As they approached the ancient Tevinter fortress, it became apparent that it was anything but deserted. A unit of soldiers bearing bright livery joined them on the main approach, their captain greeting Duncan with a wary respect. Flora could see the same symbol that Duncan wore on his breastplate – a silver griffon – displayed on a banner hanging over the fortress wall. Beside it was a colourful scarlet and gold heraldry that she didn't recognise. Both were waterlogged and tattered from the constant cruel tug of the valley winds.
"That's the King's emblem," pointed out Alistair, following Flora's stare as he drew alongside them. "The symbol of the Theirins. Cailan arrived a few weeks ago to join the third assault on the Darkspawn."
Although his tone was neutral, it was clear from Alistair's face that he thought the King mad. Flora glanced at him curiously, then was distracted by the great entrance gate before them. Two men clad in the garb of the Grey Wardens came out and saluted Duncan, while accompanying servants caught hold of the horses' reins.
"News?" Duncan asked curtly, dropping down from the saddle with a grunt and nodding to the stable lad.
"The Darkspawn are massing. The scouts believe that they'll make an assault within the week. Both Loghain and Cailan wish to see you immediately, as does the leader of the mages."
Duncan raised his eyes to the heavens as Flora clambered down gingerly from the saddle. She slung her staff over her back, glancing up at the crumbling stone battlements with awe. After four years of confinement in the Circle tower, the sheer scale of the outside world was still a novelty.
"Ah, I suppose I'd better see Cailan first, since royalty must insist on taking precedent."
Duncan let out an almost inaudible sigh, turning to his junior officer. Alistair had dismounted and was already waiting for instruction. "Could you see to the mages? They're complaining again"
Alistair nodded, lifting a hand. "Of course. They're probably just out of frogs' legs."
"Don't be long," the Warden-Commander added, casting a swift, significant glance sideways at Flora. Their newest recruit was already attracting attention; the stable lad had dropped Duncan's saddlebag in the mud on seeing her; the gate guards were taking an inordinately long time with the drawbridge. Flora, oblivious, was staring into space.
Alistair nodded, grasping his commander's meaning. Shouldering his bag, he headed off purposefully towards an upper terrace. .
Duncan glanced around at Flora, who was now looking anxious, clutching the straps of her leather pack.
"Come on, child," he said, softly. "I'll take you to meet the other recruits."
It had begun to drizzle again. Ostagar, in its prime, had been an impenetrable fortress hewn from opposing cliffs, connected by a jutting spur of rock. Many Ages later, much of it had decayed through lack of maintenance. Great chunks had broken off, tumbling to the valley floor lying far below. Now only a single broken tower - named Ishal, after its architect - rose above a maze like tangle of courtyards and terraces, spread over a half-dozen levels and connected by decrepit steps.
The tents clustered around the crumbling walls of the largest courtyard were saturated from an earlier shower; their canvas canopies bowed beneath pools of water. There were men everywhere; soldiers in Royal livery, Grey Wardens deep in conversation, and various servants, stewards, squires and grooms scuttling in their wake. There was a constant low hum of activity, punctuated by the throaty barking of dogs. The atmosphere was as tense as a taut bowstring.
Flora clutched her scant possessions, damp hair plastered to her forehead as she avoided the larger puddles. Duncan strode a few paces ahead; those in his way scattered before him with mild panic. The Warden-Commander had a fearsome reputation, and was Rivaini to boot - a land of heretics and mage-lovers. Every so often, he glanced over his shoulder to make sure that she had not been left behind.
"And the Maker will watch over us all, be they man or woman, Warden or soldier, conscript or volunteer!" intoned a Chantry priestess on a nearby scaffold, not seeming to notice the rainwater streaming down her white headpiece. She held out her arms, tilting her face upwards, emulating the pose of the Andraste statue immediately behind her.
"Send these foul creatures back to the hell from whence they came!" she continued, as a band of bedraggled faithful clustered together before her. "Vanquish them from the Maker's eyes, for He sees them and does not approve !"
This last part seemed to have been directed at Duncan, who snorted and continued onwards. The Chantry sister turned her gaze towards Flora; her scowl deepening as she noticed the staff slung across her back.
Warden-Commander and recruit continued onwards, entering yet another courtyard beneath a stone archway. A series of pens had been constructed around a precariously decrepit pillar, each containing a Mabari war hound. Two handlers were hurling slabs of raw meat over the high fences, while the eager dogs bayed and howled.
Just beyond the cages was a crumbling stone ramp leading to an upper courtyard, guarded by a half-dozen pikemen in scarlet and gold livery. Flora approached them curiously, squinting through the gloom at the brightly coloured tents clustered beyond. In contrast to the overcast gloom in the lower courtyard, the upper reaches rung with the sound of laughter and chatter, and even the thin warble of song.
What attracted Flora was neither the blazing torchlight nor the raucous banter, but the smell of smoked salmon. It had been months since she had last eaten fish. She took a longing step towards the foot of the ramp. The guards stood up a little straighter as she approached, not bothering to disguise their admiration as they looked her up and down. However, once their eyes fell on her staff, all friendliness vanished from their posture.
"What do you want, mage?" spoke up one soldier warily as she approached. Flora came to a halt, removing drizzle-dampened strands of hair from her eyes.
"Who's up there?"
The guard who had spoken shot her an incredulous look.
"Who do you think, fool?" he retorted, rudely. "Look, there!"
He gestured to the scarlet and gold banners flanking the ramp. Flora peered at them, oblivious.
"Ah, she's probably fresh out of a Tower," spoke the other soldier, who had a daughter the same age as the bedraggled young mage and was more disposed to kindness. "This is King Cailan's camp. You're not allowed to enter."
"Ooh," mumbled Flora, taking a last wistful inhalation of salmon before turning around. She then almost collided with Duncan, who had backtracked hastily on finding her absent.
"Stay close to me, young sister," he told her, shooting the guard who had named her a fool a displeased glower. "i don't want to lose you."
The rain was starting to ease, the clouds slowly drawing back to reveal a watery autumnal sun. Flora made no attempt to avoid the shallow puddles as they approached a walled-in courtyard. She could feel the hum of arcane energy vibrating in the air even before she saw the clouds of excess mana hovering above the crumbling walls. The other occupants of Ostagar seemed to be giving the mages a wide berth. Peering through the arched entrance, she saw a half-dozen men and women in the familiar formation of a summoning circle. Beside the wall, she saw Alistair in the middle of an argument with a middle-aged mage in scarlet robes. Duncan, seeing his junior officer engaged in vociferous debate, stifled a sigh.
"What else do the Grey Wardens ask of me?!" the older man was demanding, arms folded across his chest. "Is it not enough that I have interrupted my studies to assist them?"
Alistair nodded placatingly, his clear hazel eyes widening. "I'm simply here to pass on a message from the Chantry Mother. Apparently she wishes to see you."
This was apparently enough to incense the mage, who threw up his arms in frustration. "Again! I am not at her beck and call. There is important work to be done here."
Alistair gave a shrug, shifting from foot to foot. "Should I have had her write a note?" he asked, in a tone of polite insolence. "Mother Rohesia doesn't like to be kept waiting.
The mage growled beneath his breath, muttered something vaguely insulting and stalked off towards the terrace acting as a makeshift Chantry, brushing roughly past Flora as he did so.
"And I thought we were getting on so well!" called Alistair at the departing man's broad back, then rolled his eyes at Flora. "I do love how a Blight brings us all together."
"I wish you wouldn't waste your considerable energy on petty squabbling, Alistair," Duncan observed dryly, though the corner of his mouth was flickering. "Take Flora to the recruits' tent to drop off her bag, then prepare for the Wilds."
The reason for the Warden-Commander's amusement quickly became apparent. A man, lean and scowling, had just made his presence known with an irritable grunt. He had a sallow, weathered face, the features carved from granite; and dark hair, faded as though exposed to too much sunlight. He wore no livery or identifying emblem; his armour built for efficiency of movement rather than the aesthetic.
"The king grows impatient, Rivaini," snarled the new arrival, ignoring Alistair entirely. "You were meant to come to his tent as soon as you arrived."
"Let's hope Cailan is in a forgiving mood, general," replied Duncan, appearing supremely unbothered. "I had to escort my newest recruit here."
Loghain Mac Tir glanced casually across at Flora, expecting that she would deserve only a fraction of his attention. Instead, he startled; coal-dark eyes widening and then narrowing to focused pinpricks.
"What's her name?" he snapped, appearing uncharacteristically disconcerted.
"Flora," Duncan said, watching the general closely.
"No family name?"
The Warden-Commander shook his head very slowly from side to side,a quizzical brow raising. Meanwhile Flora, enchanted to hear another northern accent, gazed at the general with her mouth slightly open. When he returned her interest with a malevolent glare, this made her only more nostalgic for the north; whose inhabitants were far less genial than their southern counterparts.
Duncan, sensing that Loghain was not prepared to elaborate on the cause of his astonishment, turned to Alistair.
"Try not to get into any more arguments on the way to the recruits' tent, my young friend."
"No promises!" remarked Alistair, cheerfully. "Come on, mage - I mean, Flora. Sorry, old habits die hard."
Without pausing, the junior officer strode past Flora, underneath the crumbling archway and back into the main bustle of the camp. Expecting her to keep pace, he neatly evaded a gaggle of Chantry sisters and a pack of Mabari, baying at the heels of their handler. Flora followed him down a flight of moss-covered steps, then skirted the edge of a terrace studded with plinths; which once must have held statues of the great and the glorious. Now they served as improvised seats for weary soldiers, or surfaces upon which to rest a sword or a tankard.
This place is like a tangle of salt-crusted fishing line , Flora thought dolefully to herself, struggling to keep up with the long-legged young man. Impossible to make sense of.
Alistair, determined to hide how disconcerted he felt around her, deliberately maintained a hasty pace all the way to the Warden encampment; which sprawled in chaotic array on a lower terrace. The recruits' tent was plain and lacking in finery, a contrast to the garishly ornate tents belonging to the king's retainer. Alistair ducked inside, only just remembering to hold open the flap for her. Flora followed him, slightly out of breath.
Inside was sparsely decorated, with three pairs of bunk beds, plain and functional, set out parallel to each other. In one corner was a communal pile of baggage. Two men sat on opposite bunks, each studiously avoiding the gaze of the other. One was clad in the worn leathers of a commoner, unshaven and clearly uneasy. The other man had a paunch that indicated two decades of good food and better wine. In contrast to the other, his bulk was encased in fine fustian velvet. He looked faintly nauseous, as if he had eaten something that had disagreed with his digestion.
"Flora, Daveth, Ser Jory," said Alistair, not being much good at introductions. "We'll be going into the Korcari Wilds soon, get the first part of the joining ritual out of the way. Ready to meet your first Darkspawn?"
"The Korcari Wilds?" asked Ser Jory, scratching anxiously at the plump folds of his neck. "I heard they were meant to be haunted."
Flora, uncertain whether her shield could keep out the ephemeral, looked bug-eyed.
"Lots of unpleasant things in the Wilds, but I've never seen a ghost," replied Alistair pleasantly, lifting Flora's pack from her shoulder and slinging it gracelessly into the communal pile of baggage.
"I'd rather not meet a Darkspawn at all," muttered Daveth, who was looking more mutinous by the minute.
"You'll be seeing a lot more of them if we don't do our job right." Alistair gave a half-grin, heading back to the tent entrance. "Right - no point in hanging around. Ready to venture into the Wilds?"
"Are we going to have something to eat first?" asked Flora hopefully. "In the Circle, we always had lunch at noon."
There was silence in the tent for a moment, with both of the other recruits staring at her incredulously. Alistair let out a snort, shaking his head.
"Sure, can't fight on an empty stomach. Kitchens are near the Chantry. Grab a snack, and we'll meet by the Tower in twenty minutes."
AN: Hahaha proof that i never bothered to edit in 2016- I had them arriving at Ostagar at night, then going straight out into the Wilds!replying to reviews in the reviews, merry christmas!
