Quote from the Codex:
Even though dwarves have a natural resistance, raw lyrium is dangerous for all but the most experienced of the Mining Caste to handle. Even for dwarves, exposure to the unprocessed mineral can cause deafness or memory loss. For humans and elves, direct contact with lyrium ore produces nausea, blistering of the skin, and dementia. Mages cannot even approach unprocessed lyrium. Doing so is invariably fatal.
From In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of a Chantry Scholar, by Brother Genitivi.

"This is a good day, boss. A very good day!" The Iron Bull lets out a loud belly laugh, one that shakes his whole body. The cause of his joy is currently sweeping over the landscape on leathery wings, burning down mining towers with flames coming from its mouth. A Fereldan Frostback, as the Iron Bull has so helpfully pointed out, a giant dragon with yellow scales and an unfriendly disposition.

"Bull!" Carver yells towards the qunari. "We need tactics, I don't want to have our hides burned."

"Aww, that's taking away all the fun," Bull says, watching the dragon soar through the sky. "You just whack at it until it goes down, no need for tactics."

"Our mages should aim ice storms at its mouth to kill the fire," Cassandra says. "And if we cut deep into the rump, it can't use its wings anymore." Everyone turns to her and stares. She frowns at the sudden attention. "The Pentaghasts have traditionally been dragon hunters."

Varric chuckles. "Lady Seeker, you keep surprising me."

Merrill looks at the dragon gliding over the valley. "Do we have to kill it?"

"Leliana requested dragon blood with the last raven," Carver says. "And going around this valley would take us way off path."

"I just hate killing such a magnificent creature." Merrill frowns at the silhouette of the dragon at the far end of the valley. "She is wonderful."

"You think it's a she?" Bull wonders and squints his one eye, watching the dragon. A fereldan Frostback he had called the yellow monster. "Yeah, at that size, probably a lady."

"Can't we just scare her away?" Merrill asks.

Carver looks to Cassandra, who has her eyebrows raised in a sceptical look. "To my knowledge, that was never the desired outcome of a dragon hunt but it has happened."

"She breathes fire," Carver says gloomily. "What exactly could scare her?"

Merrill holds up the palm of her hand with a small ice storms lazily spinning on it. "We can try to take her fire away."

"Won't that annoy her?" Varric wonders. "Annoying a dragon sounds like a really bad idea."

A wicked smile appears on Merrill's face. "Why don't we find out?"

Carver sighs. "I still don't like our odds for a fight like this. One hit with that tail and we're out of swords and the heads belonging to them."

Dorian steps forward. "I suggest Merrill and I take her fire away and if Varric here would be so kind as to shoot some of his vicious bolts into her rump, I dare say she might fly away."

"I like that plan better than hacking at that tail with my sword," Carver says. He points to a towering rock inside the valley. "Let's take cover there and do it like Dorian said. I also want additional archers shooting her rump." He looks around to see if anybody objects but everyone nods in agreement.

They make their way over to the towering rock in quick progression, when the dragon flies over the other side of the valley. Varric comes up to Carver's side and snickers.

"What?" Carver asks.

"You're still surprised that everyone follows your commands."

"Well, yeah." Carver shrugs. "I'm just the guy with the magic hand."

"Junior, you're so much more."

Carver laughs out. "Barely a templar and leading an army."

"Don't shit on yourself like that." Varric points at Cassandra and the group of inquisition soldiers following her. "Look at the people you travel with. Cassandra said herself that she's used to fighting alone, same goes for the Warden. Ask Dorian how much support at his back he's used to. And then you have our former templars, now suddenly paired to fight with mages when they only knew how to lock them up before. And you got it all to work!"

He turns back to Carver, silencing him with a wave of his hand when Carver wants to object. "You've been traveling and fighting alongside mages since you were a boy, you learned to adapt to various styles of fighting in Kirkwall with your sister, then you got trained to be a templar. If there's anybody better prepared to get this assortment of wildly different people all working together, I don't know who that is."

Carver stares at the dwarf. "Huh."

"You're doing a great job, Junior. Andraste really looked out for us with you." Varric gives him a nod and stomps forward before Carver can say anything.

The dragon flies away with a shriek, coughing on ice stuck in her mouth, her flapping wings causing a blizzard of dust blowing towards them. She doesn't even bleed, they never got close enough to hurt her.

The Iron Bull looks after her with a pout. "That was disappointing, boss."

"None of us are on fire, I call this a win," Carver retorts.

"Still, this could have been a glorious battle."

"In my experience, battles are never as glorious as the stories make them sound." Carver walks over to the qunari and pats him on the back. "I'm sure we'll get you a dragon fight one day, when we're better prepared."

"I hope so," the Iron Bull says and lumbers over to his Chargers.

"Better prepared?" Varric asks quietly beside Carver.

"Siege weapons. At least."

Varric nods. "Good plan."

The path through the valley brings them back into the Hinterlands, on roads that are uneven and overgrown. Varric and Tuffel struggle to keep the wagon upright as they ride along. Carver hopes to find the Imperial Highway soon, even crumbled and unkempt, the Highway is still more comfortable to travel on than this terrain.

The area turns into a marsh land with lakes and streams dotting the landscape. The ground is often soft and wet and the wagon becomes a problem once more. But not having to lug around tents and cooking utensils is just too convenient to leave the wagon behind. And they would have to listen to Varric complaining about riding a horse again.

Merrill shields her eyes with her hand and squints into the distance. "Remember the widower in Redcliffe?"

Carver, riding by her side, startles out of deep thoughts. Sometimes, in quiet moments like these, he still sees the mark of tranquility on her forehead and dark dread settles on his mind, dragging him into thoughts that he usually doesn't allow himself to mull over. "What?"

Merrill furrows her brows as she looks at him. "The widower who wanted to put flowers on his wife's grave."

Carver stares at her face, at her unmarked forehead, and he bans the dark thoughts from his mind. "Yes, right." He looks around, the sun warming his face, letting the beauty of the landscape raise his spirits. "It should be around here somewhere, shouldn't it?"

Merrill nods and slides off the beast. A few steps away, the ground dips down and large lyrium crystals seem to have grown out of the earth like a frozen bloom of sharp angles, glowing in blue. On the edge of the dip sits a patch of bright blue flowers and Merrill leans down to pick them.

The lyrium out in the open is unnerving, Carver can feel it sing in harmony with the lyrium in his veins and it looks tempting to touch. But he knows how dangerous it is, it has been drilled into him since he was a small boy not to touch lyrium. Once Bethany dared him to put a tiny raw crystal on his fingertip and the resulting blister hurt for weeks.

Merrill stretches to reach an exceptionally big bloom, her foot linked under a root to keep her from falling into the dip, but the root cracks and she squeals as she loses her balance. She stumbles towards the lyrium crystal, the blue flowers still tight in her hand.

"Careful!" Carver cries out, but it's already too late, Merrill braces herself against the crystal with her full hand, her face just a hair's breadth away from it. He jumps off his horse and runs over to her. When he reaches her, she's already pushed herself away from the crystal and Carver pulls her back up.

"I'm fine," she says, holding up her hands "Gloves. I'm fine, gloves, I have gloves." She stares at her hands with wide eyes, all color having left her face.

"Maker's fart," Carver says and falls to his knees besides her to pull her into his arms.

"Creators," Merrill sighs.

Carver takes a deep breath to calm himself down. "You're a mage, love, this shit can kill you, can you not do that, please?"

"You're right, yes, you're right." Merrill takes a deep breath. "I'll be more careful. The flowers were so pretty."

"I'm sure the widower would be just as happy with other flowers."

Merrill stares at the blue flowers in her hand. "Lyrium is not supposed to do that, growing out of the ground like that."

"I don't think it did before the Breach," Carver says. "Father told me of lyrium veins growing underground and how he saw them in the Deep Roads. When we left Lothering, we didn't have lyrium popping out of the ground."

"I don't understand how the Breach can cause lyrium to come to the surface like this." Merrill squints at the crystal. "We should ask a dwarf."

Carver nods. "I don't think Varric knows these things."

"But he may know someone who does."

Carver chews on his lower lip, thinking this over. With everything going on, it starts to feel like behind every corner there is a new problem for him to bash his head against. "Can I... can you make this your thing? Researching lyrium?"

Merrill lays her head to the side and smiles at him. "I thought I would research magic."

"Can you do both? Cause I feel like my head is going to explode if I think any more about all this." Carver rubs his temples, trying to block out the insistent song from the lyrium crystals.

Merrill puts her hand on his neck, applying soft pressure. "Sure, vhenan, I'll research why the lyrium acts this way. And how your magic reacts." She takes his Herald-hand and strokes her thumb over the cut in his palm, visible through a cut-out in his glove. "With the next rift you close, I want to try if I can add my magic to your power."

"Oh, good idea." Carver leans forward and presses a kiss on Merrill's head. "I'm so glad you're here, love."

Merrill smiles at him. "Me too, vhenan."

Her hand at the back of his neck spreads warmth. The pressure in his head lifts and the song of the lyrium doesn't grate in his mind anymore.

Merrill's horse has wandered off to a tasty bushel of grass but turns around and strolls back when she whistles. The beast eyes the lyrium crystals with suspicion but she steps close enough for Merrill to take her reins.

"Thank you, lethallan," she says to the horse as she pulls herself back up. Carver gets on his own horse and steers it next to Merrill's. The horses have developed a quiet respect for each other but Carver's mare is still wary of the giant beast.

"That little hill, we should look there," Merrill says. "My people like to bury their loved ones on top of mountains, a stupid tradition if you ask me."

The hill is hardly a mountain but in this area it is the highest elevation and they indeed find a graveyard on top of it. Flowers bloom between rocks and broken arches and a few trees are gently swaying, their new leaves bright green. They find the grave of the widower's wife and clean it. Merrill says a few dalish words and Carver puts the flowers on top of the simple stone with the inscription.

"I'm sure that will make him very happy," Merrill says. "This is a nice place." She gets up and inspects another gravestone, wiping moss from the stone.

Merrill wanders from one place to the next, tracing the lines of engravings and inscriptions on simple rocks and elaborate gravestones. Solas follows her around, kneeling down sometimes to read inscriptions that Merrill has cleaned.

"Our people have used this place to bury their dead for a long time," Merrill says, letting a spell glitter along an inscription.

"Your people," Solas says with a harsh bite in his voice. "My people... it was different." He abruptly turns around and goes to the edge of the hill, halfway hidden behind a blooming tree.

"What was that about?" Carver asks, carefully stepping around the old and overgrown graves.

Merrill looks toward where Solas has disappeared. "He doesn't see himself as one of the dalish."

"He's definitely not a city-elf either."

Merrill nods. "Too proud, too sure of himself."

"Well, yes." That assessment only furthers the unease he feels whenever he starts thinking about how the elves are treated.

"He is a mystery," Merrill says. "When you introduced me to Cassandra, she was suspicious of me, I know she asked Varric about me. Why isn't she suspicious of him?"

"You know what? I've been asking myself that question." Carver squints at the trees that seem to have swallowed up Solas. "He was there from the beginning, he apparently saved my life when the mark was trying to kill me."

Merrill smiles at him. "For that I'm forever grateful, ma vhenan." She looks back to where Solas is almost not visible. "But I wonder what he really knows."

Carver let's himself get lost in her smile for a moment, taking a deep, calming breath. "Do you think you could find out? Befriend him, hear what he knows?"

"I'm not a good liar."

"I know, I don't want you to lie. But you're a scholar and I think he sees himself as one too. You probably have a lot you both could talk about."

Merrill smiles brightly up to him. "Yes, I could do that." She looks at the flowers in her hand and turns them around. "I'm a scholar, yes."

"You are," Carver assures her. "And you're an incredible mage and I would like to hear what you think about Solas' magic."

"It's different."

Carver nods. "Bull said so too. He said it's unlike anything he's ever seen and Solas said it's because he taught himself."

"Wouldn't he fumble more then? He doesn't fumble, he's very precise," Merrill says. "I'll watch him for you but I have to watch you too."

Carver leans down for a kiss but an alarming call from Solas interrupts him. Solas waves from his vantage point, now suddenly a stark silhouette against the bright sky. "A procession of people is coming towards us. They are armed."

"Under what banner?" Cassandra asks, hurrying over to Solas' position.

"Unclear, I see a templar banner but I also see red banners with no symbols."

Carver and Merrill run up to the trees and squint out towards the group of people walking towards them. Carver can make out templar armor on about twenty men and women but there's another group of people walking alongside them without bulky armor.

"Those aren't banners," Merrill says. "Those are the sails of aravels."

"Aravels?" Cassandra asks.

"My people never stay long in one place," Merrill says easily, as if she speaks about a vacation and not years of fleeing from templars. "The aravels are our wagons for storage and transport. Our friends, the halla, pull them."

Solas frowns. "Easy to escape your pursuers if all your belongings fit into a small wagon."

Cassandra looks uncomfortably from one to the other and focuses on the group of people coming towards them again. "But these dalish seem to travel with the templars."

"Are you sure they're not prisoners?" Solas snarls at her.

Merrill hums softly and shakes her head. "They carry their weapons freely, I see bows, swords and staves."

"Mages?" Cassandra says, her brows drawn into a frown. "Dalish only have one mage per clan."

Merrill laughs out. "Who told you that?"

"That's — "

Before Cassandra can finish, alarmed shouts from the rest of their own troop call them back.

"Bears! Bears!"

At the same time, the hairs on Carver's neck rise up and the mark begins to spark. "There's a rift opening nearby."

"Oh no," Cassandra says.

"We have to separate," Carver calls out. "Cassandra, Solas, Merrill, Blackwall to me. The rest, fight the bears, don't let them get too close."

Carver runs, the mark leading him to the rift on the other side of the hill. This rift feels different, new, not quite connected to the real world yet and the demons rising from the ground seem to be more disoriented than others. Solas and Merrill stun and freeze them from afar and Carver, with Cassandra and Blackwall on either side of him, cut them down quickly.

As Carver raises his Herald-hand to close the rift, Merrill puts her hand on his arm.

"Let me try something."

The rift crystal keeps crackling above them, the mark on his hand reacting to it with bursts of green light. He forms the light into a steady glow, bright and warm. The lyrium hunger gnaws somewhere in the back of his mind but without a fresh dose circulating in his veins, the mark feels good, warm and malleable.

"Do your rift magic," Merrill says and holds her hand parallel to his. Her hand lights up with light that turns from yellow to blue. It stretches up towards the golden rope from Carver's hand and as he pours his own life force into it, Merrill's blue light wraps around it. The rope of light begins to hum in harmony with himself, feeding energy back into him, strengthening the force he pours into the rift. In a blink of an eye, the crystal shrinks, cracks, and collapses in on itself.

Carver flexes his hand, tasting after the ripple of Merrill's magic he can still feel in his hand. "That was incredible," he says, letting the mark in his palm glow. "It really made it stronger."

"Now imagine hundreds of mages doing that," Merrill says with bright eyes. "The power you'll have!"

"Yes!" Carver shouts. "This could really work!" Laughter bubbles up inside of him, bursting out of him in strange relief. Finally, things look like they could work out in the end.

"Herald Carver," Cassandra calls to him. "The other group has joined our people in fighting the bears."

Carver watches the light in his Herald-hand retreat and closes his fist. He looks over to Cassandra. "Well, that makes them new best friends for now. Let's greet them and see what they want."

Varric holds his crossbow over his shoulder, not quite ready for attack, put quickly in a pinch. "You think they want something?"

"Don't they always?"

"Maybe they just want to look at your hand."

Carver flexes his Herald-hand again. It feels warm and calm, unlike the lyrium hunger beginning to burn in his head. Pearls of sweat sit on his forehead and every sound rings loud in his head. He clenches his teeth and focuses on the warm wind on his face.

A dark skinned man in templar armor greets Carver with a respectful bow. "Herald of Andraste. It's an honor to meet you. My name is Delrin Barris, formerly of the templar order."

"From one former templar to another, Ser Barris, the honor is mine." Carver hits his right fist against his chest in the traditional templar greeting. "What brings you here into these parts?"

"You, if I may be so frank. Me and my men are, well, have been under the command of Seeker Lucius Corin at Therinfald Rebound."

Cassandra steps forward, greeting Barris with a nod of her head. "Seeker Lucius is in Therinfald Rebound? Isn't that in the Brecilian Forest?"

"It is indeed," Barris says.

"Right under the nose of Queen Anora," Cassandra says quietly.

"I cannot explain his motives, for the Seeker..." Barris sighs and looks back from where they had come. "Seeker Lucius is not what he seems, not anymore. Either a demon took possession of him or a demon took on his form, either way, we fled when he began corrupting us."

"Seeker Lucius, a demon?" Cassandra stares at Barris with her mouth open.

Barris nods. "Yes, Seeker. He made us take red lyrium, he started with my officers and they attacked us to force the red lyrium on us."

"Damn," Varric says quietly and turns away.

"How many of you could flee?"

"We were thirty in the beginning." Barris hangs his head. "There's only 18 of us left." He points to the group of templars, who look like they haven't had a good night's sleep in a while.

Carver looks from them to the other large group, obviously dalish warriors and hunters, standing proudly in the sun. "You're travelling with dalish."

Barris waves two dalish over, a man and a woman. "May I introduce Mariana of clan Amerillan and Shenn of clan Lavellan. Mariana is the Keeper of clan Amerillan and Shenn is a visitor from the Free Marches. They helped us when we were lost in the forest."

Carver leans over to Merrill and whispers, "What do I say to them?"

"Andaran atish'an," Merrill whispers back.

Carver straightens again and says, "Andaran atishaan. Ehm, good to meet you," he adds with a shrug.

The elven woman steps forward. She is older, albeit still beautiful and her long black hair shows no sign of greying. Her smile is warm and her brown eyes dart over everyone, as if she maps every face to memory.

"Carver Hawke," she says, as her eyes end up on him. "The one they call the Herald of Andraste."

"You don't have to call me that."

Keeper Mariana laughs quietly. "Yes, I heard that. That made me curious, I wanted to meet the saviour who doesn't want to be called one."

Merrill steps forward and inclines her head towards Keeper Mariana. "Andaran atish'an, I'm Merrill."

Mariana takes a quick step over to Merrill and takes her hand. "Merrill of clan Alerion and Sabrae and Hawke." She glances over to Carver and winks. "I was delighted to hear that you're still with clan Hawke, even if it's another Hawke." She laughs, her voice deep and warm. "That was quite confusing at first."

"You seem to know a lot about us," Carver wonders, taking a step to Merrill's side.

"Yes, I do," the Keeper says and turns back to Merrill. "I have met you, you might not remember. I was there when Tamlen was lost in the ruins... ir abelas, I know this is not a good memory."

A dark expression passes over Merrill's face. "My clan left the forest soon after, we took a ship to the Free Marches."

"I know, I heard a few things. I was furious to hear that Clan Sabrae exiled you."

"It was better that way," Merrill says with determination. She lays her head to the side and studies Mariana's face. "Clan Amerillan has never left the Brecilian Forest."

The elven woman lets go of Merrill's hand and smiles again. "Not quite never but it has been a long time. You know how beautiful it is and how much of our history is there. We just didn't want to leave it all."

Carver doesn't buy that excuse for a second. There's a mystery about this woman that he can't quite put his finger on. "Why did you leave now?"

The Keeper turns her gaze back to him. Her eyes are like deep dark pools and it feels like she sees into the farthest depth of his soul. The silence stretches between them and when at last she speaks, Carver isn't sure how much time has passed.

"Clan Amerillan has a history with the Inquisition of old. When we heard that a new Inquisition has been founded, we saw it as our duty to get involved and meet this new Inquisition." She smiles and it hides as much as an orlesian mask. "We wanted to meet you especially, the survivor."

Cassandra has a deep frown on her forehead as she looks at the elven woman. "What kind of history is that?"

Mariana turns her smile towards Cassandra. "Oh, it's a rather long story, I'd prefer to tell it some other time in more comfortable surroundings."

Solas appears from a shadow, frowning at Mariana. "After clinging to meaningless history for so long you finally leave your hiding place, da'len?"

"Oh, I'm hardly a child, aravalin," Mariana says with steel in her voice. "And who might you be?"

Solas holds her gaze for a long minute and then his face softens and he inclines his head with a gentle smile. "My name is Solas and I'm not of any clan you know. I have joined the Inquisition to help with the unusual magic."

Mariana also inclines her head and the look exchanged between them seems to hold a full conversation. "I look forward to have tea with you, if the Inquisition is willing to let us join."

"You want to come with us to Haven?" Carver asks.

"The Breach, as you call it, threatens the dalish just as it threatens everyone else. We would like to do our part. Unless..." Mariana takes a look around. "Unless you don't accept dalish or more mages in your company."

"That won't be a problem," Carver hurries to say. "But your people will have to work with humans, dwarves, qunari, with former templars and people with other questionable backgrounds."

"It might take some getting used to but we are adaptable." She looks over to Barris' group of templars. "And you have templars working with mages, not watch over them? That will be interesting."

"That it is," Carver says and turns to Barris. "I guess I have to say that to you too, in the inquisition, elves, dwarves, qunari, and humans work together. And templars are not in command of mages, mages and templars work together. Can you and your templars accept that?"

Barris frowns and nods. "We have heard about this before, that the inquisition is — "

"Traitor!" The templar next to Barris pulls his sword and rushes to Carver. Carver has his own sword up just in time to deflect the hit. Merrill lights up with a spell and the templar turns to her. He casts a templar spell and it stops Merrill's ice storm right between them but Carver sees the opening and strikes the templar with his sword, cutting his hand off. His templar spell fails and another ice spell freezes him mid movement.

For a moment nobody moves. The templar stands frozen, his eyes wide and red behind his helmet. Red light wavers around him and dread pools in Carver's stomach as he remembers the red light around his friends in the bad future. "He's been poisoned by red lyrium."

"But that can't be," Barris calls out. "We refused to take it."

"But he did take it, don't you see it? Feel it?" The red lyrium grates in Carver's head like a melody played on untuned instruments.

"Andraste have mercy," Barris says, taking a step back from the frozen templar.

Carver turns to Merrill. "Can you unfreeze his head so that I can talk to him?"

Merrill nods and plays out a delicate pattern with her fingers. The ice around the head and shoulders of the templar melts away but his arms stay trapped in ice. The stump, where Carver cut off his hand sticks out of the ice, blood hanging from it in frozen drops.

"Why are you here?" Carver asks.

"To kill you, the traitor, the false prophet, betraying her holiness — "

"Yeah, yeah. What are you doing here, who gave you the red lyrium?"

"Only the strongest can take the Red. I'm strong like him, like Samson. He opened my eyes, he showed me what true power is. I'm fulfilling the will of the Elder One, killing the traitor and his followers, culling the weakness, the disease that poisons the true — "

"Andraste's arse, make him shut up." Carver's headache gets worse the longer the red song grates in his mind. The templar keeps on yelling until Merrill stuffs his mouth with ice with a flick of her hand.

"Did he say Samson?" Varric asks quietly from the back. "Samson of Kirkwall?"

"He is indeed from Kirkwall," Barris says. "He said he used to be under the command of Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard. He's the commanding general, serving the Elder One. He..." Barris sighs. "He's been taking the Red for a long time and it made him very powerful and unlike with others, his mind stayed sharp."

"Oh, by Andraste's dirty knickers," Varric mumbles. "Cullen is going to have a fit."

With a deafening crack, the ice around the red templar bursts apart and he jumps on Carver with a cry, holding a red glowing vial in his hand. Carver trips, falls backwards and barely manages to hold the attacker away from his face as the templar pulls the stopper from the vial with his teeth to pour it into Carver's mouth. Three spells and four swords hit him at the same time and he drops dead in a charred and frozen heap next to Carver.

"Maker's fucking fart!" Carver yells as he scrambles to get up again.

Barris, Cassandra and two templars pull their swords from the smoking remains, while Dorian, Merrill and Solas flex their fingers to release excess energy.

Cassandra stares at the pile of charred flesh, that still has a disturbing red glow around it. "The red lyrium made him powerful enough to break the ice spell. I can see how tempting the red lyrium must be."

Carver snorts. "And he tried to give it to me, how nice of him." He turns to Barris. "So, how many more friends of Samson can I expect in your group?"

"None, I swear on my life," Barris says, pressing his fist against his chest. "He was new, a recent recruit. I can vouch for my remaining men and women, I've known them for years."

"We'll see, I guess." Carver takes a deep breath and turns to his companions. "He said 'the Elder One'."

Cassandra nods, her face pale. "Yes, just like you told us from the bad future."

"The bad future?" Barris asks.

Carver shakes his head. "Long story. Let's just say, this isn't the first time I heard of the Elder One and it's not a good memory." He picks up his sword and shield and turns to the templars and dalish watching him. "Welcome to the Inquisition. We got problems ahead you won't believe."

Elven phrases:

Andaran atish'an: Enter this place in peace. A formal elven greeting. (Carver doesn't quite have the pronunciation down and says Andaran atiemshaan/em)

Ir abelas: I am sorry.

da'len: child

aravalin: traveller (I made that one up)