By Gods Forsaken

by inwardtransience

One day, the shadows will part, and the skies will open wide. When he rises, everyone will see. (How do you do a summary for something this big? Total retelling, Mahariel!Warden, mage!Hawke, Dreamer!Trevelyan!Inquisitor, worldbuilding, too many OCs, serious plot edits, primarily F/F.)

37. Orzammar — Vi (b)

9:30 Ferventis 2

The Dead Cross, Frostback Deep Roads

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The fight to the broodmother was brief and relatively easy, all things considered, the deaths of most of its defenders leaving the nest vulnerable. But that it was relatively easy didn't mean there weren't any close calls.

Though it took longer than Lýna might have expected to begin. The fighting in the Upper Galleries had been hard, the dwarves pressed for some hours before the Wardens had arrived, and even then they'd still been badly outnumbered — there had been a few deaths, and several injuries. They did have mages on hand, so they could speed along the necessary recovery, but they didn't have very many, so they needed to space the healing out over a couple days. The dwarven dead couldn't be carried back all the way to the Gate, so instead Anvér and his men had a funeral — returning them to the Stone, as Anvér put it — right there in the Upper Galleries.

Lýna and her people probably could have attended if they wanted to, but her instinct was that it would be inappropriate to ask — they were strangers, after all, and only Gonçalve had ever been to a dwarven funeral before, so none of them knew what was expected. Irina and Jowan went along at first, to help prepare the burial, but they returned not long later without the dwarves.

After a short time, Lýna began to hear chanting in the distance — low and deep and slow, accompanied with a harsh pounding in time with the litany. Loud enough she wasn't the only one who heard it, the camp going quiet, eyes drawn unconsciously toward where the dwarves mourned.

Lýna would be hearing that song again, she was certain. She could imagine, after the battle at Bónammar, how all of Orzammar might ring with it, like the clanging of an enormous bell.

(She heard it in her dreams that night, the great city strewn with the dead, Bélen's nightmare come to life — the beat marked not by the pounding of dwarven feet, but instead the Archdemon's mocking laughter.)

Also, the task that had brought Anvér to Tagj-Aidúkan hadn't yet been completed, so they couldn't leave right away anyway. After a couple days in the Upper Galleries, their people were healed (or at least well enough to travel) and their task was done, so they set off back the way they'd come. As they went Lýna become increasingly certain Anvér led them along a different route than the one Gonçalve had used, but it didn't truly matter, they arrived back at the Gates by the end of the day. Anvér suggested they stay with the Legion for another day, to give their people time to rest — sleep in a proper bed, eat hot food — before marching out to face the broodmother. Lýna didn't think that was truly necessary, but there was no reason they needed to be back in Orzammar immediately, and there was no risk of them running out of supplies, so she agreed.

It hadn't been very long yet, but Lýna was quickly developing a positive impression of this Anvér Dés, perhaps above any of the other dwarven leaders she'd spoken with so far. He was very dwarven, harsh and loud and gregarious, but more in a way that reminded her of certain Avvar jarlar she'd known in the past — the comparison didn't occur to her upon first meeting him, but after watching the way he talked with his people...

Well, this culture people in the north had of certain people, held to be inexplicably special due to their birth, giving orders that were expected to be followed absolutely, without question, was still very strange to her. The dwarven lords were very similar to Alamarri lords in this way, with the addition of their castes making it all more rigid, the same relations given a religious justification. (Though she'd been told something similar happened with lords in other human kingdoms and the Chantry, that kind of thinking wasn't common in Ferelden.) Since they expected to be obeyed without question all the time, it seemed to make these people very arrogant, the way they spoke of their people terribly belittling at times — Teagan hadn't been so bad, at least seemed to halfway respect their people (even while still expecting to be treated as a kind above), but Eamon had been baffling, and some of the things she'd heard about Isolde were just terrible.

Clearly this wasn't a universal thing, as comparing Eamon and Teagan to Fergus made very obvious. And apparently it wasn't universal with dwarven lords either — perhaps there were few others besides Anvér and Bélen, but that was still something.

And it probably helped her positive impression that Anvér was very enthusiastic about joining the battle to retake Bónammar. He'd been amused at first, when Lýna had explained why she'd wanted to talk with him, enough she was getting a little annoyed about it. He must have noticed, because he'd said it was slightly absurd that she'd gone all the way out here just to ask him, which she hadn't, really — she wanted to give her new recruits more experience against darkspawn before the battle, asking Anvér to join their army had just been a good excuse. For some reason, he thought that was funny too, laughing out loud, smirkingly muttering something to his second with a nod at Lýna, but he didn't explain himself that time. (It seemed mostly good-natured, so she just ignored it.) Anvér had been aware of the Legion's upcoming attempt to retake Bónammar before, but he hadn't known the Wardens had joined and were bringing in dozens and dozens of warriors from further north to help, and he'd left Orzammar well before Bélen's contribution had been settled; now that it looked like they actually had a shot of victory, he was eager to join in.

After finishing with her, he'd gathered his men and talked about it with them. Lýna hadn't understood a word, of course, but it'd clearly gone well, ending with rhythmic cheering, gauntlets crashing harsh against breastplates, quickly giving Lýna a headache even in the open space of the Upper Galleries. It reminded her very much of an Avvar war-band making a decision by affirmation (if more in sync and with more clanging of metal), which definitely had something to do with her positive first impression of Anvér.

And so one of the dwarves' more powerful noble clans would be adding their wealth and their warriors to the coming battle — Lýna would call this trip a success.

The day of rest at the Gates did mean they got going the next day a little slower than they might have, but they were likely spending the night at the Dead Cross anyway, so it made no difference. The walk was a little more tense than it had been two days previously, a sort of grim anticipation settled over their group — they were aware that they were walking into another fight. Probably not a very big one, Anvér's people and then their own group some days later had likely already killed most of the broodmother's defenders...but the forgemaster was certainly still in there, there would be fighting. It would be an easier fight than the ambush on the way to Tajg-Aidúkan, but knowing you were walking into a fight was always tense.

Though her people didn't seem nearly as badly affected as they might have been a week ago. Most of the new recruits had never been in a real fight before the undead at Redcliffe, and the stories people told about darkspawn were horrifying — as the Blight was, obviously, but the stories tended to make individual darkspawn sound far more threatening than they truly were. The danger of the Blight was down to their sheer numbers, and the insidious poison they brought with them, tainting the land with their very presence, but darkspawn were easy to kill with proper equipment and tactics. Any fight is half a contest of cleverness, after all, and the average darkspawn was a mindless beast, streaming over their opponents with as much thought to their approach as ants on spilled berries. Facing the nightmare that had tormented all the peoples of this world for no one could count how many generations, and beating it, doing it once could be a big step for people. And then doing it a second time, proving it wasn't a fluke, helps settle in the belief that, no matter how vile and terrifying the darkspawn were, they could be fought.

So, the new recruits seemed far less tense than they'd been even for that first couple hours after leaving Orzammar, fearful of what they might find down here. There were still obvious signs of nervousness, silences that hung too long or voices turned higher and thinner than normal, hands seeming to hang closer to weapons than they might, but it wasn't so bad. Lýna and the other officers got a question now and then, what darkspawn nests were like, and where did darkspawn come from anyway? Before they left, Lýna had told them they would be taking out a nest, but she hadn't told them about broodmothers, or much of what to expect at all, and she'd asked the other officers not to either.

She would tell them, when it was done. It would be better for them not to be troubled by it ahead of time.

It was only a walk of perhaps a couple hours from Tagj-Aidúkan to where they would be turning off. She'd been told that, before the First Blight, there had been smaller settlements between the major cities, carved into the stone here and there along the Deep Roads. Some of them had been proper villages, others little waystations for travelers to rest (complete with small markets to trade whatever). Others had been storehouses, especially for mining equipment but sometimes also arms and armor or grain, and some of them were workspaces for craftsmen, somewhere they wouldn't be interrupted by the activity of the cities, could practice their arts in relative quiet. The place the darkspawn had made their nest had been one of this last kind, once, long ago home to a group of smiths, their forges burning where the noise and the fumes wouldn't bother the people of Tagj-Aidúkan.

It was a perfect place for darkspawn to nest — there would be several large open spaces, storerooms for raw ore and completed projects; it had many side-passages to spread out through, but only one entrance to defend; and there might well have still been ore left behind when it was abandoned, or old armor and weapons that could be melted down and reforged. It was a little small, perhaps, and isolated from the rest of their territory behind the Dead Cross, but otherwise ideal. The Legion made a habit of checking places like these when they could, just in case.

And the Legion clearly knew about this one: when they arrived at the entrance, the same place they'd been ambushed a few days ago (there was a still a scorch mark where they'd burned the corpses), it was to find a pair of Legionnaires in their black armor posted outside. It seemed the Legion was gathering warriors to clean out the nest themselves — these two were scouts, under orders to keep an eye on the place and run back to the Dead Cross if anything changed. Since Lýna and Anvér's men were here already, the Legionnaires agreed that them taking care of it would be easiest, they left for the Cross to tell their superiors.

They paused outside of the entrance, shedding their packs and tying down the horse, while getting a quick bite to eat and a drink discussing strategy. During their stay at the Gates, Anvér had gotten a map of the place from the Legionnaires — the forges had been at the center, smaller hallways branching off with homes and the like for the smiths and their assistants, the storerooms down some stairs right in the middle of the forges. The broodmother would certainly be in one of the storerooms, the hive likely spreading out through the rest. The forgemaster would be set up in one of the forges (naturally), and most of the surviving darkspawn were likely to be there too, guarding the stairs down. There might be some in the side-passages, though, so they would have to guard against an ambush.

After a bit of talking, they decided to split their shield-bearers into three groups: one would be at the front, and one in back and one on the right side, to guard against ambushes. (They would need to turn right and then left to reach the main entrance to the forges, their left side would be against the wall.) Anvér's men were almost all shield-bearers, he would split them between right and back, the Wardens would take the front — which meant the front would have the fewest shields, but Anvér's men were exhausted and bruised from the hard fights they'd already had, and the Wardens could use the experience anyway. And they had mages to cover them, barriers would more than make up the difference. Besides, Irina could feel the nest from here, and she said they'd be fine. Once they got to the forges, Anvér would split the right side in half, divided between front and back — after the forgemaster and the rest of the defenders were dealt with, the rear guard would cover the stairs while the rest of them continued on. After killing the broodmother, the mages burning the nest clean, they would split into teams and clear the side passages, just in case. Then the mages would sweep through the whole thing, burning as they went, and it would be done.

Sounded simple enough. None of them expected any difficulties to come up — they'd already done most of the hard work in previous fights, at this point they were just cleaning up after themselves.

The plan set, they broke for a short time, everyone preparing for the fight as they will. As had come to be quite a common occurrence, Lèlja led most of Lýna's people in prayer, gathered in a tight clump, heads bowed and hands on each other's shoulders, singing soft and slow, alternating between verses from Lèlja and parts done together, their voices together loud enough to ring in Lýna's ears. Not unpleasantly so...though some of them could keep a tune better than others. She noticed that Alim had joined in this time — he didn't think much of the Chantry, but Lacie took it more seriously, so he tried to be polite about it — as well as some of the other Wardens, Gonçalve and Liloia and Léonard. Irina and Liviă hadn't joined, instead crouched together near the door whispering, Liviă idly fingering her dagger, and obviously Morrigan hadn't either, leaning against a wall near the Tevinters, arms crossed over her chest, fingers impatiently tapping.

Lèlja was shaping up to be a proper gyðja, the way things were going. With how she'd attended to troubled people after that fight their first time through, how she always seemed to be around to give advice or mediate before a feud could start, leading group prayers like this — the Chantry and their Clerics and Mothers were still very foreign to Lýna sometimes, but this, the place Lèlja had found in their little band, was far more familiar. She'd noticed that some of their people had been surprised when, on their trip up into the hills back in Redcliffe, Lýna had stepped back for Lèlja to lead the morning prayers Andrastians do before starting for the day, but she didn't see why. She was ultimately responsible for ensuring her people's bodily needs were met, but their spiritual ones shouldn't be neglected either — their god was not hers, that wasn't something she could do herself, so stepping aside to let someone who could handle it just seemed like the reasonable thing to do. More of them hadn't participated at first, uneasy with how peculiar Lèlja could seem against the Sisters they were more used to, but they'd gotten more comfortable with time, until most of Lýna's people gathering in the morning to sing to their Maker had become routine. Lýna might ordinarily worry about her people following a gyðja sworn to a god that was not hers, but Lèlja had been told by her god to follow Lýna, so she didn't think it would be a problem.

(Lèlja's Maker probably hadn't intended for them to...whatever the right word was, but Lèlja claimed he didn't disapprove — in fact, Lèlja thought he seemed amused with them — so that wasn't going to be a problem.)

While her people were doing that, the dwarves were doing another of those chants of theirs, heavy boots pounding out a slow beat under their voices, heavy and deep and droning — apparently the chanting was just something dwarves did a lot. Not sure what else to do with herself, Lýna wandered over toward where Irina and Liviă were waiting. The pair acknowledged her with nods, Morrigan shooting her an exasperated, commiserating sort of look, impatient with their fellows for the delay, but none of them said anything, waiting for the others to finish with their pre-battle rituals. Though, she did wonder... "You don't want to go with them?" Lýna asked, in careful Orlesian, nodding at the Wardens. Her feeling had been that the Tevinter Wardens were Andrastians too, but she didn't really know...

Irina turned a crooked smile up at her. Speaking more slowly and carefully, aware Lýna's Orlesian still wasn't great, she said, "They are White Chantry, Conducătoare — we don't have the same songs."

"Oh. I see." She'd completely forgotten about that — she knew the far north had their own Divine, but she honestly had no clue how different they really were.

Smirking, Liviă leaned over and drawled something to Irina, in what Lýna was pretty sure was Tevene. (It sounded vaguely elvish to Lýna, which did make sense when she thought about it, as the humans and elves of those lands had been living alongside each other ever since the Fall.) Whatever that was, Irina rolled her eyes, muttered something back, making Liviă chuckle a little. Before Lýna could decide whether that was worth asking about, Morrigan explained in Chasind, "Liviă says Irina's mother taught her of the People's gods, so she hardly counts as an adherent of the Black Chantry proper. Your mother is from Arlathan Forest?" she asked in Orlesian, using their pronunciation of the Heartwood.

Irina turned to give Morrigan a look, Lýna couldn't see it from this angle. "Yes, she is."

...Okay, now Lýna really wanted to ask Irinia about Tevinter, but her Orlesian still wasn't good enough. And now wasn't the time, anyway — the Andrastians and the dwarves were finishing up with their songs, the battle now to start. They streamed through the door into a narrower hallway — though only "narrow" relative to the Deep Roads, a bronto-drawn cart could still easily pass through — pausing a moment just on the other side to form their square, shields to three sides and spears and archers and mages between them. Once the archers had strung their bows, they started forward, the front row with their shields already to hand just in case.

The dwarves had a chant for this too, apparently, voice booming in time with their steps. There weren't any words to it — it seemed to be mostly just ho, ho, ho, with a hau-tsjé at regular intervals (Lýna assumed that meant something in dwarvish) — just setting a pace for their march. It wasn't an entirely foreign idea, reminded Lýna of Avvar trail-songs — when traveling Avvar would often sing, to pass the time, keep a pace, and also help keep track of each other through the brush. Often funny or lewd songs, trying to entertain each other, but Avvar could be that way. Though their war-bands didn't do that, at least not when anywhere near an enemy, since it wouldn't do to give themselves away.

Thankfully they didn't really need surprise on their side — Lýna wondered what the dwarves would do if they were trying to sneak up on someone.

The passage was rather longer than Lýna had expected, the walk took some time, the light cast by the mages playing over rubble and filth strewn here and there as they advanced. Before too long the Wardens had taken up the dwarves' chant too, one by one, seemingly automatically, their steps falling in time with the dwarves (though stretched or compressed to accommodate their different strides). Their voices and the pounding of boots echoed off the stone around them, seeming to fill the hallway, ringing in Lýna's chest. She found herself humming that same song to the Lady of the Skies that kept appearing in her head lately, sped up slightly to match the pace of the march, with no awareness of when she'd started.

Eventually, the hallway ended at a small square, shattered and rotten remains scattered here and there — Lýna wasn't sure what that all was, furniture or carts perhaps — the floor and walls coated in grime, an occasional speckle of black darkspawn blood showing itself here and there. The space, maybe some kind of small market or where carts were loaded to be sent off to Tagj-Aidúkan, was empty of darkspawn — Lýna could feel them now, but none had come out to meet them.

There was something different about it this time, a sour note to the song of the magic, thick and keening and nauseating. As vile as it felt, twisted and grating, Lýna suspected that was the broodmother.

They took a right turn, heading for a smaller hallway leading deeper inside — the door was narrower, their group had to squeeze through three at a time, Edolyn, Sedwulf, and Gonçalve closely followed by Gailen, Alim, and Irina, the shields and the mages holding the door for the rest of them to follow. It might have gotten iffy if the darkspawn struck while they were passing through, but luckily no attack came, their square reforming on the other side and continuing on. The hallway continued on for a time, their group hugging the left wall, before taking a corner to the left, the stretch ahead rather filthier than the first, equipment so old and broken Lýna couldn't begin to guess what it might have been, rugs patched with fuzzy mold, a few mushrooms poking out of cracks in the stone here and there. There was the occasional corpse left about, perhaps nugs and deepstalkers, some nothing more than bone but others rather more ripe, the smell terrible, rot and mold and the sharp stinging sweetness of the Blight. Lýna could hardly breathe, halfway holding her breath as her stomach lurched, her eyes already beginning to water.

Only a few steps in, Anvér to her right called out something; a second later, Gonçalve shouted, "Au armes!" Lýna had expected an Alamarri translation, but apparently that phrase was recognizable enough, because everyone immediately started reaching for their weapons, the air ringing with the scraping of blades from sheathes and the clunking of spears being hefted around. They didn't break stride to do it, the dwarves keeping up their regular chant without a hitch, though not everyone managed it quite so smoothly, a couple of the recruits fumbling a little, Gailen bumping into Gonçalve, the butts of spears accidentally clunking against legs. The dwarves were remarkably in sync by comparison, they must have practiced this sort of thing — which seemed like a waste of time to Lýna, but she supposed the warriors of Orzammar might have different priorities.

They'd been walking another short distance when Irina elbowed her way through next to Lýna, holding out a scrap of off-white cotton. Lýna noticed an identical cloth had been wrapped around the lower half of Irina's face, hiding her nose and cheeks and chin — confused, Lýna took the cloth, held it up to— Oh, it was perfumed, thick and smooth and floral, to help cover up the smell in here. Her bow hanging off her elbow, it took Lýna a moment to figure out how to get it tied in place. It didn't hide the stench entirely, but it did help immensely, Lýna could actually breathe now. She turned to nod her thanks to Irina, but she was already gone, over the next short bit elbowing her way over to Justien, Alim, and Lacie, soon all the elves with identical perfumed cloths. Lýna wondered how many of those Irina had prepared, though she didn't bother handing them out to the humans, so...

(That was a good idea, Lýna should start carrying these herself.)

In time they came to a door on the left side of the hallway — the frame rather more complicated than the others, the little braided designs that the dwarves liked, clearly there had been some kind of designs to the sides but they were too covered in filth to make out now. The entrance to the forges. The darkspawn were close now, dark stars in the night not far to her left, her skin crawling with it, her ears ringing. While Anvér split their right side up, the Wardens in front started slipping inside, again squeezed three at a time — rather more tense and cautious than last time, aware they must be nearing the main body of the group. But once again, they passed through without incident, their now slightly-reordered square reforming again on the other side.

This room was larger, open, though it was ruined enough it was no easier to guess at its purpose. There were heaps of filth on the floor here and there, crawling with mold and mushrooms, against the walls in the opposite right-hand corner some kind of equipment, the metal still gleaming where it hadn't been covered in soot and grime and blood. (Dwarven craftmanship was impressive, however long this place had been abandoned and their steel still hadn't rusted.) There were crossbows stacked up to the left, random bits of armor strewn about over there, but these looked rough enough that Lýna could tell at a glance they were of darkspawn make. Alongside their work was on occasional more competent-looking piece, presumably taken off a dwarven corpse.

There was more doors straight ahead and to the right — either would bring them to the storerooms, but the main pack of darkspawn were ahead. They didn't necessarily need to kill them before approaching the broodmother, but if there were too many their rear guard might be overrun, so they should get rid of them first anyway. "Forward. The darkspawn are there, be ready. Gonçalve, Sedwulf, and Gailen through first, Alim, Edolyn, and Irina next. Once the mages are in the shields will go, pushing the line out." Turning toward where she knew Anvér to be (too many people in the way to make him out), holding her hands cupped above her head, "Like the sun, rising. Yes?"

Anvér shouted agreement, as the line of shields at the front shuffled around a little, Alim and Irina elbowing their way toward the front. (Someone must have translated for Irina, calling to Anvér Lýna hadn't noticed.) In another moment they reached the door, Gonçalve, Sedwulf, and Gailen squared up nearly shoulder to shoulder (or shoulder to elbow), Alim and Irina pressed close behind Sedwulf in the middle to more easily see past them, Edolyn ready to slip in at Gailen's flank — which was a good call, Gailen was the weakest warrior of the three, Lýna was pleased Edolyn hadn't needed to be told to back him up. A last breath in peace, Gonçalve turning to briefly glance at Irina, and they began to step through.

They were met with a harsh, guttural bellow, and the twanging of crossbows. There was a sharp clang of magic, Alim and Irina's hands jumping up — the three at the front twitched, surprised, but none of the bolts reached them. They hesitated for a second at the first volley, but then continued on, the second volley, falling as Morrigan, Lacie, and Lýna squeezed in behind them, not even raising a twitch this time, the bolts clattering as they fell to the ground. Glancing around, what she could see of this room past the shields around her was very much like the previous one, though much warmer, uncomfortably so — in the near corner to their right was a sizeable metal structure, wide at the bottom but a thin column extending up to vanish into the ceiling, hatches built into the sides, surrounded by more equipment and tables loaded with tools and materials and half-completed works. It looked like they'd found the forge.

"Oré!" Alim shouted — the shimmery blue-white barrier vanished, in the same instant magic crackling to life in the mages' hands, then sailing across the room. Lýna had just long enough to make out a pack of genlocks armed with crossbows toward the far left corner of the room, all under-armored (some bare-chested), before the magics landed, tearing into their ranks with fire and lightning, Lýna blinded by the brightness of the explosion, she had to look away.

A pack of darkspawn were charging their direction, perhaps as many as two dozen, swords and axes raised over their heads, screeching as they approached. The room was small enough that Lýna had only seconds, she dropped one carrying a heavy double-sided axe with a shot through the head, hardly had time to draw another arrow (jostling by more warriors pressing in behind her slowing her down) before they were crashing into the shields. Some had been caught by spears, Edolyn, Dairren, and Cennith all managing to stick one, Lýna's head pierced with screeches of pain and rage, huddled down behind their shields the front rank had been tipped back a step by the weight but held their ground. Barriers were raised with another snap, but not following the line of shields, instead bowing out, stopping the darkspawn from spreading back to the wall, giving the line of shields room to start pushing out, Lýna shot one in front of Sedwulf, leaning around to slip it between Irina and Alim and over Sedwulf's shoulder (a tight shot, but it worked), Sedwulf lurching forward to fill the space, their lines pressed closed enough together there was hardly room to swing a sword, Cennith and Dairren spearing another couple genlocks between shields—

"Got it?!"

"Go!"

With a tingling twitter and a rush of frigid wind, Alim and Irina vanished in paired streaks of pale blue light, a second flash and they disappeared somewhere ahead — there was a harsh roar of flame, Lýna winced at the high keening of burning darkspawn, a flash of light and heat from the back of the pack. The press against the shields weakened somewhat, the darkspawn reeling at the unexpected magical attack from behind, disoriented enough for the shields to push forward, helped along by the barrier Lacie and Jowan were holding, the dwarves beginning to expand their line out on both sides, their bubble expanding into the room step by step. Edolyn had abandoned her spear — Liloia noticed it, plucked it up to throw past the line of shields, successfully catching one of the darkspawn deeper into the pack in the chest — and Dairren had lost his at some point, the both of them with swords drawn, Dairren awkwardly slashing past Sedwulf's shoulder, Lýna finally found another shot, reached for another—

Lýna grimaced at a voice suddenly booming over the noise of the battle, magically-amplified. Too loud for Lýna to recognize it, she still made out "Alpha! Help!" in Orlesian — the forgemaster must have anti-magic. Alim and Irina were alone back there.

Possible moves flicking through her head, nope, they wouldn't get there fast enough. "Merrick! Help me up!" She slipped close to him, one hand on his shoulder, one foot coming up — he glanced at her, just for a second, before apparently realizing what she wanted, bow dropped to hang over his arm he dipped his hands cupped together low. Lýna stepped onto his hands, he straightened, she jumped toward the right side of their bubble, using one of Anvér's men's shoulder as a stepping stone — he twitched, hissing out something she was certain was a curse — another hop bringing her past their line, in the empty space between the wall and the barrier. She stumbled a little on landing, Merrick's unstable hold and the dwarf flailing throwing off her balance, but she got her feet back under her quickly, ran, following the curve of the shimmering blue-white magic, reaching back to unhook the cover protecting the enchanted quiver at her waist.

Coming to the edge of the barrier, the darkspawn flank was starting to curl around to come at their side, Lýna skipped back toward the wall, reaching for one of the magic arrows, sneaking a quick glance down to— Blue, she wanted blue, magic crackling and twittering in the air as she pulled one free. Waiting a breath for the spell to settle, still inching back toward the wall, Lýna ignored the nearest genlock, rushing toward her with an axe raised overhead, instead aiming into the wing behind it. When the arrow struck there was a flash of white light and a piercing boom-crackle, fingers of lightning crawling across the flank of the pack, darkspawn screeching in surprise and pain — maybe killing one or two, if she was lucky, but more importantly pinning them down for a few seconds so she could get past to Alim and Irina. Even while the lightning still sang, she drew her sword and slapped the falling axe aside with the same motion, the force lurching it around and staggering Lýna back a couple steps, a slash across its waist took it to its knees, not a fatal blow but she ignored it, running past it deeper into the forge.

Oh, the barrier was gone — either the mages had chosen to drop it, or the lightning from her arrow had interfered with the spell somehow. Oh well, they had enough of Anvér's shields in here now, they'd be fine.

Lýna had gotten far enough around that she could see behind the pack now. There was a darkspawn, taller than most genlocks by a head and a half, making it about Alim's height, covered in bristling black and bronze armor — some of the better work she'd seen from darkspawn, much like that first alpha back at Ostagar, thick and thorough enough she'd have trouble getting an arrow through — an enormous damn hammer in his hand, advancing on Alim, his new silverite shield on his arm, skipping back and ducking blows. She didn't see Irina right away, first spotted the hard silvery light of a spirit-blade slashing through a genlock shoulder to hip — the rear of the pack had apparently turned back toward the mages, so far Irina was managing to prevent them from being overrun, a few dismembered corpses on the ground before her, but she'd get surrounded before too long.

Her sword slammed back into its scabbard, Lýna reached for another blue arrow, shit, a couple were peeling off the flank toward her, she skipped away as magic crackled around her, "Alim, dive!" she lurched out of the way of a blow, ducked beneath another, falling to one knee, drew and loosed. She didn't wait to watch the arrow land, dropped her bow and reached for her sword, the darkspawn overhead raising its axe to bring down on her, she drew in a slash, the silverite blade digging into the side of the darkspawn's knee. It howled, staggering, another genlock was coming around, she grabbed at an edge of the first one's armor near its hip and pulled herself up, yanking it around between Lýna and the sword swinging in at her, her father's dagger (seemingly finding its way into her hand on its own) opening up the injured darkspawn's throat, a twist of her wrist wrenching her sword out of its knee. The second one was recovering from its missed swing, Lýna shoved the dying darkspawn at it, sending them both tumbling to the ground. A third genlock was charging in at her, she slapped its sword aside and buried her dagger in its eye socket, pungent cursed blood welling up around her fingers — ugh, gross — kicked the limp body away, pulled the cover back over her enchanted quiver, she began to bend down to pluck up her bow but three more genlocks were charging at her, harsh bellows ringing in her ears, she skipped backward, a curse hissing out through her teeth.

She hoped that one shot at the alpha had been enough, that Alim and Irina were okay, because she wouldn't be able to get to them any time soon. In fact, she had a feeling she might be in trouble. There were another pair of darkspawn behind the first three, Lýna turned aside a sword slashing in at her, abandoning her counter-attack when she saw an axe falling in an arc toward her shoulder, lurching away. The two were looping around the three to come in at her side, she turned on her heel and ran a couple breaths, glanced over her shoulder to see the five following her — in a straight line, closer together now, good. The one with the axe reached her first, Lýna ducked to the side, the blade missing her by a hand, she buried her father's dagger in the thing's side, jerking in her hand as it bit into its ribs, deep enough she had to leave it there when the second swung at her — she skipped out of the way, the sword instead striking the first genlock, the force of the blow tossing it to the ground, black blood splattering across the filthy stone — she'd have to find her dagger later.

Skipping back step after step as she turned away one blow after another, dipping and spinning out of the way of others, her arm turning numb from the ringing of the impacts, it was hot over here, the air sharp and dry rising sweat to prickle on her face and neck — close to the forge, she could hear the moody crackling of the fire. The genlocks were slower than her, but their blows fell too heavy, far heavier than a human man could manage, hemming her in, the four together enough to make up the difference, pushing her back, and back. Lýna managed to tag them now and again, a slash across a leg, that one was noticeably limping, rivulets of black blood dribbling down chests and arms, but only shallow cuts, she couldn't risk the blade getting caught in armor or bone, would leave her exposed. She was deep into the corner now, she rolled backward onto one of the tables, not quite fast enough, a hard tug on her leathers as a blade struck — bouncing off one of the silverite plates attached to her hip, thankfully — her roll stopping before it should have, Lýna scrambled to right herself, cursing as she heard an axe clunk into the table, far too close to her head. Finally getting her feet under herself, she blindly slashed behind her as she stood — by some stroke of luck she managed to catch one of the genlocks across the face, digging deep, the thing reeled back screeching, at least temporarily out of the fight — a step and her foot unexpectedly slid under her with a scrape, she'd stepped on something, while she staggered the table suddenly lurched, she only had a second to glance over and notice two of the genlocks were gripping the table and—

The table tipped over under her, tools and half-completed weapons clattering to the stone below, flailing, Lýna's toes hit the floor, overbalanced, she tried to—

Crack!

Lýna went numb for a blink, her vision flickering and her hearing muffled, the sounds of the battle murky as though underwater, but she had to keep moving, bracing her shoulder against the wall — she'd seen it coming too late — pushed as hard as she could with both feet, lurching forward managed to take a couple steps before tipping over, dizzy, the room spinning around her, fell to her knees, the sound of the silverite scraping against the stone oddly dull, the darkspawn scrambling to crawl over the table, one crashed against the wall where she'd been a second ago. Leaning against a hand on the wall, she shakily pushed herself up to her feet, going light-headed — she'd managed to keep her sword in her hand, somehow, but she didn't know how much good it was going to do her at this point, she staggered a few steps further away, turned to—

There was a flash of pale blue light, a burst of wintery wind fluttering her hair, a shaft of glowing silver appearing with a spang. Lýna let out a heavy sigh, hitched up against the wall, almost shivering as the tension dribbled out of her. The nearest darkspawn, the one that'd slammed into the wall not far from where she stood, was slashed through neck to armpit, dead nearly before it hit the ground, Irina spun on her heel, intercepting a blow at her back, the magical blade cutting the genlock's sword neatly in half, a follow-up stab spearing through its chest, black blood and discolored entrails spilling out as a flick of her wrist and a step back tore the thing open. With a flourish of her free hand, the third genlock was torn apart by a pulse of white light, a second flash finishing off a straggler, its face already slashed in half (by Lýna, a moment ago) before the magic liquified it. The corpses slumped to the floor with last strangled breaths, Lýna's pursuers all dead in an instant.

Her head spinning, Lýna slid down the wall, metal scraping against stone. The pain was kicking in, her head pounding, she grimaced as she hit the ground, her free hand down at her side the only thing keeping herself upright. Jumping up on the table had been a terrible idea...

Irina crouched in front of her, the tinkling as her cloak settled making Lýna flinch — she could barely hear the battle anymore, but somehow that was loud enough to make her headache even worse. "You are hurt. Where?"

It took a moment for Lýna to make sense of the Orlesian, the syllables ringing meaninglessly in her ears. "Ah. My head." She tapped the pommel of her sword against the stone wall behind her.

Her brow twisting and her nose scrunching with a wince, Irina nodded. Lýna felt magic crawl over her, she shivered — it was cold, and ticklish, but the pain noticeably lessened in its wake, leaving her feeling a little jittery — with her other hand Irina reached for her belt, pulled a little glass vial out of a pouch. "Drink."

The vial seeming to dance in the air in front of her, it took Lýna two tries to find it, and she couldn't get the cap off at all, Irina ended up magicking it off for her with a flick of her finger. The taste was awful, chalky and sour, but it only took a couple breaths before the dizziness was, abruptly, gone. Her vision cleared, the water filling her ears evaporating away. So she could tell it wasn't just that she couldn't hear the battle anymore, it was actually over — it was hard to see much, the table tipped on its side too high, but she didn't see any more fighting going on, her people milling around, peeling back armor to check over injuries. Right, good. "Better. Thank you."

"If there is more fighting, you must keep to the back. A second hit to the head too soon may go very badly."

Lýna nodded, the movement only causing a few dull sparks of pain — she could still feel darkspawn around, but she didn't think there were many, they should be fine. Irina fixed her with a skeptical look, but then let out a sigh, gave Lýna a hand up.

Aside from Alim and Irina getting stuck without their magic on the wrong side of the pack, and that little spot of trouble Lýna had gotten into, the fight had gone very smoothly. There were a few injuries, mostly little things, nothing serious — save for Cennith, who'd taken a pretty nasty hit to the shoulder from an axe. His armor had taken most of the force, split and deformed by the blow, but his shoulder was still messed up pretty bad, bones cracked and flesh cut open. As minor as the other injuries were, once the fighting was over the mages focused on him — not fully healing him, Alim warned him (and Lýna) afterward, just enough to keep for now, wrapping him up in bandages until they could get him to Solana and Wynne. (They'd stopped the worst of the bleeding, the bandages were mostly just to stop the wound from turning.) Cennith was obviously in pain, face scrunched up and jaw clenched and tears beading in his eyes, but he could still walk. He'd be following their team downstairs, just to see the nest, he was to stay well away from the fighting.

Talking to him, he seemed oddly embarrassed about being the first of their recruits to take a serious injury, but there was no reason for that — he'd done well in their fights so far, especially for someone so inexperienced, and Lýna was told he'd taken the hit helping to stop the line right in head of Lacie from folding, which was exactly where he should have been at the time. (As outnumbered as they consistently were, they wouldn't last long without the mages.) Lýna told him as much, and that a wound like that meant he'd almost certainly be tainted, they'd do his Joining soon after they returned to Orzammar. Yes, they still wanted him in the Wardens, come now...

(Lýna realized Cennith had nowhere else to go, so being a little nervous about his prospects did make some sense, but she still thought he was being very silly.)

By the time Cennith was up and moving again — helped along by a spell from Morrigan to lighten his weight, which was unexpectedly thoughtful of her — the rest of their group were ready to go. Some of Anvér's men, those being left behind to guard the entrance, were already moving the bodies, piling them together to be burned when they were done here. Lýna belatedly remembered she'd left her father's knife in one, it took a little bit of searching around before one of the dwarves found it for her, handing it over with a nod. After lovingly wiping off the sick black gore, Lýna returned it to its place, started off down the stairs with the others. The stairs were wide and rather shallow, slowly curving as they descended, a track of some kind built into the wall — to make it easier to carry loads up and down, she assumed. The place was filthy, splashed with grime and blood, mold and mushrooms growing out of the walls and the floor and even the ceiling in places.

Oddly, some of the glowing mushrooms were red instead of the typical blue — Lýna didn't need to feel the hot-cold burn of the Blight wafting off of them to know those ones were very poisonous.

The nauseating, skin-crawling feeling growing worse and worse, the eerie song of the Blight echoing louder in her ears, the smell was getting thicker, the sickly-sweet scent of rot, the acrid burn of the taint, and bile, but also something else she couldn't identify, intense and overwhelming. So powerful that the perfumed cloth was practically useless, the air so heavy with it she could hardly breathe, her eyes watering. The stone turned wet under their feet, a patina of some kind of reddish-black substance, slimy, Dairren slipped and nearly fell.

There was a low chittering, rather like crickets in the night or giant spiders, the occasional high squeal or a splash. The nest. The first of their group to reach the bottom of the stairs hesitated for a moment, taken aback by whatever they saw inside, but after a breath they continued on, the rest streaming in behind.

It was a large open room, clearly once meant for storage, but whatever had been here had long since been removed. The place was absolutely filthy, black and red grime spattering over the walls and completely covering the floor, wet and slick underfoot. Several pools had been carved into the floor, filled with some kind of thick, vile-looking fluid, black with swirls of red, a paler grayish film clinging to the surface. The room was empty, save for perhaps a dozen juvenile darkspawn — rather shorter than adult genlocks, they looked less like a person and more like a barrel on legs, their trunks curved and misshapen, necks not yet grown to separate heads from shoulders. Arms and legs were bony and clawed, most with a couple extra pairs of limbs between hips and shoulders, shrunken, the hands already moldered away leaving only fragile, skeletal spines behind.

"What in the buggering fuck are these things?" Sedwulf asked, glancing quick over his shoulder toward Lýna before turning back to the clumsy, keening immature darkspawn.

"Young. Kill them."

A fireball appearing in his hand, Alim chirped, "Ser yesser," and then tossed the flames across the room, a trio of misshapen forms catching alight with ear-grating screeches. The adolescent darkspawn didn't put up any fight at all, uncoordinated and unarmed, a few spells from the mages and a single arrow from Justien and they were all down. There were two doors out of this chamber, one looking relatively clear — a darkspawn showed its face in this one, Irina blasted it apart with a dismissive wave of a hand — and the other with a couple odd, black-purple growths stretching in from the other side, curling like the roots of a tree, though looking more flesh-like. The source of the sick song in her head was that way, they picked their way along, some of the recruits gingerly stepping around the roots, a few of Anvér's men seeming to take some satisfaction out of stomping on them, the growths compressed with unpleasant squishing noises, tainted fluids gushing out onto the already filthy ground.

Beyond the door was the nest proper. Dozens of hollows had been cut into the floor, like the pools in the previous room, filled with more of that disgusting-looking fluid — though in here it seemed a bit more watery, thinner and more reddish, reflecting more of the greenish light cast by Lacie. In each pool was an infant darkspawn, flopping about in the fluid, the nearer seemingly trying to flee from the approaching Wardens, the air filled with chittering and chirping and squeaking. They looked rather like grubs, the things like little worms with legs that in time grew into flies or beetles. Except these were purplish-black — the larger, closer to them, more toward black, the youngest far to the other side more a pale violet — with segmented backs, looking hard and almost armored, their many limbs sharp pincers. And they had almost person-looking faces at one end, but misshapen and grotesque, eyes shifted back and toward the top of their odd little heads, mouths too-wide and gaping.

They were disgusting little things, though Lýna had expected something much like this — she'd never seen a darkspawn nest before, of course, but Duncan had described one to her. Darkspawn were born as little grubs, quickly growing a protective shell, and were kept partially submersed in the fluids of one of these little hives as they grew. A couple months, they thought. Eventually their back and front pairs of legs began stretching out into proper limbs, they gradually gained the ability to walk, first on all fours before standing upright, the extra limbs falling away as their trunk was reshaped, toward the end their heads sprouting up from their shoulders, at which point they were more or less ready to be outfitted and sent out to hunt. Altogether, it took a bit over a year for a darkspawn to fully grow, but it varied a bit, depending on which nest and what kind of darkspawn they were. They were vile, Duncan hadn't been exaggerating about that.

And then there was the broodmother itself. There were more of those odd black-purple growths, spread out all over the floor, wandering and branching very much like the roots of a tree — despite the color and the odd fleshy texture, the shape was so familiar Lýna couldn't help but make the comparison — all leading back toward the back corner of the room. The roots came together there in a twisted mass, the broodmother's body sprouting up out of it. (Or, more as though the roots were growing out from the broodmother, spread out all over the nest.) It was a great, blubberous mass, as tall as three or four people standing on each other's shoulders, the sickly ashen gray of a mature darkspawn faintly tinted reddish-purplish. Running along its front were several pairs of breasts, like those of a halla or a cat but oversized and misshapen, so twisted and stretched and unnatural-looking Lýna doubted that they actually functioned. Toward the top were stubby little arms and a bald dwarven head, both thick and round with layers of fat.

The broodmother knew they were here, screeching in fear and anger, its useless arms flailing, its enormous bloated body shivering in ponderous waves. The sick song of the Blight echoed louder in Lýna's ears, harsh and chittering and urgent, enough to make her dizzy, bile clawing at her throat — it was calling for help.

The recruits had stalled near the entrance, looking over the nest in horror, the dwarves cursing and stomping their feet. But the more experienced Wardens had hardly paused, already beginning to pick their way across the hive. "No, wait." They paused at her call, turning to look over their shoulders. Lýna reached over to uncover the enchanted quiver at her hip.

Broodmothers didn't put up much of a fight, for the most part — they hadn't many means to harm attackers, stuck in place and practically helpless. More than anything, according to Duncan, killing a broodmother was tedious. They were able to prevent magic from affecting them, for the most part, and the things were so damn big that hacking through to vital points could take multiple minutes. Also, while it couldn't easily hurt anyone, it could flail around, making it far more difficult to pin the thing down and strike a lethal blow. An experienced team could put one down pretty quickly, but an inexperienced one could easily take a dozen exhausting exchanges to chip away at it.

Lýna had a faster way. She pulled out an arrow with a black ribbon to a sizzle of magic, calmly knocked, drew, and loosed. The arrow stuck high in the broodmother's chest, penetrating deep enough to lodge itself in there — Lýna felt a harsh snap on the air, the broodmother letting out a high keen. Lýna drew a second magic arrow, the ribbon on this one green. Her aim was perfect, striking the broodmother square on the forehead.

Its head vanished in a puff of ash, scattering down to the ground like snow, the oversized body immediately slumped limp. The spell continued to work for a few more breaths, eating away at flesh like a grassfire, after a short moment the arms coming loose, toppling down to land with heavy thumps. And then it was still, vile black blood oozing up out of the unnaturally smooth-edged wound to dribble down to the ground.

Covering the quiver again, Lýna pointed at the grubs in their little pools. "Kill all the infants. When that is done, Fereldans to me, the rest check the other rooms. There should be two more rooms down here, but they are like to have no fighters left. Kill anything you find, and prepare to burn the nest. Except Lèlja and Lacie and Morrigan, stay here." Getting in too close risked being tainted, they would be safer here. "Go."

Clearing out a nest was hardly difficult, but it was tedious, messy work. Lýna stayed back with Lèlja, Cennith, Morrigan, and Lacie while the rest of their group swarmed out over the room, making for the little pools. The larger ones were set upon with swords and axes, Irina using her spirit-blade, Alim destroying one and then another with flicks of his fingers and flashes of white light; the younger were small enough it was more difficult to aim properly, the dwarves especially instead stomping down on the things with heavy boots — as thick as their protective shells were, it often took a couple tries, the dwarves shouting what Lýna assumed were oaths and curses. The nest was filled with the screeching and twittering of the grubs' panic, the squishing and splashing of boots on the wet ground, the crunching of carapaces under steel.

Lýna felt her nose scrunch up, her eyes watering from the stench — disgusting things.

Once the grubs were all dead, finishing up with a long stream of lightning from Irina into a larger pool of freshly-born ones, the group splintered. Some made for the other rooms, the dwarves started circling the nest, sprinkling some kind of silvery-purple dust as they went — it looked sort of like lyrium, but off somehow — her Wardens all heading back to her. Most of them were streaked with fluids black and red, they would have to burn that off as well as they could. And they were most all wide-eyed and quiet, horror clear in their faces, all eyes on her — a memory flashed behind Lýna's eyes, after one of their early encounters with darkspawn, the children of the clan huddled together listening to stories of the Blight, eyes wide and pale with reflected firelight.

Blinking, she cleared her throat. "Darkspawn are grown from nests like these. From watching over the years, we know a broodmother will birth maybe a hundred grubs in a litter, maybe twice a month, but few live. Darkspawn are mindless, and hungry, they eat each other." A few of her people made faces, some scoffing in disgust. "But a broodmother will make more at a time as it ages, a grown one might make a hundred warriors in a year — the oldest broodmothers birth litters of hundreds, the nest making thousands of grown darkspawn in a year. This broodmother is young, the half-grown ones we saw back there likely its eldest. If it was found later, one year or two, this fight would have been much harder.

"The longer a nest is left to grow, the more it adds to the horde, the more difficult it will be to kill. It is a great duty of the Wardens to find as many nests as we can, and burn them. Between Blights, Wardens all over the world travel far into the Deep Roads, looking for nests, to keep the darkspawn numbers down as much as we can. We cannot be rid of them for all time, as the Roads run too deep for us to find them all, but we can stop attacks on the surface, help protect the dwarves. When the Blight is over, if we yet live, our fight will not be done — for there will still be broodmothers, and they cannot be allowed to remain, under our feet, growing and waiting. And so they must die, to end the Blight, by any means necessary. Yes?"

Their answer was entirely silent, most of her people still staring at her, a few solemn nods. After all, that their fight would continue after the Blight wasn't new — to join the Wardens was a commitment for life, everybody knew that. A few weren't looking at her, turned to stare at the remains of the broodmother, over the nest, but she could tell they'd been listening, so that was fine. The experience of cleaning the nest, and then this little talk, that was all they'd needed to learn today, she didn't need them to verbally agree.

Though there was one small matter left. "You may remember, from our talks of the Blight before coming to Orzammar. I told stories of darkspawn stealing women, that it is known that they do it, everywhere they attack. I did not tell you why." Lýna raised a hand, pointing at the dead broodmother. "This is why."

Some of them put it together immediately, Wynvir and Sedwulf biting out curses, Alim's fists clenching, Lacie's face going pale, sickly in the green light, turning to stare at the broodmother. Natí, at least, must have already known — she hardly looked pleased at the reminder, her lip curling, but she wasn't surprised. Morrigan also wasn't surprised, mostly just seemed vaguely disgusted. There was confusion on a few faces, increasingly shifting into disbelief and horror as breaths passed. Cennith, already injured, turned even paler, might have fallen if he weren't propped up by Dairren, hissing through clenched teeth, Gailen had turned back to the broodmother, his head shaking, muttering under his breath (a prayer to Andraste, but Lýna politely ignored it). Lèlja was also shaking her head, so little Lýna could hardly see it, eyes rigid on Lýna, as though looking for some sign she was lying.

Aiden, the young dwarf shaky, enough she heard a subtle clinking of mail, muttered, "No, you can't mean... That thing used to be..."

"A dwarf woman, yes. Genlocks, hurlocks, shrieks, ogres — dwarves, humans, elves, horned ones. This is how they are made."

Horror thick and suffocating on the air, silence hung for a moment, broken only by the others still bustling around, the squishing noises of boots on the wet ground.

And then Edolyn sicked up.

She wasn't the only one who was having difficulty, most of their group stiff with shock, a few with tears in their eyes. Edolyn was bent half over, hands on her knees, shivering and coughing. Nobody else was moving, so Lýna wove through the group, coming up next to Edolyn, resting a hand on her shaking shoulder. "I know." She heard someone sniffling, one of the men — Dairren or Gailen, she thought from the direction, but she wasn't certain. "There is no shame in... It is horrible. I needed some time on my own after Duncan told me, at Ostagar." Extremely grateful that she hadn't missed her shot, that she'd spared Ashaᶅ this fate, prayers of thanks sent to the Lady of Fortune, despite knowing that She was sealed away and couldn't hear her. But that was private, and she knew better than to speak about praying to the People's gods here and now.

"One of our bastard neighbors told me and my sister when I were maybe six," Natí said. "Neither of us hardly slept for a week."

Her voice thick and strained, Lacie grumbled, "At least you don't get nightmares — tonight is not going to be fun..." That had a few of their people going tense, shooting Lacie uncomfortable glances. After all, it was in dreams that mages most often fell to demons.

Squeezing with his arm around her waist — Lacie had ended up leaning against him at some point — Alim said, "I think we still have some dawn lotus, enough for at least a few dreamless nights."

"Good." Lacie turned her face against Alim's chest, let out a long, shaking breath.

Lýna gave them all a moment to gather themselves before continuing. Edolyn hadn't stood up yet, still leaning over and taking deep breaths, occasionally coughing or spitting, but it would do. "If one of our people is being taken, and we can't get to them in time, but you have a shot, you must take it. I did for Ashaᶅ, my aunt, who took care of me after my parents were gone, years ago now." She got a couple glances at that, but nobody interrupted. "If it is you being taken, and you can't escape, find some way to take your life, if you can. Death is better than this."

"Poison." The word came out thin, half-strangled, Lýna held out her wineskin where Edolyn should be able to see it. Finally straightening a little, Edolyn's hand scrabbled at it for a moment before finally getting a proper grip, swished a mouthful around and spat it out before taking a proper sip. "I want something on me I can take. Just in case."

Edolyn handed back the wineskin, and then Lýna clasped her arm, meeting her eyes. "I will make it myself. It will work, fast." The woman seemed a little taken aback with how intense Lýna had said it, how seriously she was taking the request, but after a moment she nodded, her jaw firm and her eyes hard. Nodding back, Lýna let go, turned to the rest of the group. "Anyone else want one?"

"I'm all set," Natí said, fingers tapping her hip. Lýna wasn't truly surprised she'd come prepared — she'd already known about broodmothers, and she seemed the type to have poison on her regardless, just in case. Lýna had some too, though she hadn't used any since leaving the clan, the jars sitting untouched at the bottom of her bag, since she didn't do much hunting these days.

"Lèlja, Lacie?"

Lacie nodded. "In case they have an alpha — can't off myself with magic if I can't do any."

"I'm not going to let them take you."

"You can't promise that, Alim, battles get messy. Just in case."

"...Fine." Alim shot Lýna a glance, probably blaming her for Lacie being in this position in the first place. Which was fair, Lýna had been the one to invite Lacie along, but she would never be comfortable leaving any of her people's family at the Circle — Lýna hadn't had a choice in the matter, truly, she would have stolen Lacie away if the Templars had forced her hand.

Lèlja didn't respond, still staring unmoving at the dead broodmother, eyes sparkling and cheeks streaked with tears. Lýna considered nudging her to get an answer, but it probably didn't matter. In any fight to come, Lèlja would be deep behind their line anyway — she couldn't fly around like Lacie could, so she was much less likely to be captured. Besides, she didn't doubt that, if the worst came to pass, Lèlja would find some way to kill herself, even if she must bash her head against rocks while being dragged away. Lèlja was creative like that, and very stubborn. And that was assuming her god would allow her to be captured in the first place, which Lýna doubted.

"Even so. We will be resting at the Dead Cross tonight. It will be safe there, if you need some time. The mages will burn the nest before we leave, but the rest of us may start back up. Go."

They got moving quickly, most of their group turning right around and out of the room, heading back for the stairs up — nobody wanted to stay here longer than necessary, it did smell terrible. With the exception of Lacie, who left with the others, still looked pale and shaky, the mages headed over to join Irina, standing waiting some paces away from the dwarven warriors. The Tevinter mage took over casting the light as Lacie left without missing a beat. Lýna considered waving Morrigan out, concerned she might be tainted, but she was aware of the risks, Lýna decided to leave her to it. Anvér's men had gathered around the broodmother, just now starting in on one of their chants — sending the poor woman off to their Stone, Lýna would guess — starting quiet but steadily growing louder. The air soon began to shiver, voices booming in time with the pounding of their feet — the impact of their boots was rather diminished by the filth coating the ground, but it was yet enough to keep time.

Lèlja hadn't moved, eyes fixed on the broodmother, cheeks glistening with silent tears.

After a moment of indecision — fighting a flare of nerves, which was silly and pointless and annoying — Lýna sidled up next to her, slipping her fingers through Lèlja's. She hardly twitched, but her hand did tighten around Lýna's. Almost uncomfortably tight, but the silverite backing her gloves would keep Lèlja from hurting her. "Are you okay?"

"No." Her voice was heavy, thick, a low grumble that Lýna could almost feel as much as hear.

...Lýna hadn't expected her to be, honestly, but she wasn't sure what she was supposed to say now. After all, it was terrible, there weren't any words to lessen that.

"This is..." Lèlja swallowed, her hand shaking in Lýna's, just a little. "I never— To– to corrupt life itself in such a way, I... I don't understand how the Maker can permit this. It should not be."

That was the trouble with believing in a god as powerful as the Chantry claimed their Maker to be, Lýna guessed. "No, it should not." Leaning closer, she brought her hand up to Lèlja's elbow, tugged just a little. Reluctantly, Lèlja tore her eyes away from the dead broodmother — some poor dwarven woman violated and twisted by vile magics, hardly recognisable — reluctantly meeting Lýna's, sparkling blue-green as deep and bright as the sea lightened by sun. Leaning closer, she put weight on her voice, firm, consciously imitating the Keeper at her sternest. "Any. Means. Necessary."

Lèlja didn't respond for a moment, hand tight around Lýna's, eyes wandering over her face, as though searching for something. With a shaky breath, she nodded.

If this hunting trip brought their recruits, and Lèlja and Lacie, to better understand the weight of their duty, well, then Lýna was going to call it a success. More of their people would need to be Joined before the coming battle anyway, but this was also good.

From there, it didn't take them so long to clean up the nest. The powder the dwarves had spread around had apparently been something to help the fire burn — once their chanting was done, the mages spread out to begin setting fires, intense white flames catching in a blink and quickly growing to fill the room. Hot air blasted past Lýna, her cloak and her hair whipping around, she tugged Lèlja on, leading her back through the previous room and up the stairs. In the forge, the darkspawn bodies had already been collected, a thin speckling of that curious dust twinkling in the light. Their rear guard had already swept through the rest of the rooms and passages, marked place the mages would have to burn. Her Wardens were lingering here, Lýna dropped Lèlja's hand, called them to follow, they zigzagged back to the square and then down the hallway back to the Road. There were a few murmurs of conversation here and there, but for the most part they were quiet, the tromping of boots against stone and the clinking of armor ringing loud in her ears.

The injured among Anvér's men were already out on the Road, perked up at the Wardens' return — Natí said something to them in their language, sighs going through the group. That it was done, Lýna guessed, though she wasn't sure how to read their reaction. It wasn't long later that they were followed by the rest of the dwarves, streaming out into the Road, the mages bringing up the rear. They placed some kind of barrier over the doorway, to keep the searing heat and smoke from pouring out into the road, or someone from poking around before it cooled off. Jowan said the fires would likely burn hot enough for long enough to melt the stone, would do enough damage to the place that it probably wouldn't be useable again without extensive repairs, but the dwarves considered this an acceptable loss — it wasn't as though they'd been using it for generations anyway. It took them a few moments to pick themselves up, packs replaced over shoulders and their horse retrieved, and then they were walking again.

This leg of the trip was taken rather more slowly, in part due to the added injuries — Cennith's pace was labored enough they'd eventually given up, put him up on the horse, one of the mages lessening the weight so the beast didn't collapse — in part a result of the mood. Lýna took a few surreptitious looks around, watching her people, but before long she decided she wasn't too concerned. They were quiet and downcast, yes, overcome by the horrible truth of the Blight, but she didn't see panic or despair. Solemn and mournful, yes, and she saw flickering hints of fury, of hatred — some were more shaky than others, but with their fellows to lean on, she was sure they'd be fine. It'd be hard few days, perhaps, but they'd get through it, and come out the other side all the more determined.

After all, in joining the Wardens they'd already known they would likely be giving their lives to fight the Blight. The only thing that had changed now was that they knew why.

(Lýna thought the secret of the broodmothers shouldn't be kept — for various reasons, related to strategy during Blights in particular, but so people better understood the threat in general was a big one. Duncan had said it was against Warden rules to tell anyone the truth of it before their Joining. All officers were told, which was why he'd told Lýna, but ordinary Wardens only needed to know if they were going underground, and she certainly wasn't supposed to tell non-Warden allies. But she thought that was a stupid rule, so she'd broken it, and would undoubtedly break it again. She planned to tell Fergus before Bónammar, for one, and also Wynne, and who knew how many others she'd decide needed to know by the end. The First Warden could punish her for it once the Archdemon was dead, if he liked.)

But she couldn't keep watching her people forever — as the walk went on, Lýna was starting to feel not so great. Lingering hurts from the fight at the forge, she was pretty sure. She did feel a little stiff and sore, her left hip twinging with every step, but that mostly wasn't so bad. The worst of it was the slowly building headache, ears stiff and heavy as though underwater, making her slightly dizzy as it worsened. It didn't keep getting worse, plateauing after a bit, so Lýna wasn't worried enough to track down one of the mages and ask if something had gone wrong. But it was enough that she had to pay more attention to putting one foot in front of the other lest she stumble, couldn't spare the attention for the others.

Lýna was not comfortable being this uncoordinated, even temporarily. It made her feel vulnerable, despite being surrounded by dozens of allied warriors. She didn't like it.

As little attention as she was paying to her surroundings, Alim almost managed to sneak up on her. "Hey, boss. Doing alright up here?"

"Yes."

"Sure about that?" Alim sidled up next to her with a clunking of feet and a clanking of metal — as light as he might be, compared against the human and dwarven men around, he was still very noisy. "I heard you had a nasty run-in with a wall, back in the forges. That potion Irina gave you helps, a bit, but you should still have a mild concussion."

...Oh. Irina might have said something about Lýna not being entirely healed, she honestly didn't remember. "I don't know what a concussion is."

"Mm. You know, inside your head is your brain, the thinking bit, kind of floating in some kind of fluid inside your skull. Yes?" Alim waited for Lýna to nod — she was a hunter, obviously she knew basic things like that. "Right, well, the point of that fluid stuff is so your brain doesn't bump into anything, which can cause bruising and bleeding and the like. But if your head hits something—" There was a light smack, Alim's fist striking his palm. "—really fast, the fluid won't slow the brain down fast enough, and it'll slam against the inside of your skull. Which can cause all kinds of problems — dizziness, confusion, memory loss. Even death, if the hit is hard enough. The fall you had wasn't that bad, but I wouldn't be surprised if you're still a bit dizzy."

Right, Lýna knew what he was talking about now. She knew the word for it in Avvar, it'd come up climbing the cliffs over the Stone River Valley, but she'd never actually learned it in Deluvẽ — she wasn't a healer, she hadn't been taught those kinds of things. "I am a little dizzy, but it is not so bad. How long does this go?"

She wasn't looking, but she knew Alim shrugged by the clinking of silverite. "Depends. If it's not better, say, the morning after next you should tell one of us. Go to Sola or Wynne — they're the better healers, and we'll be back in Orzammar by then."

"...I will." Lýna did not like being uncoordinated like this, but she guessed she would have to tolerate it.

Alim was silent a short moment, but only a few breaths before he said, "You know that's the second time the Tevinter mage swooped in to save your ass — first that time with the alpha, and then at the forge."

Lýna glanced up at him, confused. "Yes. Are you not well with Irinia?"

"The Tevinter thing, you mean? No no, that doesn't really bother me — sworn brotherhood, warriors of no kingdom united in one purpose, I get that. She is a little odd, you know, but not my business." Lýna didn't know, truly, but it didn't seem important enough to ask. "I just hope you aren't making a habit of it. Doing crazy shit and almost getting killed, I mean. One day one of us might not catch it in time."

"Yes, I know. It was worth it." Running out past the shieldwall had been a calculated risk. Her intent had been to use her magic arrows to drop the forgemaster, or failing that distract him long enough for Alim and Irina to escape — she'd succeeded that far, at least. Then she'd meant to return, but with the failure of the mages' barrier the darkspawn had swarmed around, and several had peeled off to attack her, she'd been cut off. If it'd only been two or three, she would have been able to deal with them, hold off any more coming for her with more magic arrows, but five had been too many. Which was a risk, but that she might have been killed had been part of the calculation — in the long run, trading a hunter for two mages was a good deal.

"No, Lýna, it wasn't worth it. You could have died. You came quite close to it, this time."

"...Yes?" That was what she'd meant, wasn't that obvious?

Alim bit out a sharp sigh. "You can't— Here, come on." Snagging her by the upper arm, Alim pulled her to the side. Lýna stumbled at first, taken by surprise — the damn dizziness didn't really help — it took a few steps to get her feet back under her, by that point Alim already having dragged her halfway to a side wall. Cutting at an angle, the people who had been walking behind them were streaming around to both sides, giving them curious looks as they passed. Which was fair enough, Lýna had no idea what was happening either.

The Road was relatively narrow here, but still rather wide, it took a few good moments to get to the wall. Alim came right up against the stone, tugging Lýna around to put her back to it — she managed not to topple backward right into it, but as unexpectedly rough as Alim was being it was a near thing. Lýna didn't know where he'd found the nerve to yank her around like this — it hadn't been that long ago that he'd been quite wary of her — though she suspected her current dizziness made it easier. Glaring up at him, she hissed, "Are you going to tell me what this is for now?"

"This is a serious talk, I didn't want the recruits to overhear." And he was being careful about it, speaking in a low whisper — which wasn't strictly necessary, as loud as all the armored warriors stomping down the Road were. "You can't keep risking yourself like that, Lýna. You're our Commander now."

Her irritation dribbling away, she frowned up at him, confused. "And if I am gone, then you or Keran will be Commander."

"Yes, maybe, but it isn't—" Alim sighed again, one hand coming up to rub at the side of his forehead. "I should have brought Lacie, she'd be better at this... If something happens to you, sure, we'll pick a new Commander. Maybe — I think it's more likely we wouldn't be able to agree on what to do and we'd just join up with the Wardens at Last Watch instead, but sure, let's say we do. What then? What of your alliance with Bélen, or Fergus, or Eamon?"

"...Their alliance is with the Wardens."

"No, Lýna, their alliance is with you. It was you they negotiated with, and it's you they trust to keep to the terms. Who am I to them, or Keran? Just another Warden, not someone they already have a relationship with. If you're gone, we'll have to start all over. Just like we did when Duncan died."

For a moment, Lýna could only stare back up at Alim — leaning over her, face hard and stern, unblinking. That wasn't...entirely unreasonable, when she thought about it. Similar things had happened in the south all the time, when an Avvar jarl or Chasind chief passed. It was less a problem with her People, since elders came and went but would never all pass at the same time, it... She didn't know, she'd thought the Wardens would be more like that. Their group was more like a war band, but with all the Wardens at Last Watch, she didn't know... "I didn't think of it like that."

"That's the problem, Lýna, you didn't think. So, you pull off your crazy plan and take out the alpha, what happens next? You get yourself killed, oops," his voice rising in a little chirp, hands flipping in a mocking shrug, "and what happens then? Bélen doesn't trust us, he trusts you — me and Keran weren't even at your negotiations, he never met us. Maybe he still becomes king, and maybe he still fights on the surface, but he'll probably be working with the foreign Wardens and not us — he does know Sidona, after all — which will make things more tense with the locals. Maybe not fatal, but it will make it harder, which means more people will die.

"And you say our people will follow me or Keran, but I don't think so. Maybe you haven't picked up on this, but Andrastians do not tolerate mages in leadership positions — magic is meant to serve man, and all that." Lýna had completely forgotten about that, honestly. She'd thought the problem people would have with Alim was that he was an elf, and they could be convinced to tolerate Lýna, and she wasn't even Alamarri... "As a lieutenant, that's one thing, but they will not accept me as Commander. Our people, who know me, maybe, but definitely not our Andrastian allies, it would be a disaster. And Keran, well, a lot of our more, ah, stubborn recruits really do not like her. And with your whole thing about this being a brotherhood in common and all, well, Keran is a noble, knightly type, she's not likely to keep up the promise of caring for each other as brothers and sisters do — and the commoners we brought in really like that shite, I don't know if you get how big of a deal that is to them, they will not be happy with Keran's more traditional way of doing things. The only Joined Warden we have who I think might be able to get everyone to follow them is Alistair, and you and I both know that wouldn't go well. I think we would end up staying at Last Watch, maybe re-organized around a new Commander chosen by Weisshaupt. And that's assuming Weisshaupt doesn't just give up on the Fereldan Wardens altogether.

"And what happens then? Fergus has no protection going into the Landsmeet, in a city filled with Howe and his men, who definitely want him dead. Who knows if he'll live long enough to be selected our next King, but I honestly doubt it. Who would we end up with then? Bryland? Maybe, but I doubt he has the nerve to deal with Loghain and Howe. Maker forbid, Eamon? That would be a disaster — some think he has too many Orlesian sympathies, with Loghain's people already all worked up, the Landsmeet picking Eamon will make civil war inevitable. Doubly because Eamon is hardly likely to want to keep the lords who supported Loghain where they are, no, it'll be a huge fucking mess, Ferelden will be left divided and completely fucking defenseless against the horde. Unless foreign forces can step in to stop it, Ferelden would be fucked."

As Alim went on, low and firm and intense, Lýna started feeling... She didn't know, exactly. Hot pressure boiling in her chest, a lot like anger, but too shifting and— Something, anyway, she didn't like it. She didn't think Alim was done, opening his mouth to continue, but before he could she blurted out, "What do you want me to have done?! Let you and Irina die?"

"If it came to it? Yes!" Alim's voice rose saying it, Lýna was startled by the vehement answer, twitching. And was then startled again when Alim leaned in, gripping both of her arms just under the shoulder — an edge of panic clawing at her throat, Lýna's fingers twitched for her father's dagger, but she managed to stop herself, closing her eyes and taking a deep, shaky breath. "But it hadn't come to that! You hopped all over people to get past the shieldwall, I heard — why couldn't you get a couple people to hold you up, so you could see over the genlocks' heads? They're not very tall."

...The honest answer was that she hadn't thought of it. But there was also the problem that, "They would not have held me still, not to aim well."

"You didn't need to aim well — just land one of the fire arrows on the floor near the damn thing, that would have been enough of a distraction for Irina to slip in and cut it up with that spirit blade of hers."

Lýna couldn't help grimacing, her teeth squeaking. Because that was a good point, in retrospect she felt so damn stupid — she wasn't used to the magic arrows yet, it hadn't occurred to her that she didn't need to hit the alpha, just somewhere near it. She needed to work on her instincts, that was a terrible oversight... "I understand. I will try to remember."

"No, you don't understand. It isn't— Open your eyes, Lýna, look at me." He wouldn't be asking that if he realized how close she'd come to gutting him a second ago — Lýna didn't react well to men pinning her against walls, for what she felt were perfectly justifiable reasons. But the moment had passed, it should be fine, she took a last steadying breath before looking up at him, blinking against the light. She wasn't sure what expression that was supposed to be, a lot of the hard edge softened, reluctant but... "I know you're... Shite, it shouldn't be me saying this..."

"What?"

"I know your clan wasn't kind to you." Lýna felt herself tense — she didn't want to talk about that with him. Or anyone, truly. "I don't know the reasons why, didn't pick up on that when that demon was messing with you, but it doesn't really matter, does it? I know they never really valued you, that you were just a hunter, another sword arm who could be sacrificed for the clan if necessary. But you're with us now. And you're not just another fighter, Lýna, you're our Commander — we need you here, doing your damn job. Maybe you will die fighting the Blight, but it damn well better be at the right time in the right place, for a fucking good reason. If you die just to save me, it will be the wrong decision. Because I'm following you, and you're more important than I am, mage or not.

"Do you understand me, Lýna?"

It took a long moment for Lýna to find her voice, her throat tight and uncooperative. The whole while Alim just stared down at her, close enough she could feel his breath, vibrant orange eyes bright and earnest. "...Yes. I understand. Let go of me."

Some of the tension coiled in her chest loosened when his hands did, but not all of it, crawling up her throat, her stomach twisting. "Good, um." Alim backed off a step, shifting enough his boots scritched against the stone, sheepish. "Ah, sorry about that, I just... I needed you to listen to me, you know."

"I know." Which wasn't accepting his apology, but she didn't trust herself to do that at the moment. She needed to get out of this conversation, right now.

Thankfully, Alim wasn't trying to keep her any longer, they both turned to follow after their people — they'd gotten a bit ahead by this point, but not so far that they'd gone around the curve, it wouldn't take too long to catch up. Alim said something about if she wanted to talk about anything, but if she did — and that didn't seem likely, her clan was far away from her now, she didn't see how it mattered anymore — she would talk to Lèlja, or Lacie, not him. (Especially not after he'd grabbed her and cornered her with her back against a wall, but she didn't say that part out loud.) They didn't speak a word for the rest of the walk, Alim occasionally glancing at her, stopping and starting, until Alim caught up with Lacie, Lýna continuing on toward the front of the group.

She didn't speak a word to anyone the rest of the way to the Dead Cross. Not when Edolyn came up with her, or Gonçalve, or Lèlja. None of them seemed particularly eager to talk, didn't press her when she failed to respond, which was good. She didn't feel like talking to anyone at the moment. Her chest coiled tight, stomach lurching, something bubbling hot in her throat, she didn't trust herself to.

She didn't notice the wetness in her eyes until Edolyn asked if something was wrong — she had no idea what that was about.

They were met at the edge of the Dead Cross by a local commander, waiting to confirm that they'd disposed of the broodmother and its nest. After thanking Anvér, Gonçalve, and Lýna for taking care of it for them, they were all lead over to a wide set of stairs Lýna hadn't noticed when passing through a few days ago, descending multiple levels underground. The passages here were much narrower than the Road proper, dark reddish stone pressing in from all sides, Lýna tried to ignore the nerves prickling at the back of her neck. (She was really starting to miss the surface.) The air tasted warmer and wetter as they went down, a hint of an unfamiliar mix of herbs. In time, a few dwarves — in the muted black and white of the Legion, but simple cloth, little in the way of armor between them — split them up, the men going one way and the women another. Irina explained in dwarvish, which was then translated into Alamarri by Natí, that Legion outposts like this were careful about controlling the taint, any team that had a messy encounter with darkspawn (such as burning a nest) had to go through a cleansing before being let out to wander the camp. Which was perfectly reasonable, Lýna was just curious how they went about it.

It was a combination of things, it turned out. They were led into a large, wide room, steam so thick on the air it misted in little indoor clouds, the space open enough for Lýna's nerves to settle a little bit. For the things that could be safely exposed to fire — Lýna's sword and dagger (though not its sheath), for example — there was a large firepit near the entrance, a hard web of metal suspended low enough for the flames to lick objects set on it. The women handed over their things to be set over the fire, to be cooled off in a nearby pool of water once they'd been exposed long enough to burn away the Blight, would be hanging on a nearby rack by the time they were done with the rest.

The things that couldn't tolerate fire were a little more complicated. There was a great bowl, large enough for multiple people to sit in, kept at a roiling boil — but the contents weren't plain water, a tang of salt and some kind of minerals, that herby scent very intense, this must be the source. After scraping off any larger bits of filth, their things were to be hung in the steam, the combination of the purifying herbs and the motion of the steam stripping out the taint. Lýna had heard that the magic of the Blight could be dissolved in running water — that was why darkspawn didn't like crossing water if they could avoid it — but she hadn't known that steam could be used in the same way. A Legion woman tending the boiler said it was something the Legion had discovered centuries ago, and that it was mostly successful — it would sometimes leave stains behind, and in rare cases someone could catch the Blight afterward, though flash-evaporating the water clinging to the things on this big enchanted plate over here greatly reduced the odds of that happening. It wasn't a perfect strategy, but it was good enough for the Legion to range far into the Deep Roads for long spans of time without becoming tainted.

Lýna would have to get the mix of herbs and minerals for the steam from them at some point — this sounded like something that her Wardens should have on the surface, wherever they settled after this was all over.

The Legion insisted that anything that had potentially been exposed to darkspawn blood needed to be cleansed, meaning all of their armor, anything they'd been carrying in the nest — and preferably their clothing, just in case, but depending on how full their armor was that could be skipped. They all shed their armor easily enough, followed by their clothing — Liloia pointed out that bathing would be next, so they would need to undress anyway — though Edolyn hesitated a bit, and Natí seemed very uncomfortable, avoiding everyone's eyes and standing stiff and awkward. Lýna didn't know for sure, but she would guess the dwarves of Orzammar were as peculiar about nudity as the Alamarri could be.

She was temporarily distracted when Irina removed her top — her face was bare, so Lýna hadn't expected the Tevinter elf's body to be painted. Covering more of her skin than Lýna was used to seeing, even, bright and colorful contrasting curving lines, familiar enough for Lýna to instinctively recognize the style as elven but obviously not the same as the art passed down to her People from the time of the Republic either. (The Republic and the Heartwood were separated by half the world, after all.) It was certainly meaningful, Lýna recognized some shapes as their own writing (which she couldn't read), and there was a highly stylized gryphon along her ribs trailing down toward her hip, but apparently the northern elves didn't use the same language of symbols her People did, Lýna didn't know how to read it.

After some breaths, Lýna realized she was staring at the naked woman, and forced herself to look away.

There was a brief argument, the woman tending the boiler telling Lèlja to remove her necklace — the only thing on her at the moment, which was also distracting, Lýna was trying to not be obvious about it (though the body hair was still a little weird to her) — she eventually surrendered when Irina explained (translating for Lèlja) that it was a religious thing. While they were cleaning themselves off, so long as she fully submerged the whole length of the chain for a handful of breaths it should be fine. And that they would be bathing did explain what the other end of the room was for: it looked as though a river ran through the space, appearing out from under the wall to the left and running across the space to vanish under the wall to the right. The flow seemed quite quick, the surface flickering and swirling with the motion, now that they were closer the babbling far easier to pick out under the crackling of flames. There was a net under both walls to stop them from being swept away, the woman assured them — they needed to be in the water for at least a few minutes, go on, she would call them back when their things were ready.

The water was surprisingly warm, a tang of minerals detectable on the mist even before she got in. It moved fast enough that Lýna was tugged a couple steps to the right before she caught herself — she might have been pulled further if the water were deeper, but even in the middle it didn't quite cover her shoulders, intended to be comfortable for dwarves. There were seats set into the sides, canted at an angle to hold them against the current, an occasional rail extending up through the water to help pull themselves along. Lýna spent most of their time in the water with an arm hooked around one of the rails, floating on her back, gently buffeted by the fragrant water burbling past.

After the first little bit, Lýna noticed Irina nearby, and had to ask about her tattoos. Lýna's Orlesian was still too iffy for them to talk much, but thankfully Lèlja was here to translate. Apparently, as her People did, the elves of today's Heartwood remembered that this was an art that had been practiced widely in the time of the Ancients, it was very common among the elves of Tevinter, Rivain, and the north of Antiva — the names of the latter two were only vaguely familiar, human kingdoms far to the north bordering the Heartwood to the east, opposite Tevinter — something almost everyone did, the only exceptions being those who made an effort to fit in with the local humans. Though it wasn't something particular to the Heartwood anymore, common among all elves of the north, and even a fair number of humans did it too — mostly only the poor in the cities, the powerful thought themselves above such things. Irina had only gotten her first in the Heartwood itself, done by one of her mother's relatives, the others all done in Tevinter, some of them even by human artists.

And they did consider it art there. It wasn't a formalized practice like it was for the People of the Republic — sometimes there was personal meaning to one piece or another, but for the most part they were just to look pretty. (Mẽrhiᶅ had speculated to Lýna before that it'd been a mix of both for the Ancients, it seemed like the Republic had preserved the functional parts more than the northern elves.) Irina didn't know much about the People in the south, curious, Lýna explained what hers meant, Irina returning the favor. Some of hers were meaningful — her first was an old clan sign, most of her mother's family had the same one, and obviously she'd gotten the gryphon done after her Joining — but most of the rest were just for fun.

Sometimes for different kinds of "fun" — a few of them were in rather, ah, sensitive places, Irina admitting they were supposed to be sexual. Which Lýna didn't really get, but okay, they didn't have to talk about that. Especially not with Lèlja asking nosey questions and shooting Lýna the occasional smirking look. She was trying not to stare at Irina, okay, this talk was not helping...

It took some time for the woman tending the boiler to finish all their things, called them all out once she was ready. To dry off, there was a separate enchanted plate from the one used for their things that they were to stand on, big enough for multiple people but they'd had to take it in three groups — the magic took with a harsh crackle-snap, the water springing off of them in a puff of mist, leaving Lýna feeling very, very cold. Bad enough she was shivering, her fingers fumbling with the knots on her still somewhat unfamiliar things — since they wouldn't be leaving the Cross tonight, Lýna had decided to dress in her Alamarri clothes instead — Irina noticed and warmed her up with a flick of her fingers and a wave of clingy, tinkling magic. Soon they were all dressed again, retrieved their packs and their weapons, and were led back up to the camp.

Much like their arrival at Tagj-Aidúkan, their group were provided with hot food by the local Legionnaires, in a great hall at the base of the pillar in the middle of the Cross — at least in part in thanks for taking care of the nest for them, she thought. The mood was more subdued, at first, quiet and solemn, the horror of the true nature of the Blight hanging over them like a dark cloud. But in time, helped along by warm food and liquor, they lightened some, chatter and laughter beginning to fill the hall, echoing off the walls. Her head still bothering her, the ringing noise making the ache even worse, the room feeling smaller and smaller, before too long Lýna picked up her bowl and wordlessly slipped away.

It was cooler out here, quieter, the smiths quarter turn around that way having ceased their work for the evening. The noise of the feast muffled and distant, the occasional low of a bronto or squeak of a nug or much more distant squeal of deepstalkers. Much better.

Lýna was alone for a time — long enough for her to mostly finish her stew, bread reduced to a few sodden lumps in the broth — before Lèlja came to find her. Facing away from the pillar, staring into the shadowy depths of the Road to Bónammar, Lýna heard her coming long before she saw her, but she recognized her step, the faint rasp of her breath. Lýna was mostly certain Lèlja hadn't seen her leave, either she'd guessed where Lýna had gone or Lèlja's god had led her to her again. She didn't mind her company, of course, but she couldn't help a trace of irritation anyway — she still didn't know how she felt about Lèlja being able to track her down with the help of her god whenever she liked.

"Hello, Lýna. Mind if I join you?" Lèlja waited for her to shake her head before laying her cloak out on the stone ground right next to Lýna's, set down her mug of mead before sitting. Close enough that, when she folded her legs up in front of her, her knee was lightly pressing against Lýna's leg. "Are you feeling alright? You've been quiet, since the nest."

"Yes." Lýna stared out into the darkness for a moment, her breath tight in her throat. "No. I don't– I hit my head, in the forge." That wasn't really it, of course, but Lýna couldn't say what was wrong with her at the moment, so. "I will be well, Irina helped, but, it's loud in there."

"Ah. I heard you were hurt, but I didn't think it was very badly — it wasn't visible." There was an odd edge to Lèlja's voice, wasn't sure how to read that. Seemingly not wanting to talk about that for whatever reason, Lèlja said, "I'm afraid I got turned around, while we were downstairs. Is that the road back to Orzammar?"

Lýna shook her head. "Bónammar. We will go that way, later, when it is time."

"I see. Your thoughts are on the battle ahead?"

Well, in part. "The Captains think the Blight may end there, if we're lucky. The Archdemon is near, we may catch him."

"Maker willing — and what a victory that would be, to end it here and now. I know it is little consolation for the people of your homeland, but so many would be saved from all manner of terrible fates." Lèlja paused for a second, something tense and cold about it. Remembering the broodmother, Lýna would guess. "Never has a Blight ended before the Archdemon surfaced, it seems so unlikely, but I pray it will be so, this once."

Lýna wasn't any more hopeful than Lèlja, honestly. Taking Bónammar was important in any case, to leave the dwarves better protected so they could afford to fight with them above — also, wiping out the horde waiting there would reduce the Archdemon's army, in the short term, to only the horde that'd come out of the south, which was much more manageable. "It is in my thoughts, often. In hope we will end the Blight so soon, yes, but also... It is new, to me. Where I am from, we don't have armies, war is different there. I have never seen so many warriors as were at Ostagar, all at once, and our numbers at Bónammar may well be even greater. I don't know how this goes."

"Ah, I see. It is a very different sort of thing, than these smaller skirmishes you're more used to. But it is also a much simpler thing — you are only one among many, the individual actions of each person have a much lesser impact on the outcome. You cannot be everywhere, and there will be other commanders there, it won't all be on you to manage. Once we have a better feel for our numbers, there will be meetings of the leadership to plan our strategy. If you have concerns, I would bring them to the others, so they may better explain what your role will be, how the battle will go. Perhaps speak only with Marshall Andras, in private, if you are uncomfortable admitting to ignorance in front of the whole group."

...That wasn't a bad idea. She'd assumed there would be talks about it, when it came closer to time, but it was very possible that the others would overestimate how familiar she was with this sort of thing. It wouldn't be the first time, after all — Alamarri were very bad about assuming she was already familiar with things they simply didn't have in the south. Sidona had more experience with the People than most, having encountered them before during her time as a Warden on Delzã, she would be a good person to ask. "I will. Have you done the like before?"

"Fought in a proper battle, you mean? No, this will be new to me as well. I have traveled with companies of soldiers before — not as many as we will march with to Bónammar, but yet a great many more than we have with us now — but I have never fought with them. And those companies never fought either, at the least nothing you might call a battle. No," Lèlja muttered, slightly absent, voice low and dark, "they were but a distraction."

"A distraction?"

"Yes, Marjolaine and I were hired to..." Lèlja sighed. "The many nobles of Orlais are always in competition with each other, and sometimes this can escalate into small, local wars. Most often, so long as it stays local, the Empress will tolerate this — after all, if the nobles are feuding with each other, they can't cooperate to oppose the Empire itself, you see."

As odd as that sounded, Lýna thought she understood — it was sort of like Chasind clans letting little disputes between their members and neighbors simmer, now and then bubbling up in a fistfight or the occasional murder, so long as they don't develop into explicit blood feuds. But, since these northern kingdoms were so much larger, in every sense of the word, it happened at a much greater scale. It still seemed terribly wasteful to Lýna, the People didn't manage disputes in this way, but she understood the basic idea.

"Sometimes, when there is a dispute over, oh, one parcel of land or another, or some matter of taxation, sometimes a lord will attempt to press what they feel to be their rights by force. They will gather their soldiers, march to the contested land, and try to claim it. Often, there is no fighting at all, or at least not what you might call a battle. One lord will send their soldiers into the lands of another, and another lord will send their own somewhere else, the first lord maneuvering to counter him, and sometimes a third or a fourth will get involved, it can all be a mess. It's all a game to them, playing with politics and power, and threats of war hidden behind polite smiles, it's all very... Well.

"And sometimes, when things get...all too heated, violence does break out. But even then, it is almost never an outright battle, army against army — such things are truly quite rare, in our Age. No, what happens is, the defending lord will pull his soldiers into a safe place — a castle, most often — and the attacking lord will surround them with his own army. Taking the walls is very risky, the attacker will lose many men, so instead they wait, in an effort to starve them out. Now and then, the defenders will send out parties to strike at the attackers — small, brief skirmishes, riding out, trading a couple blows, then riding back in the chaos. But, most often, there is no grand battle, the defender waiting for the attacker to give up and go home, the attacker hoping the defender will surrender first, and be forced to negotiate terms.

"And sometimes," Lèlja said, her voice falling a little, thick and bitter, "the attacker will try to give the defender...incentives, to come to the table. Any army needs to eat, of course, and bringing along the supplies to sustain them can be difficult — they often assume that a fair amount of their food will be gathered from wherever they happen to be. Detachments will range over the countryside, stealing from town storehouses or defenseless peasants. This is normal, what will always happen when an army marches. But, if a lord wants to push his enemy to surrender faster, he may order his men to be...rougher, than necessary. It is not unusual for a band of chevaliers to arrive at a village near a besieged castle, and sack it. Pillage, rape, and murder as they will, homes left burning in their wake, the survivors scarred and scattered. And back at the castle, the lord will see the smoke on the horizon, will know what was done, and will know the only way to stop it from happening again is to surrender.

"Not to say barons et comtes et marquis have any care for what happens to common people — they would do the same, in their opposite's place, descending on the peasantry with all the heartlessness and vicious violence of a great dragon. No, the lands being burned are their lands, the peasants being killed are theirs, it is doing damage to them. And even if they hold out, if they allowed so many of their people to be abused and murdered, that does build resentment. Why should people accept the rule of a lord, if it does not afford them the most basic protection? The lord may find his people more difficult to manage in the aftermath. In rare cases, it has even resulted in rebellions. And of course, the attacking lord knows this. And it is why he is doing it — it is a threat, aimed at the other lord, the people his men are killing nothing more than pieces on the game board."

...That, on the other hand, was completely incomprehensible — Lýna suspected the way Alamarri did things would never cease to be foreign to her. It was clear that they could be pushed to rebellion, as the strategy Lèlja described and the one they'd heard was ongoing in Denerim right now suggested, but she couldn't understand why they accepted the way of things in the first place. Their rulers obviously had no care for them, she didn't understand. "The more I hear of Orlais, the less I like it."

Lèlja turned to give her a sad, shaky smile. "I did leave my home for a reason. As much beauty as there is in Orlais — and there is beauty there, great sculpture and paintings and mosaics, and poetry and music, the food and the wine, people honorable and clever and charitable and wonderful by the thousands. But there is much ugliness also. And I had...come to see too much of the ugliness.

"And I was part of that ugliness, a great part," she admitted, slow and low. "In these contests between lords I described, a few times, Marjolaine and I were hired to...speed things along. It was our work to get behind the walls, however we could. Steal documents, to be used for blackmail later, sabotage their supplies, poison their drink." Her voice dropping to a whisper, "Or, perhaps, to find the lord and his family, where they were hidden. To slip in, undetected, while they slept. And to murder them in their beds. The lord. The lady. Even the children, if it was asked of us. Even the children."

Honestly, that Lèlja might have murdered children in the past had never occurred to her as a possibility. She knew that Lèlja had done terrible things, before, things she was deeply ashamed of, but to... Well. Lýna hadn't thought it would be this. She didn't know how she felt about it.

The more she thought about it, she wasn't sure it mattered anymore? She meant, Lèlja wasn't the same person anymore. And Lýna wasn't speaking poetically, but in the truest sense — Lèlja had actually died between then and now, her god reforging her as he wished. What Lèlja had been before was...not completely irrelevant — obviously, the things she had done had happened regardless, and she still carried the memories — but the Lèlja sitting next to Lýna now was not the same woman who had done those terrible things. Not truly.

(Though she might feel quiet differently about it if she couldn't hear the shame on Lèlja's voice.)

But Lýna didn't know how to say that, or if she should even try, if Lèlja would respond to it well. It might sound too much like trying to absolve her, which wasn't what Lýna meant — she was in no way connected to the people Lèlja had harmed, it wasn't Lýna's place to forgive her. So instead, the motion a bit shaky and uncertain, nerves crawling along the back of her neck (she didn't know why, very silly), Lýna reached over into Lèlja's lap, gently threading her fingers through hers. Lèlja squeezed back, warm and soft, letting out a thin, shaky breath, the shiver carrying through into Lýna's hand.

Silence lingered for a moment, Lèlja occasional sniffling, her breath thick. This obviously hadn't been easy for her to talk about — and no surprise, Lýna had already known she didn't like thinking of that time in her life. Lèlja's free hand came up to brush away tears, words churning in Lýna's throat. Finally, she said, "You were a blade in another's hand. I don't mean to... Your actions were your own, of course, but it is not... Well. You are in another hand now."

Lèlja smiled at her, warm and bright. "And so I am," she said, slightly-damp fingers trailing along the back of Lýna's hand.

It took her a second to get it. Amused despite herself, her lips twitching, Lýna said, "I meant your Maker."

"I was only teasing, la miá rola."

My dove — her stomach squirming, feeling her face warm, Lýna had to glance away. She'd randomly remembered, the night Lèlja had given her that nickname, kissing her neck and, ach, distracting...

"I know who you meant. And I... It will never not be... I didn't deserve it. The...vile creature I was then... I enjoyed it, you know? It was all...some grand adventure, a game, it was fun." A slight croak on her voice, Lýna didn't have to look at her face to feel the horror there, powerful disgust with the person she'd once been, not so long ago. "That He would come to me, give me a second chance to... I can't explain how... I am...deeply humbled, I don't have the words to describe. Sometimes, when I think of it, alone in the quiet of the night, I am simply overwhelmed, in awe of Him. I didn't deserve it. But He chose me all the same.

"And I don't deserve this either," Lèlja muttered, soft and warm. Her fingers lightly tracing over the back of Lýna's hand, following the bones through the skin, it kind of tickled a little, Lýna trying not to fidget. "You have the makings of a great woman, Lýna, I can see it. More every day. And with all you have been through, already at such an early age, you've held on to that...core of goodness. Still called to protest at the ill treatment of strangers, people who are nothing to you — the mages at the Circle, the casteless here. To care for your Wardens in a way that isn't demanded of you, simply because you wish to, the...deep, personal offense at the injustices of this world. How you can have gone through so much, and not have become cold and callous from it, it is a marvel, truly. And I am awed all over again, that you would find it in you to wish to love someone like me."

That was... Lèlja was giving her far too much credit. That she thought so highly of her was honestly making Lýna feel a little guilty, though she couldn't put words to why. "I too was a blade in another's hand. That is what a hunter is, in the end — I killed for the clan. It was my duty, one I chose, knowing what it is. It was all I ever wanted to... My parents were not Maharjeᶅ, they had come to the clan, and to some I was, I was always to be Savhrajeᶅ, not of them. Hunters are...well thought of, skilled ones doubly so, and I...tried very hard. People say, you hear it with our people and at Last Watch, that I am very gifted, no, I learned. I practiced, all the time, every day for years, some days so long and hard Mẽrhiᶅ was made to carry me back. It was my only way, that I could see, to be welcome with them.

"I was a blade in another's hand, and I tried very hard to become one. It came to be, that the Blight started, and the darkspawn were our worry. If they did not, there were to be fighting with others, in the south. Chasind, mostly, the Avvar we are better with. If the elders bade me to kill, so I would have. I worked hard to be given that duty, and I would have done as I was asked. I did do as I was asked — did you think I never killed humans before coming here?" Lýna asked, turning to give Lèlja a look.

Somewhat to her surprise, Lèlja was still smiling — not a particularly wide smile, but warm and soft all the same. "I hadn't given it much thought. I suppose I would have you assumed you have killed humans before, yes. I imagine many in your place have, at one point or another."

"...On our way north— As you said before, coming to a village, we did this, a couple times. Taking food, and killing whoever is in our way." To be fair to herself, only the people in their way — it wasn't as though they'd wiped out the whole village or anything of the like. Lýna had never killed a child before, that was true, but if the elders ordered her to she...honestly wasn't sure what she would have done. That would have been a difficult choice.

And Lèlja was still smiling. "Your clan was on foreign land, you were fleeing. And you needed to eat something. Some acts that would be great crimes in ordinary times may become understandable, when survival is on the line. And your efforts to become a hunter, I don't begrudge you this either. People may do many terrible things out of a desire to be wanted, to feel useful. Your story is...not even close to the worst I have heard. It doesn't diminish my regard for you in the slightest. I may think less of your clan, for demanding so much of you — but your dedication and loyalty in the face of it is admirable. You are an impressive woman, Lýna, a good woman, and you're not going to talk me out of thinking so."

...Lýna had no idea what to say. She hadn't been trying to talk Lèlja out of it, exactly...she didn't think. Maybe she had, she didn't know.

So she just sat there, her throat too tight and hot to allow words, Lýna's fingers lightly tracing over the bones in her hand — the touch soft and warm and tingling, Lýna's ears burning and her back tingling.

This was still weird, to her. With Lèlja, whatever this was called. It was hard to know what to think, or what she was supposed to be doing.

Weird, but certainly not bad.

(She didn't know how to respond to someone having such a high opinion of her. It didn't feel entirely real.)

"Do you think I'm too reckless?"

Lèlja's fingers paused, just for a second. "What do you mean?"

"Alim said... At the forge, when I went past the shields, to save Alim and Irina. I would have been praised for that, before — I did save them, and risking a hunter for two mages is the right thing to do. But Alim said it was too reckless. He..." Her voice breaking, she took a breath, and another, trying to get control of herself. She didn't even know what was wrong exactly, just feeling weirdly shaky, it was hard to get her voice to cooperate. "He said, with Fergus, Bélen, and Eamon, they have deals with me, not the Wardens, if I'm gone they'll have to start over. And there's no one to lead the Wardens, they'll fall apart, or join with the Last Watch. And without us Fergus will die at the Landsmeet, and Ferelden will go to war with each other, and they won't prepare for the Blight. He said it will go badly without me, that I shouldn't risk myself for him — be more careful, come up with a different plan. Do you think he's right?"

Lèlja let out a long hum. She didn't speak for some breaths, her fingers still gently tracing over the back of Lýna's hand. "I'm sure I couldn't say. Honestly, Lýna, I never thought about it — you know your limits better than I do, I trust you not to take on more than you can handle. I didn't see what happened this time, but it does sound like it didn't go well. Maybe a better plan would have been wise."

...Yes, well, Lýna had already admitted that much to herself. It's just, the better plan hadn't occurred to her at the time — she wasn't used to the magic arrows, her instincts were still... She'd known she could get to them, that they'd die if she didn't do something. What would happen to her afterward hadn't been a consideration.

Two mages were more valuable than a hunter. She hadn't even thought about it.

"Would Ferelden's fortunes turn so bad without you, well, this I don't know. Perhaps. No matter what happens with your people, Lord Fergus isn't certain to die at the Landsmeet without you — he's a smart man, he'll think of something. Alim is too pessimistic, I think, and forgets that others may still act as they will. In your absence, I imagine Fergus would instead come to terms with Marshall Sidona, and she will guard him in your stead. With how poorly Orlesians are thought of in Ferelden, perhaps she won't go herself, but instead send Nevarrans — or Anders or Rivainis, after they arrive, they would be better choices.

"You cannot shoulder the whole world, la miá rola," Lèlja muttered, her free hand laying on Lýna's arm, thumb rubbing along her wrist. "For all that you are skilled, and clever, you are only one woman. No one person can stop such a thing as a Blight by their efforts alone. The war may go on without you, but your people, they would be the lesser for your absence. Without you to lead them, to teach them, to protect them, to press their interests with other parties — imagine Alistair, sweetheart that he is, negotiating with Eamon, or Bélen! Your contribution to the overall effort will be no small thing, I have no doubt, but it is those close to you who will feel your absence the deepest. For the sake of our own people, at the very least, maybe you should be more careful."

Lýna wondered if Lèlja had put it that way on purpose. But that seemed like an overly paranoid thing to think.

It took some long moments for Lýna to find her voice again — her throat too tight, it was a struggle just to breathe. Almost as though she were about to cry, but it didn't feel like that, exactly. She wasn't sure what it was, just too full of...something, her chest aching almost as though it were about to burst, her head fuzzy and scattered. Lèlja didn't say anything the whole time, silently staring off into the shadowy Road to Bónammar, Lýna's hand gently held between her own.

"I never..." Her voice still shaky, Lýna swallowed. Apparently picking up on something, Lèlja lifted her one hand to pick up her mug, hold it out for Lýna — which wasn't a bad idea, her throat was rather sore. After taking a swallow of the sharp Avvar mead, she said, "It's hard for me, to think like that. It's..." She snapped her fingers. "Like that, not something I have to think about, just... My life never mattered, before. Not in a way that was more than anyone else's. I don't know how to think like that."

"Oh," Lèlja said, a moan as much as speech, high and pained. "Oh, la miá rola, I'm sorry. I know it may be...hard, to think differently, after so long. If it's difficult for you to keep that in mind, maybe you can simply remember that your life is important to us. Any one of your Wardens would give their life for yours, if need be, I am certain."

Lýna wasn't so sure about that — some of her people didn't really like her very much. But despite herself, she couldn't help a little, baffled sort of laugh, her stomach twisting. "A halla died for me, once."

She wasn't looking, but in her peripheral vision she could see Lèlja was smiling. Not really a happy smile, reluctant, pained, but no less honest for it. "I heard about that — the same one who contributed to your bow, yes?"

"Yes. And how sad is that? Besides Mẽrhiᶅ and that damn brave halla," and maybe Ashaᶅ and Ásta and Tallẽ, "the first people to value me are people I was raised to think are enemies. My own clan cared for me not at all — only that I did some good before dying for them."

"Lýna, I—"

"I don't want to talk about it," she snapped.

There was a short silence, Lèlja's grip tight around her hand, seeming to hold her breath. Her grip finally loosening a little, she whispered, "As you wish. I'll be here if you decide you do."

"...I know." She didn't understand why she would ever want to talk about it, or why anyone would ever want to listen to her whining, but she didn't doubt Lèlja would.

"What would you like to talk about instead? This is perhaps not the time for another lesson..."

"Nothing. I don't– I'm tired, I think I'm done for the night." From the long walk and the battle earlier today, yes, but not just from that. She felt, just, worn, like a rag that had been wrung out too many times, strained and thin. Her head was starting to get so fuzzy it was hard to think straight, honestly, she'd probably end up saying something very foolish at this rate.

Lèlja's smiled, her fingers coming to brush over the back of Lýna's hand again — unexpectedly, she twitched a little. "All right. We can go to bed, if you like."

...She had no idea how long it'd take for her to get to sleep. As much as she was very tired, and just, done, she didn't feel particularly sleepy. Jittery, unsteady, the hard clenching in her chest very distracting, it would take a while to cool off. But it wasn't as though she was going to do anything else, so they might as well. "Okay. Let's go."

"Okay." Lèlja let go of her hand, stood and picked her cloak back up off the ground, Lýna only a second behind. She took an extra moment to shake the dust off of hers — the beds here likely wouldn't smell any better than the ones at the gates of Tagj-Aidúkan, she expected they'd be sleeping on this gain — before retrieving her (mostly) empty stew bowl. When she straightened, it was to find Lèlja standing close, smiling sad but warm, her blue-green eyes almost seeming to glow in the lyrium-powered dwarven lights. She moved, Lýna twitching as she leaned over, and—

Her fingers feathery-light at her neck, her lips soft and warm, the kiss only lasted for a moment, slow and gentle, before Lèlja lifted away again. Taken aback, her skin distractingly tingling, her breath caught in her throat, Lýna just blankly blinked up at Lèlja.

She had no idea what she was supposed to do now.

With a little amused huff, her smile curling a little more toward a smirk, Lèlja passed her empty mug over to the opposite hand, so she could take Lýna's. She started off back toward the pillar at the center of the Cross without a word, gently leading Lýna by the hand.

Lèlja kept a hold on her through the dining hall, returning the bowl and mug. Lýna was certain she could feel her ears burning, but nobody seemed to notice. Someone must eventually, Lacie was probably going to ask her about their silly bet...

(In the end, it took some long time for her to fall asleep, too keyed up with fuzzy thoughts she couldn't quite make sense of, too much conflicting stuff all mixed together. But she didn't particularly mind — Lèlja was warm, and very comfortable.)

---

Woooooo, that was a thing. Ended up going way longer than I expected, but this is me, so that is a surprise to no one.

I think the only worldbuilding comment I have is about the red glowing mushrooms — yes, that is red lyrium. There's nothing particularly unique about red lyrium, it's just what happens when the Blight gets into the stuff. Happens all the time, just normally in small amounts, or deep enough into darkspawn-held areas that nobody hardly ever sees it. Also, poor traumatised Lýna, girl needs therapy. Too bad it hasn't been invented yet.

Right, yeah, this fic is in my head again — mostly stuff way further along, still — but my writing is being terribly slow and inconsistent lately, so we'll have to see if I can stick with it. If all goes according to plan, the next chapter should be Alistair-POV, of all people, checking in on the other half of the Wardens, and also an Alistair/Edolyn moment. Then we'll check back in with Perry, moving into the Battle of Dust Town, together probably only one chapter. And then it's back to Kirkwall, for the arrival of the Qunari and Varric's introduction, and after that some Warden-related stuff, some Joinings, some Lýna/Leliana stuff. Then we're checking in with Aedan, and after that we're starting the Bónammar arc, with a bunch of Kirkwall Act I stuff mixed in. So yeah, a lot going on. Let's see if I have the writing energy to actually do it!

And that's more than enough from me, see you all next time.