember. If you happen across it I could use it."

"I'll see what I can do. What does it look like?"

"It's very distinctive. All white, with a blood-red center. Typically grows out of fallen trees and other decaying organism," he said.

All white, blood-red center? "I know of the flower. It's quite rare. My people call it era'felgara. You say it helps against the taint?"

The kennel master shrugged. "To an extent. It'll only improve his chances, but there's no guarantee he'll recover. Still, I like to hope." "He seems quite fond of you. Why don't you come back after the battle? If he shows signs of recovery, we could see about imprinting him on you."

It might be nice to have a dog. Lady and Cousland were two peas in a pod, and mabari were certainly remarkable hounds. Maybe it would work out. She just hoped he would be able to pull through—that she would too. Rosaya wanted to trust Duncan's Joining ritual… but she realized the grim reality that she may still die.

She just didn't want to meet it without a fight.

Something echoed around her—she couldn't tell if there was really something nearby or if it was a lingering from earlier.

"There you are."

Rosaya startled at the voice, looking up abruptly to find the man from the infirmary leaning on the posts of the pen. He offered a crooked sort of grin when he saw her sitting on the hay with the mabari's head in her lap.

Without the spiral of noise in her own brain she could actually get a better look at him. It was clear by his build that he was a warrior, broad-shouldered and fitted with a hefty shield and blade. Yet for his obvious strength there was a genuine kindness and light in his eyes.

"… were you looking for me?" she asked after a moment.

He shrugged, but the collection of sweat on his brow implied that he had, most likely, chased after her. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay. You seemed… startled earlier, in the infirmary. But it seems you found some good company, didn't you? Who's your friend?"

The mabari lifted his head, a low growl gathering in his throat. Rosaya suspected he'd have howled were it not for the muzzle. She placed a hand on his head, shushing him gently.

"I don't know. We only just now had the fortune to meet."

"Funny how fortune works, isn't it? Nothing's better than making a new friend, if you ask me. Well, biting into a fresh block of Orlesian cheese is pretty good, but still just a close second," he said with a decisive nod. Something about his nature took her off guard and she couldn't help but crack a smile—perhaps her first one in recent days. "What were you doing in the infirmary?"

Rosaya stroked the dog in her lap absently. "Helping, where I could. I accidentally got swept up in the arrival of the new patients. I didn't plan on sticking around there as long as I did, but… well, they needed help."

Something soft crossed over his face. "That's quite brave. Anyone who works with men injured by darkspawn takes a lot of risks."

"I wasn't trying to be brave. I just… I just couldn't bring myself to walk away." She shrugged, not sure what else there was to say. "What about you? You're clearly not injured. What were you doing in the infirmary?"

"Bit of a long story, really." He shifted uncomfortably, leaning his weight against the pen. "The head nurse has me stop by when they get a new batch of injured men to run some checks. If you're interested, I can tell you more about it, but first there's someone I'd like you to talk to."

The man offered a hand to help her to her feet.

Rosaya eyed it with open mistrust. "Who?"

"A friend of mine. Look, he can explain it a lot better than I can, but I can promise it's important," he said, an urging sincerity in his eyes.

Against her every instinct, Rosaya reached to take his hand.

Something echoed inside her soul. A song.

"You!" It was less of a call and more of a screech, and both she and the young man nearly leapt out of their skins. He bolted upright and she fell unceremoniously back into the hay. The dog started growling again.

His face visibly paled as he turned to the oncoming woman. From her position in the pen Rosaya could only make out was grey hair and Chantry garb. Understandably frightening.

"Revered Mother," he said uneasily, "What can I do for you?"

"Oh, and what a fine 'hello' that is. I see your manners haven't improved in the passing months at all," she scoffed.

His whole posture was rigid as if he was bracing for catastrophe. He began to offer an apology, but she didn't let him get a word in, waving her hand in front of his face dismissively.

"Well, the least you can do to make it up to me is deliver a message to the mages. Upmost importance, and I expect it to be done immediately," she said. Rosaya wondered briefly if it were possible for her to be part snake, because every word was hissed.

The man sighed defeatedly. "Of course, Revered Mother. What message am I delivering?"

"Inform Senior Enchanter Thatcher there has been a change to the mage's placement for tonight's battle. They will be moved from the bridge to the eastern and western porticos. Furthermore, an additional platoon of templars has arrived, and these templars will be given authority to authorize the use of spells in combat." There was a nearly audible sneer in her voice. At a guess, Rosaya figured there was more to this than a simple message delivery. "In fact, inform the mage I wish to meet with him directly. There are other matters of great import we must discuss."

"… right. Of course. Anything else while I'm out? Shall I pick up some eggs as well? Never mind, I'll be able to do that myself when the mages inevitably turn me into a chicken."

Rosaya snickered quietly, but the old woman was less than amused. "Wait, wouldn't you turn into a rooster?" she offered from within the pen while the Revered Mother flustered with building rage.

"Nope, a chicken." He shook his head. "Mages are crafty like that. Full grown man one minute, then poof! Egg laying hen the next. Magic!"

"You know, I don't think it works that way. In my experience it's been less of a 'poof!' and more of a 'zap!'"

He nodded solemnly. "Ah, I see. More theatrical that way, and Maker knows these mages can't do anything without a hint of drama."

"If you're quite finished," the Revered Mother breathed, casting a withering look her way before zeroing in on the man, "I will be reporting this behavior to your superior. If this is how you behave in your station, then perhaps he made a mistake when selecting you."

He instantly stiffened, all playfulness gone in an instant. "He didn't," he said, voice steel. Whatever the Revered Mother was getting at, she'd apparently touched a nerve.

She smirked with something like triumph. "Well, if that's the case, then a simple delivery like this should be no trouble for you."

"Fine. In a minute," he said attempting to wave her off.

"No, you will go now," she said with authority, advancing on him.

He stepped back in the face of her sudden aggression. "But I was in the middle of something—"

"Now!" she barked, chasing him near halfway across the yard.

Rosaya popped her head over the pen, watching him go. She wondered what he wanted to tell her. Wondered what his name was. Wondered why she cared.

The Revered Mother glanced back. Rosaya offered a tentative wave as their eyes met, but the older woman turned away with a scoff. "… filthy elves rooting around in the mud with the dogs…"

Rosaya sighed, stepping out of the pen and closing the gate behind her. "Just when I was starting to really believe humans might not be so bad, too…"

The mabari boofed softly, looking at her through the bars with large eyes.

"I know. I have to go now, but I'll be back. I promise."

She pressed her finger to her temples, trying to alleviate the pressure, but it was all for not. In that moment Rosaya could no longer deny that she was running out of time.

It started as a hum, a distant rhythm, and only in the worst moments did she hear hints of music.

Now… now there was singing.

The guard turned into the tent to retrieve the teyrn. Aothor had stopped to speak with the soldier outside Loghain's tent more out of an idle curiosity than anything else, but he found the prospect of actually receiving an audience with the fabled Hero of River Dane a chance he didn't want to pass up.

If anyone was going to have an accurate feel for how the coming battle would go, it would be Loghain.

"Yes, what is it?" The teyrn muttered, pushing aside the tent flap and emerging into the dim sunlight. He cast his vision down finally, realizing he was standing there. "Ah. You are one of Duncan's new Grey Wardens, I assume."

The old human was much as Aothor remembered, save for a few stands of grey hair in his dark mane. When Cailan and Maric had visited Orzammar, Loghain had accompanied them as well. Aothor had been little more than a child at the time, but what little he saw of the men as they visited with his father left him amazed.

It'd been his first time seeing humans. And now, he was surrounded by them. In any event, the teyrn didn't seem to recognize him anymore than the king had.

"Indeed I am," he said, inclining his head respectfully.

"Cailan's fascination with the Wardens goes beyond the ordinary. Are you aware that his father brought your order back to Ferelden?" There was something about his voice—disapproval mixed with doubt.

"I have heard that," he nodded. "The first time Wardens had been welcomed on Ferelden soil since the early Storm Age."

"Maric respected the Grey Wardens; they have an honored place in the hearts of our people. But Maric would have understood that it takes more than legends to win a battle. That's not an argument I'll repeat here." Now there was a layer of bitterness added in. He knew from the guard that the teyrn and king argued frequently about a variety of matters. It was obviously wearing at him. "You seem like a man who knows his history. You're no surface dwarf, either; I can see it in your eyes. Smart of the Grey Wardens to look for new recruits in Orzammar."

"If my previous experience against the darkspawn can be of use here against the Blight, then all the better," Aothor said, rolling a shoulder in a half-shrug. "I imagine you humans will need all the help you can get."

Loghain chuckled dryly. "True enough, I suppose. I don't suppose you'll be riding into the thick of battle with the rest of your fellows, will you?"

He'd found it odd that Duncan hadn't given them any indication as to the role they would play in the battle. Perhaps the Commander was waiting to see how things progressed and would make up his mind as the day wore on.

"I don't know," Aothor said finally, the admission not sitting well with him. He didn't like being out of the loop about plans.

Loghain huffed something between a scoff and a laugh, folding his arms over his chest. "If Cailan has his way, you will. Now, I must return to my tasks. Pray that the king remains amenable to wisdom, if you're the praying sort."

The sinking feeling in his gut only grew. "And if he's not?"

"Then simply pray." And with that, the teyrn turned away.

The sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach only grew. Cousland maintained that Cailan wasn't as overconfident and single-minded as their encounter with the monarch had lead him to believe, but Aothor couldn't exactly be comforted when the king's chief adviser—who also happened to be a renowned military tactician—regarded the young ruler as a fool.

He didn't doubt that Cailan was a capable ruler, just how equipped he was to deal with this growing threat.

It was at about that moment that Aothor realized he'd not seen Liri for some time, despite her assurance she would catch up to him. He was struck by the belated but likely obvious realization that letting her run around the fortress unsupervised was a bad idea. She was a grown woman who didn't need to be watched, per say, but she was also prone to causing problems for her own entertainment.

The last thing the Wardens needed was to make themselves odious to the rest of the camp. Reputations, and all that.

The problem was that if she'd decided to slip off somewhere else he'd have little luck finding her. His best bet was for her to have the sense to find him, Stone willing.

He tried to cut through the mages section of the camp, but he was stopped by two heavily armored humans. Templars, if he had to guess. Aothor made a mental note to give Edmund a heads-up so he didn't accidentally wander this way.

"The mages must not be interrupted," the man said, voice echoing within the dome of his helm. "Their spirits are in the Fade."

Aothor looked up at the templar, completely at a loss. You could probably fit most of what he knew about magic into a thimble. "Which is…?"

"The Fade is the realm of dreams and the land of the dead. Or so the mages tell us," he said. Aothor didn't particularly like the sound of the land of the dead business. "Regardless, they are not to be disturbed. Not even by Grey Wardens."

"I apologize for the disruption, then. I'll go elsewhere." He said, turning away. Looks like he'd take the long way around.

A, older woman in red robes purposefully caught his eye as he made his way around the mages tents. The staff in her hand identified her as a mage, as did the general style of her garb, though unlike the other mages the templars spoke of she didn't seem to be in the Fade. Whatever that really meant.

"Greetings, young man. You are one of Duncan's newest recruits, are you not? He's not a man easily impressed. You should be proud," she said. "Allow me to introduce myself—I am Wynne, one of the mages summoned by the king."

"Stone met. I am Aothor," he said with a nod. "I've noticed quite a few mages around the ruin. One of the other Grey Warden Recruits is a mage: Amell. Would he be an acquaintance of yours?"

"I'd heard there was one from the Circle. Though we haven't met, I've heard much about Edmund Amell. Remarkable talent, but a remarkably poor attitude to match. Clever, but troublesome," the mage said, shaking her head. Aothor frowned a bit—that exactly wasn't how he'd describe Edmund. "Irving always believed he felt stifled by the Circle. Perhaps he will come more into his own as a Grey Warden. In any event, to defeat the darkspawn, we must all work together. It's not an idea everyone seems able to grasp."

"Have you mages fought against many of the darkspawn?"

"Stragglers, yes—not the vast horde the scouts speak of," Wynne said, looking down on him with a considering eye. "I wonder… how much do you know of the connection between the darkspawn and the Fade?"

Aothor couldn't help but raise a brow at the notion. So the surfacers had their own ideas about where darkspawn came from? "If there is one, I know nothing of it. I'm a dwarf after all."

"The Fade is home to many spirits, some benevolent, others far less so. At the heart of the Fade lies the Black City," she said, intonation one of a practiced teacher.

This dream realm not only had demons and spirits, but also a city? If it was the surfacers land of the dead, those dead people needed a place to live, he supposed. It didn't make much sense to him. "So… you're saying the darkspawn are just dream spirits?"

"Sadly, no. They are kin to neither the gentle Fade spirits not the malevolent demons. Shamefully, they were once the souls of men. Some say the Black City was once the seat of the Maker. But when the mages from the Tevinter Imperium found a way into the City, it was tainted with their sin."

Huh. Maybe he should have paid better attention when his tutors had lectured him about the specific beliefs of human religion, because all of this sounded more than a little far-fetched to him.

The mage continued on with her lecture. "The taint transformed those men, turning them into twisted reflections of their own hearts. And the Maker cast them back down to earth, where they became the first darkspawn. At least, that's what the Chant of Light says."

It all sounded more like a bedtime story than a fact, to him. "And do you believe this account?"

"It may be allegory, meant to teach us that our own evil causes human suffering." Wynne shrugged, folding her arms casually. "Or it may be true. It is as good an explanation as any, for now."

"Interesting to ponder, if nothing else." He said. Even if it wasn't helpful for figuring anything out about the darkspawn, it certainly added perspective to how the humans views his peoples most ancient enemy.

Wynne nodded sagely. "Yes. Occasionally it is wise to contemplate one's actions. Well, I'm certain Duncan has more for you to do than talk to me."

"Farewell, and good luck in the coming battle," he said, resuming his search of the camp.

He headed past the cluster of mages tents and up to the next tier of the ruin. This section of the camp was less densely populated than the other ones, with only a few servants dealing with storage and generally trying to keep the space semi-presentable.

Aothor found who he believed to be looking for—a man in simple splint mail stood locked in an argument with a less-than-pleased looking mage. Aothor stood off the side, waiting for them to finish.

The robed man huffed dismissively. "What her Reverence 'desires' is of no concern to me! I am busy helping the Grey Wardens—by the king's orders, I might add!"

"Should I have asked her to write a note?" he prodded, just this side of mocking.

"Tell her I will not be harassed in this manner!" the mage said, all but stomping his feet in protest.

Alistair rolled his eyes dramatically, now fully mocking. "Yes, I was harassing you by delivering a message."

The mage scowled. "Your glibness does you no credit."

"Here I thought we were getting along so well. I was even going to name one of my children after you—the grumpy one."

"Enough! I will speak to the woman if I must!" The mage threw his hands in the air in defeat and turned dramatically, nearly knocking right into Aothor, who backed away a step. The mage glared down at him. "Out of my way, fool."

Aothor watched him storm away. He was really pissed—he hoped that didn't come back to be a problem later.

"You know…" the remaining human drawled idly, also staring after the mage, "One good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together."

Indeed. Between Duncan, the other recruits, himself, and now this guy, it was an apparently strange assortment that had no business gathering together. Yet, here they were, semi-united under a common cause. "I think I know exactly what you mean."

"It's like a party! We could all stand in a circle and hold hands. That would give the darkspawn something to think about," he said. "Hold on, we haven't met, have we? I don't suppose you'd be another mage."

Aothor looked up at the man, completely unable to tell if he was seriously asking or just joking. "How could a dwarf be a mage?" If he had a problem with mages, that was going to make things even more unnecessarily difficult for their group.

"You never know. These mages sneak up on you." He shrugged. "Wait, I do know who you are. You're one of Duncan's newest recruits, from Orzammar. I should have recognized you right away. I apologize."

"No harm done," he said, offering his hand in greeting. "You must be Alistair."

"Did Duncan mention me? Nothing bad, I hope." He said, clasping his arm. "As the junior member of the order, I'll be accompanying you when you and the others prepare for the Joining."

"Very well. I'm Aothor. Pleased to meet you."

"Right, that was the name!" Alistair exclaimed, "The other Wardens brought back word of the other recruits when they arrived a few days ago, I'm ashamed that I already forgot. You're not the only dwarf, right? Sam mentioned two, I believe. You know, there haven't been any dwarven Grey Wardens in some time. You must know a lot about darkspawn."

Aothor shrugged, resting his hand idly on the hilt of his blade. "I've faced my fair share. My people have been fighting against them for centuries."

"Hard to believe most folks here think the darkspawn disappeared after the last Blight when your people still suffer every day," Alistair said, shaking his head sadly. Aothor was a bit taken aback by the sympathy—not many humans cared for the plight of the dwarves. "When I faced my first one, I wasn't prepared for how monstrous they were… and I'm certainly not looking forward to encountering more. Anyhow, we should head back to Duncan. I imagine he's eager to get things started."

"Right. With luck the other recruits will be waiting for us with Ser Jory and Daveth," Aothor nodded, starting to lead the way back towards the command tents. "The argument with that mage… what was that about?"

"The Circle is here at the Kings request and the Chantry doesn't like that one bit. They just love letting mages know how unwelcome they are. Which puts me in a bit of an awkward position… I was once a templar."

"I can see how that would be awkward." And a bit problematic. Aothor made a note to give Edmund a heads up about this—best he didn't get caught off guard by a former mage-hunter in their company. They didn't need to add any more unnecessary tension to their group.

Alistair only shrugged like he was physically trying to shake away the irritation. "I'm sure the Revered Mother meant it as an insult, sending me as her messenger. And the mage picked right up on that. I'd have never agreed to deliver it, but Duncan says we're all to cooperate and get along. Apparently, they didn't get the same speech."

"Well, fair warning—one of the other recruits is a mage. Will that be a problem?" He said, watching the Warden carefully.

"Right, I'd heard about that. Oliver gave some brief descriptions of the three recruits when he and the others got back a few days ago—it was you, the mage, and another dwarf, right?" There were more than just the three of them now, but Aothor supposed they would get to that soon enough. "Honestly, it'll depend on him. How likely is it he'll turn me into a chicken?"

"The odds are low but never zero," he mused. "But if he has a problem with you it's more likely to be fire than a transformation." Aothor shrugged as they passed back around the mage's encampment. "I feel he'll be willing to play nice if you are. Just keep in mind that he apparently had a very unfortunate run-in with a templar not that long ago—it might take some time to get comfortable."

"Uh-huh. I think I'll carry a bucket of water around with me, just in case."

Liri and Rosaya waited with Duncan at the main fire.

"What are you doing here?" Rosaya asked, head tilted in confusion. It took a moment for Aothor to realize the query was aimed that the human walking with him.

Alistair frowned, also somehow puzzled. "I'm a Warden. What are you doing here?"

Realization dawned over her face. "Guess that would explain why I was hearing…" she said softly mostly to herself. "Anyways, I'm a Warden Recruit."

Alistair chuckled, running a hand through his hair. "Oooh… Maker, and there I was trying to get you to come to Duncan with me. How odd would that have been?"

"More than a little. Just imagining it makes us look a little foolish, doesn't it?" Rosaya chuckled. Aothor didn't think he'd heard her do that before. "If you're the Warden that Aothor went to get, that'd make you Alistair, right?"

"Guilty as charged," he said, dipping his head. "And I find I'm a bit at a disadvantage here, my lady. I don't know your name."

"Rosaya Mahariel of Clan Sabrae."

"Huh. You know, there have never been very many women in the Grey Wardens. I wonder why that is…?"

Rosaya twitched a shoulder. "Probably because we're too smart for you."

"Oh really? Then what does that make you?" Alistair grinned.

Rosaya raised a brow, a smile threatening again the corners of her mouth. "Terribly unlucky."

Alistair winced and feigned injury by clutching his heart. "Ouch."

Liri caught Aothor's eye before rolling her own and clearing her throat loudly. He shrugged, grinning a bit.

"At least they're getting along," he signed across the way.

"Sure, but I may very well vomit," Liri said

Rosaya folded her arms in front of her, good cheer replaced with mild annoyance. "You know, it's not very polite to talk about people right in front of them. And don't lie, I know that's what you were doing."

"What?" Alistair blinked, once again confused.

"This is Liri Brosca," Aothor said, gesturing to his fellow dwarf. "And I guess that was our little way of confirming that you don't know hand-speech, either. Liri, where did you run off to, anyways? I thought you were going to catch up to me."

"Yeah… I got a little distracted," she said with a sheepish smirk. Aothor had a strong suspicion it was more than simply getting distracted.

Duncan pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a slow breath. "There was an incident. It has since been discussed and addressed. I hope the others have been able to go about their tasks with less… excitement."

Aothor thought immediately of Isefel, who he'd not seen since she left to go bother the quartermaster.

As thinking of her was a spell to summon her, the elf in question seemingly materialized at Duncan's side. A dark-haired man he didn't recognize was with her.

"Isefel. Good, you've found Daveth," Duncan said, nodding in acknowledgment of her presence. At least she got her job done even though she'd wandered off. "Once the others join us, we can get started. Now all we're missing…" Duncan trailed off as Cousland and a knight joined their number. "Well, all we're missing is Edmund."

If he didn't have a map of Ostagar already drawn in his journal, Edmund probably would have ended up lost. He still nearly did from the sheer busyness of it all.

The guard by the gate to the main army camp let him by after he displayed the seal on the message Duncan sent for him to carry. Once he stepped beyond and into the valley he was officially in untouched territory, in terms of locations he could recognize from the game.

He gripped the letter tightly, causing the parchment to crease. Every ounce of his self-control was channeled towards not opening it and reading it for himself. He had his own suspicions—hopes, if he was being honest—about what Duncan was arranging… but he had some ideas of his own.

"Edmund!" called a familiar voice. Edmund turned and found the familiar crooked grin of Farrien. The Warden slapped a friendly hand to his back and he found the wind briefly knocked from him. "Wondered when you'd show up. We were starting to think you and the others had gotten lost and wandered into Orlais."

A chuckle escaped him once he regained use of his lungs. "God, I'd hope not. I'll take darkspawn over Orlesians, any day."

"Good on you," Farrien laughed. "Though honestly sometimes I can't tell the difference—the smell is about the same, if you ask me. So, what brings you out here? Duncan's not typically one to let his recruits wander too far."

"He sent me, actually. Is Oliver around?"

Farrien shrugged, casting about briefly. "Sure, somewhere. Oy! Ollie!" he shouted clear across the camp, drawing a few heads their way.

Edmund followed the roguish warden just a few yards away where Oliver was seated with his sword across his lap, working at it with a whetstone. He didn't even look up at their approach, only heaved a heavy sigh.

"What is it now?" he asked tiredly.

"Aw, don't be like that. Hurts my feelings," Farrien said, feigning injury. "Ed's here looking for ya, word from the Commander or some such."

"Oh. Right," He said, setting his sword aside and clasping Edmund's arm in greeting. "Glad you've finally arrived—we've been wondering when you'd show up. Aothor and Liri doing alright?"

"Doing well. Getting along better than before, too, so that's nice. We even picked up three other recruits on the way here."

Oliver raised his brow in slight surprise. "Really? Hope we get a chance to meet them before the battle, though it'll probably have to wait until after the Joining. When it comes to the Wardens, the more the merrier is a good policy we like to keep. So, what's Duncan need?"

Edmund extended the sealed note. "I'm not exactly sure, but he wanted you to have this. He said, and I quote 'tell them I expect them to act without delay.'"

A frown carved it's way across his bearded face. "Sounds serious." He broke the seal, scanning the page with sharp eyes. Only a moment later he snapped to action, turning away and sheathing his sword. "Farrien, go get Sam. Tell him to pack up his gear and get a donkey or two. Get your own gear packed up as well."

"Rodger-oh, my good man," he said, turning away into the busyness of the valley.

Edmund watched for a moment as Oliver began packing a travel bag, attaching a bedroll and putting together trail rations. "So… he's sending you away?" He'd wondered if it would be something like that. The specifics still eluded him, however.

"Duncan's worried. Doesn't want to leave this to chance… but Maker, on the eve of battle…?" Oliver said, more to himself than to Edmund.

Farrien returned just moments later, travel bag slung over his shoulder. Sam was with him, similarly packed and leading a pair of donkeys at his side.

"Where is he sending you?"

"Abroad, if I'm guessing right." Sam said shortly, throwing his sack of gear over the back of the donkey.

"Dunno what Duncan's thinking, but it must be important," said Farrien, doing similarly.

"He's probably got a good reason. It's not ideal… but who knows? We've got eight new recruits. If the Maker smiles on us favorably, we could add nearly half our current number new to the force," said Oliver.

Farrien rolled his eyes. "Come on, that never happens. My money's on three, tops."

"Six. You're getting six," Edmund interjected. The three turned to stare at him, wide-eyed. "And I'm working on an alternate solution for the two that won't make it otherwise."

"How do you…?"

"Don't ask. But Duncan's sending you to the Orlesian Wardens, right? To make sure we're getting aid?" he said, changing the subject away probably too obviously.

Oliver nodded after a moment. "Yes. I'm headed to Orlais. Duncan is sending Farrien to the Free Marches and Sam to Weisshaupt. I don't know why we're going in person instead of just sending another raven… pulling Wardens away from the front at a time like this is a huge risk."

"But just waiting for aid that may or may not come is an even bigger risk," Edmund said. This was already changing things beyond what he was comfortable with… but getting the three of them off the front now meant they would live. "Think about it—all it might take to completely annihilate the Grey Wardens of Ferelden is one lost battle. You three are Duncan's insurance policy, a contingency for the worst-case scenario. Even if we fall here more help will already be on the way."

"Damn, when you put it that way…" Sam said, staring out at the assembly of Wardens and soldiers around them. "I guess it makes sense."

Farrien sighed. He was clearly not pleased about missing the battle, but resigned to his task. "Guess we'd better hit the road now, then. Duncan did say 'leave immediately,' and when he says 'immediately,' he tends to mean it. We'll be clearing out nearby farms and villages, warning people to move north, but other than that we can't afford any delays."

This was good and also potentially about to be very complicated on his end. "How long do you think it will take for you guys to get back to Ferelden?"

Oliver let out a slow breath and thought for a moment. "Hard to say. I'll probably be the first one back, maybe around a month to have the force to the front. It depends on how ready the Orlesian Wardens are to mobilize. It's more up in the air with them, however—they'll have to rely on ship for at least part of the journey. Weisshaupt is a bit of a hike and the Marcher Wardens tend to be a bit… disorganized… so there's really no way to know for sure. But it won't be quick."

Edmund followed them as they finished gathering their travel gear. Riordan came from Orlais and got trapped by Howe, supposedly not long after the fall of Ostagar. With no word from the Ferelden Wardens, no news about the situation in Ferelden, and Loghain's troops supposedly securing the borders, the rest of the Wardens never came in time to help in the game.

More uncontrolled elements would make his self-inflicted job a lot harder. But he had to believe that more Wardens in Ferelden later on would only be a good thing, in the long run.

"We'll try and hold out until you can bring help," he offered as he followed the Wardens on their way out of the valley. "If you can, send a letter to Redcliffe when you're on your way over."

"Why Redcliffe?" Farrien asked.

Edmund shrugged. "Oh, Arl Eamon will be joining the fight sooner rather than later," as always, not a total lie… he was just neglecting to add further context. "If you can coordinate with his men you can move together with them. Might save time later on."

"Huh. Thought the King wanted the Arl's men to hold back. Never saw the point of that, not when we could use the help here. Glad he's changed his mind." Sam nodded.

He found that curious himself. Why didn't Cailan want Eamon to bring his forces…?

Cailan knew this was a doomed battleground. The clues had been there in the game for those who cared to see, and the careful managing of the camp only lead to the same conclusion. The Arl bringing his men might help in the short term… but Edmund realized the Kings subtle wisdom in keeping them away.

In the case that Ostagar failed, Eamon would still have all his men and be able to deal with the fallout. Cailan wasn't putting all his eggs in the same basket—he already had a contingency plan of his own working. The sad part was that with Loghain sending Jowan to deal with the Arl, it would all be for nothing.

Maybe he should have stopped Jowan, all those weeks ago in the Circle.

Edmund shook the thought away—too late for regrets.

"We'll send word once we can get things arranged with the Wardens abroad," Oliver said, double-checking the buckles of his gear.

"Alright, enough chat." Sam said, "We need to get on the road. If we move fast we could be most of the way to Lothering by tonight. And you'd better get back to Duncan. I imagine he'll have you and the others underway with the Joining any moment now."

Right. The Joining. The situation around that would provide it's own set of challenges. "No matter what news you hear, don't turn back. We need those Wardens in Ferelden. Trust us to deal with the rest."

The three looked at him curiously. "Alright," Oliver finally said. "Maker be with you, Recruit Amell. Don't let the darkspawn get the best of you."

He waved them off, watching as they pressed to the north.

There was one more thing he wanted to see to before returning to Duncan. He moved deeper into the army camp—Carver should be here somewhere.

Searching the crowds alone wouldn't do him any good. The problem with trying to identify the Hawke family was that their genetics were subject to flux. There was no way he could know if "real life" Carver would be the "default" or not.

He supposed, as Edmund Amell, he was technically a relative of theirs. Maybe he'd get lucky and there would be a similarity he could identify.

Edmund tapped one of the passing elven servants to get his attention—poor guy nearly leapt clean out of his skin.

"Terribly sorry sir, I didn't see you there," the elf rushed, eyes glued to his shoes.

Edmund held up his hands in what he hoped was a placating motion. "Easy, easy. You're not in trouble, I just need some directions," he asked. The elf nodded sharply. "I'm trying to find Carver Hawke. Third company, under Captain Verel. Think you can help me out?"

"Erm… my apologies, but don't know a Hawke. But Captain Verel was running drills with his men on the sparring grounds. You could try there," he offered. "Now I really have to go. If I'm caught slacking, I'll get the switch."

The elf turned to run, but on instinct Edmund reached out and grabbed the elf by the arm. His heart hurt just a little bit as the elf flinched.

"Sorry, I just…" he fumbled briefly with the words. "Where do the servants stay?"

The elf shook in his grip. "In a c-camp… set up at the back of the v-valley, sir."

"When the troops start lining up for battle, grab as many of the other servants as you can and get the hell out of here," He said, pressuring his words with urgency.

"But the penalty for deserting is death! Even the servants are held to this!" the elf exclaimed, eyes wide.

Slowly he released the elf. "When the darkspawn break through the soldiers lines the first ones on the chopping block will be you and the other servants. You might risk execution if you're caught leaving. You'll die for sure if the darkspawn get to you."

"W-what…?" The elf stuttered, blinking in utter confusion.

"It's one of those things you're just going to have to take on faith," Edmund said with a shrug. "Once your duties are finished for the evening… well, just get together who you can and get away. A lot of people are going to die tonight. But you don't have to."

The servants didn't deserve to be victims of Loghain's betrayal any more than the soldiers did. But at least them he might be able to help.

The servant inspected him seriously before offering a hesitant nod. Edmund didn't know if he was actually agreeing or just appearing to for the sake of getting away from him. He hoped it was the former.

With that the elf all but fled into the bustle of the valley encampment. Maybe it was all for nothing, but he had to try when the opportunity presented itself.

The sparring ring was a bustle with soldiers gathered around. Each of them was eager for entertainment and a chance to blow off steam. A few rudimentary rings were set up with rope and poles in the ground, some pairs of fighters going at it with their fists while others practiced with weapons.

A few men served as referees while others fought, calling fights before they got to the point where someone would be truly injured. They couldn't risk men going out of commission right before a battle, after all.

One man, armor a fair bit shinier than the others, barked a few orders and the men began to exit the ring, grabbing their gear and winding down as they moved to obey the order.

"Captain Verel?" Edmund asked, approaching the man who'd called for the men to regroup.

"Aye. Who's asking?" He said, turning and looking him over carefully.

"I have a message for Carver Hawke."

The Captain glanced back before jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. "Hm. Carver? Over there, just got done in the ring. Keep it brief, will you? My men and I are busy."

He trained his gaze to where the Captain indicated. A young man in standard Ferelden armor stepped out of the ring, peeling off his helmet and shaking the sweat from his brow.

Built and beefy like a mabari, Carver Hawke stood nearly half a head above the other men around him. He'd have cut a pretty intimidating figure if he didn't still have a baby face locked in an eternal pout. Looking at him as a person instead of a computer model hit home just how young he was.

He wasn't quite as pasty as the default from the game, hair more brown than black as well, but the same basic facial structure was there. Sharp blue eyes much like Edmund's own sized him up as he approached.

"You don't look like a soldier. What brings you to the sparring ring?" he asked, tipping a canteen of water to his lips and taking a drink. Edmund didn't miss how the young man's eyes lingered on his staff.

"Nah. I'm not a soldier—I'm a Warden." Or he would be, soon enough.

Carver choked on the water but quickly regained himself. "Oh. Well, I'm Carver Hawke. How… er, what do you want?" His posture stiffened, almost turning into something defensive. "Is this about her? Did something happen?"

Edmund stared at him blankly, out of the loop to whatever Carver thought he was a part of. He could be talking about Hawke—or he could be talking about literally anyone. Clarifying anything risked bringing up a whole host of questions he wasn't prepared to deal with. "Relax, I'm not here for anything official or important. It's… more of a family reunion, actually."

Carver's perpetual frown only deepened. "Sorry, do I know you?"

"No, but you do now. Our mothers were cousins. Edmund Amell. Nice to meet you, finally."

"Amell?" He mouthed the word slowly, like it tasted funny. "I think Mother's mentioned your family before. Didn't… didn't all your siblings end up being mages?"

"Something like that." He shrugged in a non-committal sort of way. "Look, don't let this spread, but… if tonight goes sideways, grab who you can and get out as fast as possible."

"What are you on about?"

He should have thought this through more thoroughly. What was he supposed to say?

Don't let your twin sister get picked up by an ogre and hulk-smashed into the ground? That would prompt some follow-up questions he really didn't want to deal with. Like what hulk-smashing was or why he thought Bethany was in danger of suffering it.

Maybe tell him to desert the army now and run home to get your family out of Ferelden? That didn't seem like a good idea either. Unless they left at the right time they wouldn't run into Flemeth, and then they'd have no help getting to Kirkwall, and supposing they even made it, they'd never had a reason to interact with Merrill. And then Merrill wouldn't get the help she needed with the mirror.

Shit, why did everything have to be so complicated?

"Being in the Wardens has it's perks. Being me has other benefits. A lot of the bonuses come in the form of information," he said with feigned ease. "Just… be ready for the worst. And watch out for ogres."

Carver huffed, rolling his eyes. "I'd figured out the bit about ogres for myself already, funny enough."

"Right," He said tapping his chin as he thought. "So, where's the third company going to be positioned for the battle?"

"We're not with the first charge, but we're supposed to follow up not long after them to support as the darkspawn try and press in. Fill the gaps to the Blighters can slip through, so to speak."

He'd be right up close on the front. Maybe Carver could be his chip to play on the field while he was busy in the tower.

"You're probably think I'm crazy, but it's important that you listen. If you see an ogre or a large group of darkspawn pressing towards the King and Warden Commander's position, get them out of there. I don't care if you have to drag Cailan by the scruff of his neck—just pull him from the front and get him to safety. Don't count on reinforcements or the flanking to come in to help. You'll be on your own."

"You're right," Carver said evenly, "I do think you're crazy."

Yeah… Edmund didn't know what else he expected. "Fine. Just… think on it, and do what you think is best. I've done my part—the rest I guess I'll have to trust to you."

"Alright boys!" Captain Verel called out, voice pitched above the ambient chatter. "Enough lazing about, we've got drills to run and work to do. Form up and follow me!"

"Look, it's been great to meet you and all," Carver said, verbally and nearly physically brushing him off as he walked past him, "But I've got things to be doing. Good luck with your… well, whatever it is you're on about. And whatever deal you've got going on with the Wardens."

Edmund sighed. He shouldn't have expected it to go smoothly. "Right. Good luck tonight, Carver."

Edmund half-walked but mostly ran back to the fortress. He wanted to stop by the kennels—they already had Lady, but if he could get a mabari of his own it would be a dream come true.

But when he finally got back to the ruin it was clear that everyone else had been a bit quicker about their tasks than he had. Duncan stood at the fire with a host of recruits around him and a strangely familiar man in splint mail.

Alistair. He was classically handsome in near the same way Cailan was, but more rugged, less pristine and more lived-in somehow. Cailan seemed like an ideal—Alistair was more a normal person.

From the looks of the way they were gathered, they were just about ready to head into the Wilds.

"Edmund, you return. Is it taken care of?" Duncan asked as he approached.

Edmund nodded. "They're on their way."

"Then we can begin with the preparations. Assuming, of course, that you're quite finished riling up mages, Alistair."

"What can I say? The Revered Mother ambushed me. The way she weilds guilt, they should stick her in the army."

"She forced you to sass the mage, did she? We cannot afford to antagonize anyone, Alistair. We don't need to give anyone more ammunition against us."

"You're right Duncan. I apologize."

"Now then, since you are all here, we can begin," Duncan said. He introduced each of them in turn briefly, clearly eager to get them underway. "The nine of you will be heading into the Korcari Wilds to preform two tasks. The first is to collect nine vials of darkspawn blood—one for each recruit."

"If we needed darkspawn blood, why didn't we just take some from the ones we fought in the forest or the cave?" Cousland asked, immediately suspicious.

Duncan only nodded. "Of course. But the components must be fresh, and the idea is for you to all work together in achieving this goal. It's as much a part of the Joining as what comes after."

"What comes after?" Isefel asked, brow raised. "What exactly do we need this darkspawn blood for?"

"For the Joining itself. I'll explain more once you've returned. For now, focus on this single task."

Liri rolled her eyes dramatically. "Right. That's not sketchy at all."

"What's the second task, Commander?" asked Aothor.

"There was once a Grey Warden archive in the Wilds, abandoned long ago when we could no longer afford to maintain such remote outposts. Through research in the Circle and the Shaperate it has come to my attention that some scrolls have been left behind, magically sealed to protect them," Duncan explained. Edmund had to very carefully control himself to stop from mouthing along to the familiar dialogue. "Alistair, I want you to retrieve these scrolls, if you can."

"What's so special about these scrolls?" Rosaya asked. "Are they part of the ritual, too?"

Duncan shook his head. "The scrolls contain treaties promising support ot the Grey Wardens. Treaties that should prove valuable in the days to come.

"Collect darkspawn blood, and collect the scrolls," said Aothor, nodding with finality. "We can do that."

"Watch over your charges, Alistair. Return quickly and safely," said Duncan, unable to hide a layer of concern from his voice.

Alistair nodded, offering a salute to his commander and friend. "We will."

"Then may the Maker watch over your path. I will see you when you return."

Aothor and Alistair took the lead of their company as they filed towards the gate to the Wilds. One way or another, everything would come to a head soon.

The guard swung open the gate and Aothor called for weapons out and attention high. The Warden recruits prepared to face darkspawn and their Joining.

Edmund braced himself for Flemeth.

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A little bit of Hawke for you on this fine day, as a treat.

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