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.)

26. Orzammar — I

9:30 Molloris 8

Gherlen's Pass, Edgehall, Avvarskild, Kingdom of Ferelden

---

They reached the Gates of Orzammar on the afternoon of their seventh day on the road.

The Frostback Mountains were considered to be, for all intents and purposes, impassable. At their height, they could reach terribly high, enough that the peaks remained shrouded in ice and snow into the height of summer, glimmering white under the sun in the distance. The terrain was uneven and rocky, constantly tilting back and forth, plummeting into a valley before rising in a ridge, soil crumbling away to expose sheer, unscalable cliffs, in some places hundreds of feet high. Those places soil had managed to accumulate were thickly forested, ancient trees and dense brush acting almost as a living wall, home to bears and wolves and mountain lions, and even sylvans, and who knew what else.

And, of course, there were the Avvar. Somehow, people actually managed to live in the seemingly inhospitable landscape, and in no small numbers either. Descendents of ancient Alamarri peoples who'd resisted all attempts to civilize them (read: convert to the Chantry) over more than a millennium now, they were generally hostile to any encroachment from outsiders, warlike and stubborn. Though, despite how the stories went, there was some minimal contact between the Avvar and their neighbors.

There were bands of Avvar all through the mountains, but their population was concentrated in two large basins. One was just south of Gherlen's Pass, a relatively even but rocky plain, suited more to herding than farming; the second was some distance south around a massive highlands lake, modest agriculture, fishing, and fruit from the forest supporting a much larger population than the first. (Also, according to Lýna, the foothills far to the south, though they'd long ago been pushed out from the same elevation in the north.) Supposedly, the lake at the center of the second was the source of the Vorsfarn River, the same that emptied into Lake Calenhad at Grensford, but no Alamarri had gotten that far in living memory. Well upriver from Grensford was a place called Haven around a sizeable lake, one of the more economically-important towns in the highlands of West Hills — a fair amount of trade with the Avvar came down the river there, though not without the occasional flare of violence. Haven had even been entirely burned down in an Avvar raid about a hundred years ago, the Fereldans and Orlesians had been too busy with each other at the time to do anything about it.

The northern basin, though, had relatively peaceful relations with their neighbors. Trade trickled out of the highlands east to Edgehall — and then downriver to the Lake, to Redcliffe or Danesmouth, and then to the rest of the country or to Ostwick — or north to Jader — and from there further inland to the rest of Orlais, or north to Nevarra or Kirkwall. Wool, lumber, ore — mostly iron and copper and lead, but occasional nickel and silver as well — flint, furs and leathers, all sort of things. Edgehall was wealthy in part from local wool, lumber, and fruit orchards, yes, but also as the greatest land route for trade with Orlais and the Avvar. (There was a second pass into the Dales, where the mountains weakened somewhat in the south at the farthest reaches of the Arling of West Hills, but it was a far more dangerous route, few risked the crossing.) The Avvar here in the north had been left mostly unmolested for centuries, one of the few places where pagans were left to their own devices in such a way.

This wasn't out of the goodness of the Andrastian heart, though, there were two good reasons for it: one was relations between Ferelden and Orlais, and another was the presence of the dwarves. Orlais had conquered Jader, once an independent Alamarri kingdom nestled in the rugged network of valleys between the Frostbacks and the Waking Sea, well before the unification of Ferelden, putting the border between the Empire and the Alamarri right in the middle of the northern Frostback foothills. As strewn as the land was with rolling hills and deep valleys, it was, paradoxically, easy to defend but hard to hold — digging out defenders through force could be a pain, but it could be shockingly easy to simply surround them and starve them out. The locals on both sides of the border were far more concerned with keeping an eye on each other than dealing with the pagans. Too, the flat highland plain the Avvar lived on was terribly indefensible, they could easily wear away at any attacking force with hit-and-fade strikes. After all, they had no problem at all getting by in the surrounding mountains, they could just hide up there until the moment to strike came...and they probably didn't even have to bother, since any attempt to take the basin by Ferelden or Orlais would have the other retaliate, the Avvar would probably just wait for the lowlanders to all kill each other.

And whoever tried to conquer the Avvar would also have to deal with the dwarves. Their once-mighty civilization crammed into a single city, it was well known that Orzammar had difficulty maintaining their population — what little food they could raise down there wasn't enough to feed them all. They imported grain and spices and whatever else through Jader and Edgehall, yes, but they also traded for meat and fowl and eggs and milk and so on with the Avvar. (Usually paid for with dwarven-crafted weapons and armor, which was part of why the chevaliers couldn't hold the hill country east of the Dales, the Avvar there too well-equipped and too numerous.) Orzammar, in fact, considered the local Avvar to be a critical ally. At the very least, if Orlais or Ferelden tried to conquer the northern basin they'd certainly be cut off from trade — which meant no dwarven metals or crafts, and no lyrium, which would be devastating — and at the very worst, if the dwarves considered the threat serious enough, they might well end up pinned, with Avvar barbarians on one side and furious dwarves on the other, both armed with enchanted dwarven-crafted steel. A situation that could well be described as thoroughly fucked.

Needless to say, nobody had been stupid enough to try it for a few centuries now. So Alim actually got to see an Avvar for the first time in his life.

(Dalish, Chasind, Avvar, and then Orzammar dwarves — only missing a Rivaini and a Qunari and he'd have encountered someone from all of the remaining pagan groups in the known world. Wild.)

Last evening, they'd continued on a bit longer into the evening than usual, the sun vanishing behind the hills to the west before they finally made camp outside of the town of Edgehall. That had been Fergus's idea: Edgehall was close enough to Orzammar that, if they could only get that far the night before, they could make it to the Gates by mid-afternoon, giving them plenty of time to reach the city itself before dinner. There had been a few light-hearted complaints, but it wasn't too much of a problem — Fergus's men were tough sons of bitches, the Wardens had the Joining working for them, and their recruits had built up endurance training this last month. Jowan, Solana, and Wynne had the worst of it, but a little magic kept them going without too much trouble.

Before sleep, Lýna just had to ask why one section of the town was blocked off from the rest like that — Edgehall had a very Orlesian sensibility when it came to their elves, to put it delicately. The intensity of the glare Lýna had sent the town, for a moment Alim had been concerned she would order them to attack. They hardly had the numbers to sack a town that size...or they wouldn't in ordinary circumstances, with the mages they had on hand and a little bit of luck it was definitely doable. Thankfully, Lýna had eventually turned back to camp with a sigh, and the town was safe.

(For now — Alim recalled that, after finishing their business in Orzammar, they were to wait in Edgehall to meet up with Arl Eamon on the way to Denerim. Depending on how long they were in Orzammar — if they got the dwarves on side quick and easy, Alim could see Lýna deciding to do a bit of darkspawn hunting in the Deep Roads, partially to build goodwill with the dwarves and partially to get their recruits some experience — they could be there for weeks, and who knew how long Lýna would tolerate Edgehall...being Edgehall. That probably wasn't going to end well...)

The Imperial Highway ran all the way through Gherlen's Pass, though it was the least straight and even section of the Highway Alim had seen yet. The Pass was relatively open and wide, plenty of room for little farming villages to spring up here and there, but it was still hill country, the road undulating up and down as it went, curving around some hills rather than attempt to climb them, in some cases doubling back at sharp angles. Around midday they came to a little stream, and whoever had planned the Highway had decided to make a bridge from the top of one hill to the next — the bridge was several hundred feet long, the stream easily a hundred feet below, the drop blocked off by a waist-high metal fence (rusted a little from the merciless centuries, but still standing), sturdy and unyielding as only pre-Blight Tevinter engineering could be. Alim even felt a tingle of magic on the air, presumably reinforcing the bridge, which was curious, any lyrium powering the enchantments would certainly have been depleted by now. Maybe the dwarves maintained it?

It was also the busiest section of the Highway Alim had seen. They passed multiple wagons as they went, loaded down with goods and slowly dragged along by druffalos, flanked with armed guards on horseback. Some of them appeared to have a bit of trouble with the inclines, down more than up, tweaking the wheels somehow to create more resistance, the druffalos lowing in displeasure as the wagons pushed at them. There was even one whole caravan, a half-dozen wagons travelling together — from Jader, judging by the mounted chevaliers escorting them, all in full plate, faces hidden by helms, their faceplates carved into caricatures of the human form, tufts of feathers sticking out of the top. They tensed a little as they spotted Lýna at the front of their group — and she definitely noticed, returning their attention with a cold, unblinking stare — but they passed by without incident.

They weren't the only people to react to their presence, hardly, but Alim suspected the Warden banner had something to do with it. The Crown was claiming that the Wardens had betrayed and killed the King, after all, they were bound to get a bit of side-eye just walking around openly. But, at the same time, it was public knowledge now that there was undoubtedly a Blight rising in the south of Ferelden, which meant Wardens were exactly the sort of people one should want around at the moment, weren't they? So, they got a mix of looks from the others on the Highway, suspicious and fearful and relieved and curious.

Alim spotted a few hands go to weapons, eyeing their group speculatively, but nobody made any moves to suggest they might want to collect the bounty on their heads, as the bandits outside Lothering had done. They were in far greater numbers now, and Alim doubted anyone would fail to recognize the Cousland colors flying right next to theirs. That did give them some legitimacy — the Couslands were quite possibly the most unambiguously beloved noble family in all of Ferelden — but attacking a group their size would also just be suicidal.

In the early afternoon, they came to a road turning off to the south. It was also paved with stone, but not the same stone, dark granite bricks in a mosaic of octagons and squares, the gaps between filled with lead — dwarven engineering. Several yards down the road from the Highway were a pair of statues flanking the road. They were clearly of dwarven make, the figures squat and heavy-set — the proportions, limbs thicker and longer relative to their size, broad chests and squared heads, definitely dwarves, though several times life-size — the style blunt and harsh, hard angles with few organic curves allowed. Each was holding a double-sided battle-axe — the weapon was bloody huge relative to their bodies, the head as wide as their shoulders, Alim doubted he'd even be able to lift a real-life version — the head resting against the ground, their arms almost casually folded over the top of the haft. Carved into the flat of the axe blades there was text, marking the distance to Orzammar in multiple languages — dwarvish, Classical Tevene, Orlesian, Alamarri, modern Tevene, Antivan, that was probably Rivaini, Alim wasn't certain what that one was...

Between the Highway and the dwarven statues were another pair of mile markers, these simple stelae. The one on the east side of the road had the paired mabari of the Theirins carved into the face, under those the distance in miles to Edgehall, Danesmouth, Denerim; the one on the west side instead had the snarling lion of House Valmont, the royal family of Orlais, underneath the distance to Jader, Halamshiral, Lydes (despite the Highway not actually passing through Jader, presumably there would be a marker telling travelers when to turn off). The road to Orzammar served as the border between Ferelden and Orlais...sort of. The claims of Fereldan banns and Orlesian barons might reach further one way or the other (often overlapping, these things happened), but by treaty with the dwarves neither kingdom could deny the other (or anyone else) access to Orzammar, so this right here was the border practically speaking.

Which was sort of a wild thought. Alim had never been out of that damn tower before, and here he stood on the very edge of the whole kingdom. Actually, he'd be leaving Ferelden in a couple hours...

Turning down the road south, Leliana lingered a moment at the Orlesian mile marker, reaching out with a hand, her fingers gently brushing over the stone — specifically, Alim saw, the letters spelling out LYDES. Wasn't Leliana from Lydes? She'd been in Ferelden for a while, she must not have been home in years. He guessed a little homesickness was understandable.

Even if it was Orlais, of all places, honestly fuck Orlais.

The road lead up into the hills at a steady incline, weaving back and forth now and then to follow the shallowest path. Even then, the wagons they passed were moving at a crawl, oxen and druffalos struggling to bear the weight. As they left the relatively flat farmland of the Pass behind, much of the sky blotted out with oak and pine, the road was reduced to switchbacking its way up, avoiding the steepest parts and, increasingly as they ascended, clefts of stone sticking through the dirt, the granite bones of the Frostbacks showing themselves. Ironically, the wagons were having less trouble with the incline now than before, the switchbacks leveling the path out somewhat, though the actual distance they had to travel was stretched out significantly.

They went around a last curve, a narrow stream tumbling down the rocky ground nearby in a series of short waterfalls, and finally came up to (mostly) level ground. The area was heavily forested, the roots of the trees reaching nearly all the way to the road, forming a sort of narrow valley winding its way along. There was brush under the branches, but Alim noticed it was peculiarly regular, arranged in even rows stitched between the trees...and far more of them were flowering than Alim had seen in natural forests in the hill country near Redcliffe. The dwarves (or Avvar friends) must be cultivating these for their fruits, raspberries and currants and strawberries and blackberries and the like. Alim assumed, anyway, he wasn't familiar enough with these things to tell what plants those were...

Flowers were pretty, though, he'd literally never seen one in real life until a few weeks ago, very nice.

The road arched up in a bridge, crossing over a noisily babbling stream, they came around another curve...and then right into a train of unmoving wagons. There were a bunch of them, packed together nearly nose to wheel, one after another after another, entirely filling one side of the road until it vanished around another curve ahead. Judging by some of the impatient shifting Alim could see in the people near the curve, they hadn't moved in a little while. What the hell?

They'd been standing there for a couple minutes, Lýna and Fergus at the front probably debating what to do — they could just go around, but they'd have to lead the packhorses carefully over the uneven, root-broken ground — when Morrigan stepped out of the bushes, seemingly appearing out of nowhere, and made straight for Lýna. Well, she kind of had appeared out of nowhere — Morrigan was too damn impatient to walk with them on foot, she'd been skipping ahead as a wolf or a bird or whatever the whole trip, she just had to be more subtle about it with so many other travelers around. Curious, Alim slipped through the group of Wardens, pushing toward the front.

Morrigan got there a handful of seconds before Alim did, it didn't sound like he'd missed much. "—Avvar there would speak with me. The Gates have been closed."

"What?" Fergus blurted out, dumbfounded. "They can't have — Orzammar would starve in short order without trade from outside."

"I'm well aware of that, as I assume are they. The Avvar I spoke with claim the dwarves open the door for essential trade alone. All others are turned away — though not without long protest, it seems, and 'tis this bickering which causes the delay here," she said, eyeing the unmoving train of wagons.

"Why?" Morrigan turned toward Alim, one eyebrow ticking up. Her face was blank otherwise, unfriendly, but that was normal these days. They'd still had their lock-picking and shapechanging lessons now and then — which kind of sucked, he'd dissected so many birds by now, ugh... — but Morrigan had been being weirdly cold to him for the last month or so, the camaraderie they'd built in that first week inexplicably vanished. He had no idea what the hell was up with that, but as long as she wasn't being actively hostile he hadn't thought it was important enough to ask. "No, not why are they arguing, I mean why are the Gates closed. Did those Avvar know?"

Morrigan nodded. "The dwarven king, Endrin Aidúkan, passed but a week ago. 'Tis the way of their people that all outsiders be barred entry until they choose a replacement — naught but necessary goods are to pass through."

"Shit," Alim spat. "First Ferelden, and now the dwarves too? This is the worst possible time we could have picked to be bickering with each other like this." The dwarves were actually a lot like Ferelden, in that their king was selected from among their nobility. Unlike Ferelden, it could sometimes take months — on a few rare occasions in their history, even years — for their lords to settle on someone they could all agree on. Like he'd said: worst. possible. time.

Letting out a little sigh, Lýna stepped over to the edge of the road and hopped down onto the grass. "Come," she called, waving their group, squished together between wagons ahead and behind, on after her, "we go around."

Skipping down after her, Alim asked, "You know, getting up there won't do us any good if they won't let us in anyway."

"They will — fighting the Blight is necessary."

...Good point.

This last leg of their trip was rather slow going. The narrow gap left between the road and the surrounding forest meant they could only fit through two-by-two at most, the packhorses plodding along single-file. Or, less plodding along and more delicately picking along — the ground was rent with tiny little rises and ruts from a partially-submerged web of roots, uneven enough Alim ended up spelling his feet light to stop himself from turning an ankle, it would be far too easy for one of the horses to accidentally break something.

All of them were being much more careful where they placed their feet than usual, heads bowed to eye the ground, though it was more of a handicap for some than others. The mages had all probably done the same thing Alim had. Lýna of course wasn't bothered, still smoothly striding along without a care in the world, but Justien was almost as light and quick as her, though with a very different stride, bouncing along hopping from one root to the next — his boot slid only once, nearly dropping him on his ass, but he managed to recover (if barely), went right back to hopping around. Put Alim in mind of some of the young mages given too big a lyrium potion in practice — doses were based on the user's weight, but getting it off by a little could make a big difference for smaller people, a common problem with elves and adolescents especially — which was tempting him to down some just to play around with the other elf, but dosing himself with lyrium for fun sounded like a terrible habit to get into.

Also, he'd probably just end up creeping Justien out anyway...

With a few exceptions — Alistair, Keran, Morden, Gwenys — it was the humans having the most trouble. Gailen and Merrick both tripped at least once, metal clanking, cursing as they struggled to yank their packs back in place. Edolyn's spear got caught in the branches overhead on three separate occasions, but at least she managed to not tear the banner. It might have ended up being more than three times if not for Sedrick — one of Fergus's knights, and his bannerman for today (the thing got passed around) — sidling closer to her and surreptitiously demonstrating his technique to avoid tangling the point in shit. Not telling her what to do, Alim didn't think, just making what he was doing very obvious so she could copy it. (Fergus's men were all the sons of banns or wealthy freeholders, and were very much aware the Wardens weren't, but at least they weren't asses about it.)

Edrick and Aiden were doing rather badly too, clumsy dwarven feet not doing them any favors, but oddly Sedwulf seemed to be doing just fine — even weighed down by heavy armor his feet fell with perfect confidence, steadily plodding along with no added difficulty. He didn't even seem to notice, not watching his feet like most of the others, he and Justien shouting teasing barbs at each other the whole way.

Alim had a bet with Sola that those two were fucking. He didn't have any hard proof, they hadn't been caught at it, but he just had a feeling. Lacie hadn't taken the bet, because she had the same feeling. Which meant Alim was almost certainly right — Lacie was better at this than he was, she'd somehow figured out Lily actually liked Jowan back way before Alim or Jowan himself had — so he should think about what Sola's penalty would be. Something sexy, definitely...

Before too much longer the trees receded, the narrow path opening into a large paved courtyard, right at the base of a cliff face, sheer gray stone stretching up, up, up — higher than the ones framing Redcliffe, had to be at least a couple hundred feet, casting the courtyard into premature twilight. Alim was pretty sure that should be the edge of the large flat plain home to so many Avvar, but they must have another way down somewhere, he seriously doubted they climbed straight down to the Gates. And the Gates of Orzammar were right there, carved into the cliff face. The gargantuan double doors had to be twenty, twenty-five feet tall, enough they were easily visible even over the wagons between here and there, surrounded with an even larger frame, carved into a blocky geometric design, surprisingly intricate, twisting in on itself back and forth and...

It almost looked like they'd somehow managed to braid stone together and set it into the cliff face, though all in hard angles instead of soft arcs, an odd clash of elements Alim's eyes refused to quite make sense of. And at such a scale the smallest details of the design were visible from all the way the fuck over here, that thing had to still be hundreds of feet away... How the hell had they even carved that thing?!

Even as awe stole the breath from his throat, Alim couldn't help thinking to himself, Overcompensating, much?

The courtyard itself was a large squarish space — the stone under his feet wasn't uniform in color, there was probably some kind of mosaic, but with all the wagons in the way Alim couldn't guess what it was supposed to be — ringed on three sides by permanent stone buildings, the ones on the far side dwarfed by the Gates in the middle. The courtyard wasn't even, about halfway across there was a step up about waist-high, the ledge in rigid right-angles, bisecting the courtyard in an unnaturally perfect straight line. As they got closer, Alim realized the break didn't go all the way across: there was a wide, shallow ramp in the middle, and at least one narrower one to the side. There were steel gates at the top of them, though only maybe knee-high, clearly meant to prevent unauthorized wagons from coming through. Both of the ramps Alim could see from here were guarded by dwarves in heavy armor, bearing huge bloody axes and hammers, on the step behind them more with vicious-looking crossbows.

They were definitely Orzammar dwarves — Alim had never met anyone from Orzammar before, but he could still tell at a glance. Dwarves were thicker and sturdier than even humans, and were stupid strong, so could wear armor that would be far too heavy on anyone else. The shit these guys were wearing had to be a few inches thick, which was fucking ridiculous, making the men look even burlier than dwarves tended to be to begin with. The metal was dark, almost black, glittering faintly in the artificial dusk, each piece outlined with lighter veins, sticking out at least another inch. These bits on their pauldrons stuck out even further, ridges lifting well over their shoulders — to guard their heads some, Alim assumed, though the effect was kind of comical, on some of them the ridges actually rose higher than their helmets, very silly. All of their faces were covered by the full helmets, their features replaced with ones blocky and artificial, streaked here and there with narrow gashes to see and breathe through, the overall impression given more one of a statute than a man.

Of course, their equipment was also liberally enchanted. The glyphs in their armor weren't exposed, probably on the inside face, but the concentration of magic was enough that they almost seemed to glow to Alim's eyes, a faint tingly crackle on the air even all the way over here. On the other hand, the glyphs on the blades of their weapons (thankfully hanging at their belts or over shoulders, their hands empty), were visible — while they approached the narrower ramp to the side, Alim squinted at one of the axe blades, trying to make the symbols out. The glyphs used in the Circle were a mix of dwarven and Tevene (i.e. elven), their conventions were different, but...he thought that was spirit magic. Specifically, a dissolving curse, scrambling the structure of a material to make it crumble into dust — if Alim was guessing correctly, that axe could cut through the chestplate of a chevalier as easily as paper.

Yeah, there was a very good reason that, as clearly irritated as the drivers of the wagon at the front of the line were, shouting at and arguing with the guards, not a single hand strayed anywhere near a weapon. While they couldn't cast magic themselves, the dwarves were undisputed masters of enchanting — they had been practicing the craft since before Tevinter had even existed — and had an absolute monopoly on the lyrium supply. Nobody wanted to fuck with the soldiers of Orzammar.

Which was the exact reason they'd come here. No army in the world was more effective against darkspawn — if they could get Orzammar committed they would have much higher odds of beating this thing before it could spread.

Their group hadn't even quite reached the soldiers guarding the narrower side ramp before their line split, stepping out of the way, the gate unlocked and swung aside. They were probably just stopping wagons coming in...that or they'd noticed the Warden banner, it was fucking impossible to tell what they were looking at with those helmets hiding their faces. The chatter trailed off as they climbed up the ramp, filing through between the intimidating dwarves, Alim's ears ringing with the wavering, twittering music rising from the enchantments on their equipment. The dwarves seemingly ignored them as they passed, helmets still turned ahead, standing as still and silent as statues.

Nerves tingled along the back of Alim's neck the whole way through — people he was actually taller than had never made him feel so small.

(He definitely wanted to see a bunch of these guys fuck up some darkspawn.)

The upper courtyard was much emptier than the lower half, without all the wagons taking up space. There were people around, concentrated around the edge — mostly market space, it looked like, stands and tables set up, the chatter of haggling filling the air with a constant buzz. Oddly, there were a few tents pitched here and there in the shadow of the buildings ringing the courtyard, cloth dyed in vibrant blues and reds and yellows. These little camps had animals outside them, elk, and... Well, Alim didn't know what those things were. They kind of looked like dracolisks — large reptilian-looking things, with powerful hind legs, sinuous necks and tails, and long, toothy jaws — but shorter and bulkier, hindlegs thick with muscle, their forelegs shorter and stubbier. Their pebbled skin was white with speckles of green and blue, and either Alim was too far away to make them out or the things didn't have eyes, what the fuck?! He had no idea what the things were even for. Some kind of exotic pack-beast, maybe?

The other unfamiliar animal was definitely a mount, but... They were the size of large horses, but their bodies and limbs were thicker, their snout shorter and rounder, spiny whiskers sprouting from their lips, and they were completely hairless, bald skin running from a pale lavender to a deep blue. Their heads had big pointed ears, like a cat (though hairless), and horns like a ram, thick and curling around both sides of their heads, but proportional to their size, which made them fucking huge — the things were fucking huge in general, must weigh as much as a druffalo. Also? They had person-shaped hands, fingers and thumbs and everything...like a nug.

They looked like nugs...except giant.

...Were those nuggalopes? Alim hadn't thought nuggalopes were real! He'd read about the things before, rumors trickling out of the Fereldan hill country, but he'd thought they were just stories! He meant, giant nugs, really...

And he wasn't the only one, most of the Wardens and Fergus's men were gaping at the things, or openly pointing and shouting what the hell are those?! Lýna seemed rather bemused by their reaction, throwing glances at them over her shoulder — which meant the giant nugs were perfectly ordinary to her, enough it hadn't occurred to her that most people in Ferelden would have never even heard of the things. Out of curiosity, he asked her, and apparently they were native to the Frostback highlands, the Avvar had tamed them ages ago, they had them where she came from too. She'd even ridden one before.

Alim wasn't the only one flabbergasted by that claim — Lýna's stories about the far south just got weirder and weirder.

(Though, the mental image of the tiny little elf trying to ride one of those monsters was kind of funny...)

Anyway, that the Avvar had tamed the things meant that those must be Avvar camps, the people there Avvar. Alim had literally never seen an Avvar before (unless he counted Wynne, which he didn't). They all wore soft leather, light brown, accented with beads in blue and yellow. Some had furs, poofing out white and silver and gray over their shoulders, but most didn't bother, the spring day apparently warm enough for them. Some had even stripped off their leathers, left bare-chested — and not just the men, Alim spotted three women walking around naked from the waist, their tits just...hanging out in the open.

Alim wasn't the only one who thought that was weird, they kept getting occasional glances from the traders around (some scandalized and some appreciative). Okay, then...? Lýna apparently didn't give a damn either, so he guessed he should have expected that...

The most obvious feature that set the Avvar apart (besides the unexpected nudity) was their hair — all of them, the men and the women, had absurdly long hair, gathered up in complicated braids, intricate strings of colorful beads running through their length. The beards on the men were pretty damn long too, every one reaching at least down to their chests (also braided and beaded), but the hair was ridiculous. Alim spotted a few who had wrapped their stupidly long braids around their shoulders a couple times just to keep it out of the way, which just looked kind of ridiculous.

He'd read something about Avvar only very, very rarely cutting their hair, for religious reasons — no detail had been given on what those religious reasons were, of course — and apparently they were completely serious about that. As long as some of those braids were, their owners might not have ever had it cut in their entire lives, just, damn...

Most of their group were taking in the sights, eyes roaming around, occasionally pointing at something and muttering to their neighbors, but Lýna, Fergus, and Alistair seemed entirely unmoved, still striding confidently right up to the Gates. (Of course, Fergus and Alistair had both been to Orzammar before, and Lýna was Lýna.) Distracted as they were, the rest of them had to rush a little to catch up, taps on shoulders and little pushes going around to get each other moving. The closer they got, the Gates just seemed bigger and bigger and bigger, shit, the doors were easily as wide as the Imperial Highway, could fit a pair of wagons through and have room to spare, and they were so fucking tall, his head tipped back and back and back, enough it was kind of making him dizzy, he had to stop and stare down at the tile under his feet instead before he hurt himself.

(Overcompensating, much?)

There were some more dwarven soldiers at the Gates, facing off against a small crowd of frustrated merchants. (Alim guessed the wagons had sent representatives up to argue with the people in charge.) Pausing for a moment, Lýna scanned over the people — humans mostly, though there were a few dwarves, higher-than-average quality linens and furs marking most of them as relatively-successful traders. They seemed a little panicky to Alim's eyes — but of course they were, a significant interruption to their business could see them lose a lot of money — but it didn't do any good, no matter how much they shouted at the line of dwarves guarding the Gates, questions and complaints and even threats flying around in Alamarri and Orlesian (and was that Antivan?), the dwarves stonily stared back at them, unmoving and silent. The exception was a single dwarf to the side of the crowd who'd removed his helmet, the blocky thing cradled under his arm, talking to a group of armored men — expensive armor too, little designs carved around the edges of the plates, mail and leather gleaming, one instead wearing dyed silk under his fur-lined cloak, must be a big hat of some kind. Judging by the glare of the armed man doing the talking, a gauntleted fist clenched over the hilt of his sword, they weren't getting anywhere either.

Lýna glanced up at Fergus, they muttered to each other for a moment. "Wait here for now," Lýna said, raising her voice to reach all of them. "Fergus and I will talk to them. Solana, with me."

"Aaron," Fergus called, nodding to one of his men. Solana and the knight shouldered their way out of the group, and the four of them started off for the door.

Packs were loosened from shoulders, dropped onto the tile for the moment, some of their number, assuming it might take a little while for Lýna and Fergus to talk their way inside, sat down next to them. Jerky was dug out of the packs and passed around, along with wineskins, chatter quickly breaking out, to the effect of good we're here and what the hell is going on anyway and do you see this door, holy shit and what the fuck are those things with the horns? giant nugs?! Alim hesitated for a few seconds, then shrugged, skipped off toward the gate, slipping in place behind Lýna and Fergus, right between Solana and Aaron.

Sola turned to give him a raised eyebrow. "What do you think you're doing, Alim?"

"Tagging along. I'm nosey like that." Lýna let out a huff, but she didn't turn around to tell him to go back, so she must not really care. He thought the only reason she had most of them wait was so they didn't crowd the door guards with a bunch of armed men, didn't want to make them nervous...not that Alim thought these guys got nervous... "And really, missy," he drawled, grinning, "is that any way to talk to your superior officer?"

Aaron chuckled, then switched to obviously fake coughing when Solana glared at him. He wasn't even really trying to hide his smirk, seemingly not at all concerned about annoying the scary mage — which was progress in Alim's book, too many of their traveling companions had been annoyingly skittish around them back during their time in Redcliffe...

"—an audience with a representative of your king!" They were still a short distance away, the fancy-armored man was shouting loudly enough Alim could hear it from all the way over here.

"Do you have naught but sand between your ears?" came a low, rumbling dwarven voice, presumably from the one who'd taken off his helmet. (Alim couldn't see his face from this angle.) He had a bit of an accent, giving his words a slightly mincing, delicate feel that clashed with the booming force of his voice. "As I have told you time and again, léntsjek, there is nobody for you to speak with. For now, Orzammar has no king, and so, there is no representative of him."

"I would speak with whoever is to succeed him, then!"

"You may speak with his successor after a désjür have chosen him, and no sooner."

"In that case, on behalf of King Loghain I demand an audience with your deshyrs in the meanwhile."

Alim blinked — King Loghain? He wasn't actually going around calling himself that now, was he? Unless he'd gone ahead and married his own daughter since Alim had last heard news from Denerim, there was simply no way that was legitimate. They must be close enough for the humans to hear now too, because Aaron let out a little scoff, muttered king? under his breath.

"And as I have told you, time and again," the dwarf growled, voice grinding with impatience, "Orzammar is to be closed to outsiders until a new king has been crowned. There must be no outside influence on désjürvesj decision."

"Do you expect the Kingdom of Ferelden to tolerate this—"

"Hold there. Válasj atráts!" The dwarf called, lifting a hand in greeting to their group. Over Lýna's shoulder, Alim could see his face now — flat and round like all dwarven faces, with a wide nose, thick lips, and a broad forehead, this one had hard blue eyes, black hair thick on his lip and cheeks and throat, but the border meticulously groomed to a razor-straight edge. "Orzammar is closed to all visiting outsiders or unnecessary commerce at this time. Declare your intent or turn back."

Lýna was silent another moment, closing to a more comfortable conversational distance. The man in the fancy armor glared at her the whole way, already annoyed at the interruption, even more offended that the door guard had brushed him off for some random Dalish elf (Alim assumed). "I am Lýna Maharjel, Commander of the Grey in Ferelden. I wish to speak of the Blight with the warriors of Orzammar."

Nice touch, saying her business was with the army and not the lords — clearly, the Blight was politically neutral, the debate over who should be king was none of her business, so letting her in wouldn't interfere with the process. Alim had no idea if she'd done that on purpose, but still.

While the fancy knight spluttered, face turning even more red, his fellows gasping and grasping the hilts of their weapons, the door guard's heavy brow scrunched into a frown. "I have met the Commander of the Grey in Ferelden, and you are not he."

"Duncan died fighting the darkspawn at Ostagar. I was the only officer left after the battle, and so his duties fall to me."

There was a little bit of grumbling between the nearby dwarven soldiers, helmets shifting as they shot each other glances. The one speaking to them simply nodded, his frown vanishing. "I see. My condolences and apologies, Warden-Commander." The dwarf's head dipped in a shallow bow, one fist coming up to clang against his breastplate, an instant later all the dwarves within earshot repeating the gesture — Alim grimaced, he hadn't expected the noise, it was startlingly loud. "Of course the Wardens are always welcome in Orzammar. I'll have a runner lead you to Last Watch." The guard began to turn, presumably to bark out orders.

But the knight went on blustering before the dwarf could get anything out. "You're going to let them through? The Wardens murdered King Cailan and have all but doomed Ferelden!"

Alim couldn't see from behind, but by how the knight twitched, his hand tightening around the grip of his sword, Lýna must be giving him a hell of a glare right now. "It is not we who fled rather than fight, taking our warriors with us."

Fury crossed the faces of the armed men, the big hat in the silk backing off a step — warily, as though expecting violence. Face still flushed with anger, but voice falling to an intense, dangerous hiss, the fancy knight said, "You dare blame King Loghain for your treachery?"

"Point of order," Sola interjected before Lýna or Fergus could respond — smooth and calm, raising one finger, as though this were just another debate back at the Circle. "Loghain Mac-Tir is Teyrn of Gwaren, not King of Ferelden. He may act as regent in the name of Her Majesty, but he cannot rule in his own right without the assent of the Lords of Alamar in Landsmeet. Much as Orzammar has no king until another is selected, neither does Ferelden."

The knight looked somewhat taken aback for a second, frowning at Sola. "Excuse me, madam, who are you?" Ah, he probably recognized the posh Waking Sea accent, common in the Fereldan nobility, but didn't recognize Sola herself. Which kind of suggested he would expect to recognize someone with that particular accent, implying he was nobility himself.

Alim couldn't see Sola's face from here either, but he heard the condescendingly raised eyebrow on her voice anyway. "Solana Amell of Langleighshire, in Kirkwall, Ser...?"

"Imrek Dairrel, of Dairspool." Yep, there it was, the Dairrels held the Bannir of Dairspool, in Gwaren — had for ages, it was even named after them and everything. "Forgive me, my lady, but how did you find yourself in such deplorable company?"

Her voice curling with a drawl, Sola said, "Yes, I truly must have lowered myself terribly in order to tolerate the Warden-Commander and the rightful Teyrn of Highever."

Imrek was confused for a second, before giving Fergus a double take, his eyes going wide as he finally recognized him. But instead of speaking to either of them, he turned back to the door guard. "You say Wardens are always welcome in your halls, but here they intend to smuggle in the son of a teyrn and the daughter of a foreign count!"

"That is a concern," the dwarf admitted, frowning a little again. "We will not tolerate foreign interference in our affairs at this time, Warden."

Fergus took a little half-step forward, giving the door guard a shallow bow. "If I may put your mind at ease, Ser. It appears Ser Imrek may not be aware of this, but the Amells were stripped of their titles years ago — they are no longer Counts of Langleighshire." Sola sniffed derisively — it was well known among her acquaintances in the Circle that she considered her family's divestiture illegitimate — but didn't say anything. "Solana here was recruited into the Wardens hardly a month ago, and accompanies the Warden-Commander now as an advisor familiar with the laws and traditions of your people and ours. Myself, I have been exiled from my lands due to treachery, and until I can reclaim them I have joined with the Wardens in their efforts against the Blight — I am here to provide a few more swords against the darkspawn, and for that purpose alone."

The dwarf was still frowning, but he nodded. "Any meetings you have with notables in the city will be watched closely. If it appears you are trying to interfere with the selection, you will be expelled."

"That is as it should be, Ser, I understand perfectly — I would no more tolerate the interference of the Orlesians in our own Landsmeet."

(Alim would later wonder whether Fergus had known something so early as their arrival at Orzammar, months before the Landsmeet itself. He would never get a straight answer, but that didn't necessarily mean anything — as pure as his reputation was, Fergus could be quite sly when he felt like it.)

"True enough. Stick to fighting darkspawn, my lord, and there won't be any problem." And he began to turn, again, as though to call for the doors to be opened, again.

"I don't believe this," Imrek snarled. "You will invite murderers and traitors into your city — and even high lords, despite your claims you wish to isolate yourselves from outside politics — but refuse to allow entrance to an appointed representative of King Loghain, who in a time of crisis duly demands the allegiance of your deshyrs or lords or—"

Grumbling rising from the dwarven soldiers, the helmetless one giving Imrek a heavy glare, he barked, "Vietesj! Orzammar owes your king nothing, léntsjek, much less the allegiance of a désür."

Imrek stared down at the door guard, his flush of anger paling a little, mouth working silently for a moment. "I apologize, Ser, I misspoke."

"No, you spoke from your heart, then," Lýna said. Head turning toward the door guard, "Too many humans feel they are owed things they have no right to." He let out a low grunt, wordlessly agreeing with the sentiment, deep chuckles emanating from under the helms of the soldiers within earshot.

The fancy knight glared down at Lýna, face twisted into a hateful sneer. The big hat in the silk, apparently realizing Imrek was just digging a deeper hole for himself, reached out to grab him by the elbow, but he went ignored. "And one can only expect treason from the elves — King Cailan, it seems, failed to learn the lesson of the Second Blight."

Alim wondered if Imrek recognized the irony there. Whatever else one might say about it, the only way the Dalish kingdom's failure to come to the aid of Orlais during the Second Blight could be considered 'treason' was if they'd owed fealty to Kordillus I — they hadn't, obviously — which was the very same assumption Lýna had mocked him for making about the dwarves. Probably not. Also, Duncan had been in charge of the Wardens then, and he wasn't even an elf, his very bigotted point made absolutely no sense...

"All right," Fergus said, taking another half-step forward — trying to put himself between Lýna and Imrek, apparently seeing they were slipping into dangerous territory here. "Perhaps we should all take a—"

"It is not I who calls my king a man who abandoned his own to die to the Fifth Blight."

"You dare besmirch the honor of our King?!"

"I have spoken only truth, but maybe I will besmirch his honor once I see any sign of it!" Ooh, ouch...

Imrek took a threatening step toward Lýna — she didn't twitch, of course — pulled up a little short by the big hat trying to pull him back by the elbow. "You knife-ear heathen—"

"Ser Imrek!"

"Take your hands off me!" he roared, shrugging off the big hat's grip. Pawing at his wrist, snarling, "If you will continue to commit such insults against my liege—" He pulled off one glove, started working on the other. "—I am forced to extract recompense by the only means available to me." Imrek dropped his gloves on the tile at his feet, the mail-backed leather striking stone with a heavy clink. Their whole group went silent, practically holding their breath, some staring at Imrek and others Lýna.

"...What is this?"

"Ah..." Sola leaned a little closer over her shoulder, muttered, "Commander, he just challenged you to a duel."

"Oh!" There was a brief pause. "I accept. How does this go, for Alamarri?" she asked, as she started pulling off her own gloves — she'd guessed that much, at least.

There were a couple derisive scoffs from Imrek and his soldier friends — though not from the big hat, who looked almost painfully exasperated — but none said anything, started sauntering off to a more open part of the courtyard, Imrek already reaching for the buckles of his armor. Before Sola could begin to explain, Fergus said, "You don't have to do this, Lýna." He'd turned to follow Loghain's men with his eyes, frowning with distaste. "Imrek Dairrel is a braggart and a fool, and terribly unpopular with the rest of the noble families — I can't possibly imagine why Loghain thought it a good idea to send him of all people to speak to the dwarves on his behalf. If you simply blow off the duel, nobody will take his claims of what happened here seriously."

"No. I said I will fight him, and I will." Lýna dropped her own gloves, the smooth Dalish leather falling silently right on top of Imrek's — apparently she'd assumed she was supposed to do that, maybe there was an equivalent Avvar thing, with their cloaks or something. "How does this go?"

Sola let out a sigh. "Single blades, to death or surrender. Armor isn't allowed," she added, nodding to Imrek, who was currently removing his chestpiece.

"I need to change, then." Lýna sharply turned on her heel, started stalking off toward where the rest of their party were waiting, already picking at the hooks holding her top together.

"What's going on?"

"Are they going to let us in?"

With her typical casualness, Lýna said, "I was challenged to a duel." As the entire group burst into questions, Sola hooked Lýna by the elbow, waving the small crowd off, dragged Lýna around behind the packhorses to change with some tiny degree of privacy. Not that Lýna gave a damn, but it was the principle of the matter.

So it fell to Fergus to explain that the third son of the Bann of Dairspool had insulted Lýna multiple times, calling her a murderer, a traitor, and then a knife-ear heathen — though there'd probably been a noun coming up there, the big hat had interrupted Imrek before he could get it out (Alim was guessing bitch, or maybe whore) — before finally challenging her to a duel for insulting King Loghain. The noisy anger building in response was quite gratifying — Lýna might be a strange, creepy, unnervingly deadly barbarian, but she was their strange, creepy, unnervingly deadly barbarian, dammit.

But Alim only delayed long enough to be sure Fergus was taking care of it before continuing on after Lýna and Sola. By the time he came around the packhorses, Lýna's top was gone, now sitting on the tile and unhooking her trousers. Sola, digging through a bag lashed to one of the horses, shot him a look. "What do you think you're doing, Surana?"

"Oh, don't give me that, Sola — we both know Lýna doesn't care, and I wouldn't live long enough to try anything."

Lýna huffed, amused. Sola rolled her eyes, but turned back to the bag. "There are conventions about tactics considered dishonourable, but in the present environment most don't apply. Generally, you should avoid pulling his hair or going for his eyes. Voulez-vous le haut-de-chausses?"

"Non, ça que c'est plus... The long ones."

"Long, longues."

"Ugh. Do I need to wear boots?"

"You needn't if you wish not to, I suppose..."

"Then yes, the long ones."

While Lýna dressed, Sola explained more of the procedure and the rules — the bowing and some-such, under what circumstances the duel could be interrupted, what did and did not count as properly yielding, what the consequences of yielding might be (most likely, he'd demand an apology, which would be embarrassing but not lethal), tactics that, while perhaps effective, were considered terribly dishonorable and would land her with a nasty reputation that might follow her the rest of her life (which would make it difficult to work with the country's leaders, crippling any efforts to organize against the Blight), blah blah blah, fancy big hat nugshit. Alim still thought having all these complicated rules and formal traditions and such around something as crude and uncivilized as trying to kill each other over a perceived insult was absolutely ridiculous, but he guessed that was the nobility for you.

"I was thinking about that, actually," Alim interjected, while Sola was talking about what she might demand as a forfeit if Imrek yields. "Not about his forfeit, but that it'd be best if he does — you should avoid killing him at all possible. His father's in the Landsmeet, you see."

"He's one of Loghain's vassals."

"True, but there is a significant difference between an enemy set against you out of obligation to a superior and one out of deep, personal hatred. Don't risk your life over it, Lýna, it's not that important, but it would be better if you could avoid killing him."

Lýna gave him a contemplative look, head tilted a little. She was standing again, now dressed in linen trousers and chemise, dyed in Warden sky blue, black, and gray — which was a little odd, honestly, Alim could still count on the fingers of one hand the times he'd seen Lýna in normal, Alamarri clothing. Of course, she was hardly dressed appropriately — she was barefoot, and that chemise wasn't intended to be outerwear, at the very least she should have something under it, especially with the belt she was currently fixing her sword to pulling it in at the waist, her breasts far too obvious — but this was Lýna, he could hardly expect anything else. After staring at him for a moment, she glanced at Sola, apparently not willing to take his word for it.

"Whether he loses or he yields, you will have made an enemy. If you win the duel, fairly and honorably, his father is likely to hold a grudge nonetheless. If he yields, instead you will have Imrek for an enemy — especially so if you employ...brutal measures in an attempt to convince him. Yielding to an elven woman..." Sola sighed. "I think you underestimate how humiliating he would find that, Alim. His peers would never let him forget it, and he would forever seek to right the scales. On the balance, it might be better for him to survive, but I honestly can't say for certain."

Lýna considered it for another moment, then shrugged. "I will give him three chances to yield, if he doesn't he dies." Well, that seemed fair enough... "Is there anything else? For the Avvar, a goði calls on the Lawgiver to watch them for lies and cheats..."

"No, there isn't anything like— Oh," Sola chirped, interrupting herself, "there is, in fact: normally, a Mother or Sister will make an intercession. However, I don't know where he's going to find a Mother out here on such short notice, so that will likely be passed over."

Well, there did seem to be a little trading town up here, Alim thought, leaning around the packhorses, it wasn't out of the question— "Ah! He found himself a Mother, I'd recognize the robes and that self-important smile anywhere. There must be a Chantry here, for the travellers passing through, you know."

"Okay." Alim jumped when Lýna suddenly shouted — not that loud, he just hadn't expected it. She was waving at an Avvar camp on this side of the courtyard, several yards away nearer the row of buildings. A shouted response rose from multiple throats, Lýna said something rather longer. After yelling something back, two figures started to peel away from the camp, Lýna circled the horses and started off back toward Imrek.

"Um..." Tearing his eyes away from the approaching Avvar, Alim glanced at Sola. "Maybe bringing a pagan priest into the mix is a bad idea?"

Sola grimaced, but turned to follow Lýna without a word.

Lýna got a couple odd looks as she came into sight again, which wasn't a surprise — hardly anyone else had seen her in normal clothing either, and the chemise really wasn't enough. (Alim noticed Merrick catch himself staring at her chest, forcing his eyes away with a start and hissing under his breath.) Along the way toward where Imrek and the Mother were waiting, Leliana caught Lýna by the arm, muttered something to her, Alim wasn't close enough to hear. Lýna gave her a bemused look, shook her head (still too far away to catch her response), and continued on. Most of the Wardens trailed after her, clumping up a few yards away from Lýna and Imrek to watch.

There was definitely something going on between Lýna and Leliana. Alim had no idea what it was, but they'd been acting weird around each other for a couple days now — Leliana had obviously had a thing for Lýna before, but the weirdness wasn't one-sided anymore. He and Lacie were quietly taking bets on when they'd start screwing. He had early Solis, Lacie guessed early Ferventis. They'd only gotten to a few people so far, but most agreed they'd probably be getting together before the end of summer.

(Sola said they were being ridiculous, but then guessed mid-Ferventis anyway.)

And then there was the barbarian hedge-mage, of course. A man with bright orange-blond hair — gathered into a long braid like the others, knotted into the length beads and tiny little shapes that might be figurines or something, hard to tell — he was tall and thin and willowy, walking along with a drifting sort of grace. Pausing for a moment only a few steps away from Dairren (he leaned away a little, staring at the Avvar wide-eyed), he whipped off his cloak, handing it off to the second man with him (wide-shouldered and thick with muscle, enchanted axes hanging at both hips, clearly a warrior). The priest was wearing pale leather trousers, the material looking soft and pliant, painted here and there with swirls of blue and burnt orange, bare-chested save for a long sash of some kind criss-crossing his torso, glittering with beads and bits of metal, dyed in a dizzying array of brilliant color. He stepped into the cleared space between the Wardens and Imrek's men, the end of his staff — the wood gnarled and twisting at the end, the entire length carved with dozens of glyphs — clunking against the stone with every other step.

Imrek and the Mother both protested to the presence of the Avvar mage, of course. Over the low chatter of the Wardens, Alim managed to pick up Lýna's response. "I don't trust your god to judge us fairly," Lýna said, pointing at the Mother. Her head tilting toward the Avvar, "His I do."

Alim grimaced — yeah, maybe Lýna could have not said that in public, that would have been great. He didn't think he could really blame her, of course. Lýna was far more familiar with the Avvar, having lived alongside them in the far south, but the only contact she would have with Andrastians would have been indirect, in the form of stories...of their ancestors destroying her people's homeland and sending them into exile. And he had to admit, the Chantry wasn't particularly charitable with people who didn't sing the Chant, especially elves — Alim wondered how Leliana had handled explaining the Chantry's insistence that the elven gods were demons trying to sway people away from the Maker as a petty act of revenge — and several Fereldans she'd run into over the last couple months had been complete dicks to her face about it. So, he did get it, but he kind of wished she hadn't said it.

Especially when Justien immediately leaned over to mutter about it to Sedwulf. At least Sedwulf seemed more amused than anything, but still, probably not great.

The Mother and Imrek were very much not happy about that, but after a few comments they decided to go along with it. After all, they both thought this heathen elf was going to be dead in a few minutes anyway, what did it matter if she didn't show the proper respect to the Maker? While the Mother sang an intercession over Imrek, Lýna drew her sword, the noise causing them both to jump, then sank to one knee, holding it up to the Avvar — her palms under the flat of the blade, leaving the hilt open. The Avvar took it, slowly and gently — to avoid accidentally cutting Lýna's hands, Alim guessed — reciting a long crooning chant of some kind, the staff balanced cradled in his elbow, he ran his fingers along the blade, one side and then the other, with a low twitter of magic Alim could barely pick up from here.

Curious, Alim sidled over toward Morrigan, standing at the front toward the edge of their group, near Edolyn — Edolyn had picked up the banner again, presumably gone to the edge of the pack so she didn't accidentally brush people over the head with it, her eyes cutting to Morrigan now and again. There was an odd curl to Morrigan's lips, didn't quite know how to read that, her arms crossed low over her hips. (Which did distracting things to her chest, because Morrigan hadn't taken to wearing proper clothes yet either, Alim tried not to notice.) "Hey Morrigan, what's that he's doing?"

Her eyes flicked to him, just for a second, before returning to Lýna. "'Tis expected before a duel such as this for a priest to cleanse the weapons of the participants of spells and curses which might give one an advantage. Any enchantments on the blade will be suppressed as well."

"Wait, what?" Eyes widening a little, Alim turned back to the Avvar, but he was done with whatever magic he'd been doing. The two of them were speaking in Avvar, so Alim couldn't be sure, but it sounded like the mage was asking Lýna a series of questions, each getting a brief response — leading her in vows to follow the rules of the duel, he assumed. "How the hell do they manage that? That shouldn't even be possible..." A disruption wouldn't do shit to weapon enchantments, the magic shielded from the effects by the weapon itself, and even an isolation would be useless, since most enchantments didn't require contact with the Fade to function.

Morrigan gave him a condescending smile. "For you, perhaps. But what may seem impossible to a mortal mage is often trivial to a god."

...Oh.

Was this Avvar mage invoking spirits right next to a Chantry Mother? That was sort of hilarious, honestly...

Once Lýna was done with her vows or whatever, she stood up again, the Avvar handing her back her sword. Glancing at Imrek — who'd been waiting for a short time now, glowering down at her, the Mother sneering at the Avvar priest, nose curled as though suffering an offensive smell — Lýna sheathed her sword again, sauntered a few steps closer. The Avvar backed off a few yards, then sank down to the tile, staff laid over his crossed legs, bowing his head.

"We begin, then?" Lýna asked, smooth and calm.

Imrek all but snarled his assent. The Mother, still glaring at the Avvar priest, twitched, scrambled away toward Imrek's companions, taking a spot standing next to a Templar she must have brought with her. The Templar was watching the Avvar as well, eyes narrow and intense with suspicion, his hand tightly gripping his sword — presumably, the dwarves wouldn't tolerate the Templars striking against apostates on their doorstep. What a pity, how hard that must be for him to stand there and not do anything about it. Imrek took a step back from Lýna, opening up a more comfortable starting distance between them, dipped his head in a bow. A very shallow bow, stiff and reluctant, but recognizable as one. More fancy big hat stuff, declaring his name and his purpose, blah blah.

And Lýna did her part of the silly pointless script, though not using the same words, obviously not realizing there was a script. There was something a little funny about her bow, dipping just a little. Almost like a curtsey, Alim guessed, but not obviously so, the bend of her knees shallow and brief enough he'd hardly noticed — must be a Dalish or maybe Avvar thing.

The pleasantries observed, Imrek drew his sword, the scrape of the blade leaving the scabbard instantly silencing the muttering of the Wardens and Imrek's companions. But Lýna didn't reach for hers, hands still hanging empty at her sides. "Yield now," she said, calm voice coming clear over the bickering of the merchants in the near distance, "and we will pretend this never happened."

Imrek sneered. "Afraid to die, elf?"

"I take no joy in killing to no good end."

She didn't come out and say that she had absolutely no doubt she would win their duel, but Imrek clearly got the message, his face collapsing into a hateful glare. "Draw your sword."

"No." Lýna folded her arms over her chest, staring steadily up at him. "Come."

There was a little noise at that, amused or concerned titters from their side and offended hisses from Imrek's — Lýna probably intended to get a hit on him unarmed first, as part of her strategy to get him to yield, but Alim was guessing she didn't realize how extremely insulting that was. Standing nearby, Edolyn shuffled a little, the banner overhead wavering. "Um, is she...going to be okay?"

"Fear not, Edolyn," Morrigan drawled, slow and amused. (Alim gave her a double-take — he hadn't realized Morrigan knew the recruits' names.) "If she wished, your commander could tear apart this small, foolish man with her bare hands."

Alim was about to ask if she was sure about that — Lýna was very good, yes (that time she'd killed that ensorceled Templar like it was nothing, shit), but Imrek must have gotten extensive formal training as well — but before he could speak the duel started. Imrek sidled forward, stepping into a sideways stance, a quick little slash darting in across Lýna's middle. Careful not to overextend himself, apparently not as stupid as he looked — as much disdain as he might have for her, he must realize Lýna at least thought she knew what she was doing. Lýna skipped back a step, the tip of the sword falling short. And then she didn't move, waiting.

Grimacing in annoyance, Imrek advanced on her, lashing out with a slash here or a stab there, but Lýna ducked or dodged each one, after the first couple letting her arms fall, extended for balance or pulled in as she turned. The audience was mostly silent, save for an occasional sharp inhale as Lýna avoided a lethal blow by an especially narrow margin, a few angry mutters from Imrek's people.

So it was quiet enough that, when Lýna dipped under another slash, stepping forward and burying her fist in his gut, Alim could hear the harsh cough as Imrek's breath was driven from his lungs. Teetering a little, free arm hugging his middle, Imrek took a blind slash at Lýna, but she slipped around, putting his left shoulder between herself and his sword. Gripping his arm, a lightning-fast kick struck the back of his leg, dropping him to his knees. Lýna skipped back to his front, then squared her shoulders and darted—

Crack!

Imrek crashed flat on his back, his free hand leaping up to his face and letting out a shout of pain, as Lýna carelessly sauntered a few steps away, her back to him, shaking out her left arm. He hadn't been able to see from this angle — that and it'd just happened too damn fast — but it looked like Lýna had elbowed him in the face, hard. For Alim to be able to hear the hit from here she must have broken something — his nose, maybe.

A few cheers rose from the Wardens. At a glance, Sola seemed slightly taken aback — shouting like that during a duel was very uncouth — but, well, they were commoners, what did she expect?

Imrek pushed himself upright, a little shakily, his face already darkening and blood reddening his upper lip — yep, broke his nose, looked like. Lýna, circling him at a smooth, casual pace, said, "You should yield," her voice flat and calm, as though nothing at all out of the ordinary were happening, a simple statement of the obvious.

Glaring at her, stiff and furious, Imrek wiped the blood off his lip with a sleeve. His grip firming on his sword, he raised it to her again, his response nonverbal but clear.

Lýna sighed, and drew her own.

Alim was hardly what he'd call an expert in swordplay. Obviously, he wouldn't have had much opportunity to see much of that sort of thing growing up — the Templars at the Circle kept their skills sharp, of course, but they practiced downstairs where the mages couldn't see them — and it wasn't something he'd bothered to study himself since. He had seen quite a bit of it over the last month or so, though. Their new recruits had gotten some pretty intensive training — Halrys had already known his way around a sword, but Sedwulf, Wynvir, and Gailen had practically been trained from scratch. And, of course, Alistair, Keran, Lýna, Fergus, and a few of his men would have occasional practice duels between each other, so he'd even seen plenty of well-trained people at it. Still not an expert, no, but he was starting to get a feel for it.

One of the things that still surprised him was how damn fast people could whip those things around. Broadswords were fucking heavy, okay — Alim could lift one, sure, but even with his Joining-enhanced strength, he'd have serious trouble trying to imitate some of the gestures they did...and flinging it around that fast, shit. Lýna's was shorter than a proper broadsword, shorter even than Leliana's saber, and made mostly of silverite, even with its sheath (Alim had moved it out of the way once) somewhat lighter than the normal swords he'd picked up. Not really light, but noticeably less heavy.

And holy shit, they sure could whip those things around. Imrek approached a little more cautiously than the first time around, but in only a couple seconds his sword was fucking flying, slashing and jabbing whip-fast. Not so quickly Alim couldn't make out what was going on, he was a normal human man, but definitely faster than Alim could possibly move something that heavy, the torque he must be feeling in his elbow repositioning from one blow into another, shit...

Of course, as fast as he was, Lýna being elven and tiny and terrifying, it wasn't fast enough. Imrek was larger and heavier, and definitely physically stronger than her, even with the benefits of the Joining, so Lýna didn't stop the incoming blows — like Alim often saw the rest of their swordsmen do, interposing their own weapon in the path of the other so it couldn't continue on toward them — instead redirecting them around her. The little silverite sword would snap out to slap at Imrek's, turning a slash down at a much steeper angle, so it sailed safely by her knee instead of cutting into her shoulder, a little flick might turn a stab to the side. She could only redirect by so much of an angle, so sometimes it came with little skipping steps back or to the side, bare feet silent on stone, Imrek advancing on her, the sideways steps preventing them from travelling very far, dancing in a random little spiral.

Imrek seemed to adapt as they went, dipping and squaring his shoulders, jabs abandoned and adjusting the angle of his strikes, coming from the sides and from below more than above — for some reason, Lýna couldn't redirect those as far, so the skipping and dipping grew more frequent, constantly moving. It sort of reminded Alim of Lýna fighting Alistair, actually. They'd done a number of practice duels — sometimes without the recruits even watching, seemingly just for fun — and they ended up looking a lot like this. The larger, stronger human advancing while the quicker, lighter elf sidled around and skipped back, the space between them constantly flickering with rapidly-passing blades, hitting each other in a staccato rhythm, tink tink scrape clang, clang clang, scrape tink tink tink scrape tink clang...

From the practice duels Alim had watched, Lýna and Alistair seemed more or less evenly matched. But, as uninformed as Alim was in these matters, even just watching from the sidelines, Alim could tell already that Imrek was definitely going to lose.

As quickly as he could move that damn thing around, Alistair moved even quicker — Imrek was simply too slow.

The blows coming fast and constant, the exchange ended very abruptly. With a long scraping noise, a sideways strike was shrugged up, not an unusual thing for Lýna to do, but this time she ducked and stepped forward as it passed over her head. Straightening again toward the end of her block, pushing Imrek off balance, the twinkling silverite blade coming back down in a long slash.

Imrek let out a harsh gasp of pain, his hand jumping to his hip, Lýna smoothly pacing away, again putting her back to him. A long gash had been cut into the thigh of his trousers, cloth already beginning to darken with blood. After several steps Lýna came to a stop, turning on her heel to face him, her sword held down at her side — at this distance, Alim could barely see a hint of red along the edge of the blade, a trail of tiny little puddles dripped from the tip spread between them.

Her face blank, expressionless, voice flat and calm, Lýna said, "Yield, now."

With a hateful glare, Imrek snarled, "Maker curse you, you knife-ear bitch." Squaring his shoulders, his free (slightly bloody) hand came to the pommel of his sword, the tip pointed unwaveringly toward Lýna. "I would rather die."

Lýna shrugged. "So be it."

Imrek was fighting more defensively now, but it hardly mattered. After only a handful of quick exchanges, Lýna narrowly slipped around a jab, darting forward in a single quick skip, Imrek's sword arm trapped under her free one against her side. Imrek let out a groaning, shuddering gasp as silverite pierced into his stomach.

Lýna pulled away, taking a couple steps to the side, sword stained red down half its length. Imrek teetered a couple clumsy steps before dropping to his knees, the heavy broadsword falling from nerveless fingers to clatter against the tile. Alim couldn't see the wound from this angle, Imrek's back to him, but he was hunched over, both arms wrapped around his middle, breaths coming thick and heavy and shuddering. But he was only kneeling there for a few breaths before Lýna turned on her heel, the tip of her sword dipping down before rising in a heavy, two-handed slash, taking Imrek across the throat. The force of it knocked him over onto his back — this wound Alim could see, a deep channel carved through the front of his neck, pouring out blood but little hints of the tissues inside still visible, ugh, very gross.

Imrek took a last few shivering, gurgling breaths before he went still, blood shimmering in the sun silently spreading across the smooth dwarven tiles.

Morrigan turned to give Edolyn a crooked smirk, as though to say See what I mean? Alim doubted the woman saw it, her wide eyes fixed on the wound in Imrek's throat — the barbarian wilder hedge witch had maybe forgotten that some people found it shocking to watch someone be killed right in front of them.

In fact, the end of the duel had a thick quiet fall over the Wardens, broken only now and then with a shuffle of cloth, a low whisper, much unlike the cheering after Lýna's first hit. While the Mother and Imrek's men made for his body, the Avvar priest walked up to Lýna. The bloody sword held low toward him, he pulled a flask of something from somewhere, poured a thin trail of the clear liquid inside over the blade. The instant it made contact with the metal it evaporated, trails of fog licking over the surface, steam rising to vanish into the air. Once the blood was washed off of both sides of the blade (somehow), the pair spoke in low mutters, Alim too far away to pick it out — besides, it was certainly in Avvar.

Alim couldn't help twitching in surprise a little when the Avvar mage bent over to place a kiss on Lýna's brow, an odd, echoing flicker of magic ringing out he had no idea how to interpret. Lýna sheathed her sword again, she and the Avvar clasped arms, and they went their separate ways, the Avvar returning to his people (escorted by his warrior companion) and Lýna going up to the Gates to retrieve her gloves before approaching the Wardens.

Lýna had to wade through a sea of back-slaps and arm-clasps before she could slip behind the packhorses and change her clothes again. Looking rather bemused, Alim thought.

Anyway, after waiting a couple minutes for Lýna to change they were ready to get moving again. Imrek's people were already gone, having carried their leader's corpse to the Chantry, so they weren't interrupted by any more self-important nobles on the way up to the Gates. (Unfortunately, the solution to inconvenient nobles in general couldn't be to kill them all — doing that with Eamon would have just made new problems...) There was already a door open behind the line of guards before they got there. It wasn't the main gate, no, but a smaller door set into it, the seam so smooth and fine Alim hadn't even noticed it was there.

Of course, just because it wasn't the main gate didn't mean it wasn't still fucking huge — at least ten feet high, wide enough for a single full-width wagon to slip through. Or a golem, he guessed. Like he'd thought before, definitely overcompensating.

"You've done me a service, Commander," one of the dwarves called as they approached. The voice sounded a little off, turned deeper and echoing by the helmet surrounding his head, but Alim was certain it was the same dwarf they'd been talking to before. "That foolish léntsjek has been trying to talk his way into the city for days now." Before Lýna could respond, he was yelling something in dwarvish. The line of guards parted, opening up a gap in front of the open door, heads bowing and forearms clanking against breastplates. They all filed through, most giving the intimidating dwarven soldiers respectful nods as they passed.

On the other side of the Gates was an enormous open hall, certainly the single largest enclosed space Alim had ever been in. Alim had read of Orzammar before, so he knew what this place was: the Hall of Heroes, a monument to the Paragons native to Orzammar as well as a display meant to impress upon visitors the power and wealth of the city-kingdom. There had once been a fissure here connecting the massive cavern Orzammar had been built in to the outside, the narrow passage expanded out into the Hall and the Gates built to seal off the end. Construction had started shortly after the discovery of the fissure around 1600 Ancient, approaching something not so different from its present form by 1378 Ancient...which was over a thousand years before the birth of Andraste, because dwarven history was absurd like that sometimes.

Built in proportion with the Gates, the Hall was around a hundred fifty feet wide, the ceiling easily thirty feet high, along the center arching up to nearly fifty, and from one end to another was nearly a mile long. The floors were covered in polished granite tile, cut from the earth during the early expansion of the city over two thousand years ago, arranged into a complicated, geometric mosaic, the seams lined with iron and bronze. The walls were also paved with tile, though only the first dozen feet or so, instead of abstract designs these depicting scenes from true history or dwarven legend, color provided by stone of all sorts and the occasional panel of lovingly-polished metal — bronze and nickel and copper intentionally left to green and even silver and gold and silverite — larger than life and in intricate, exaggerated detail, some of the scenes so obscenely ancient their original meaning had since been forgotten.

Above these mosaics and across the ceiling the original stone had been left exposed, dark and uneven and craggy, making a stark contrast against the dwarven style of straight, symmetrical, geometric shapes with nature left harsh and untamed — though artificially so, the cave hadn't been nearly this large to start with, they'd designed this contrast on purpose. The occasional pillar descended from the rough ceiling, sprouting from them here and there the only light source: something the books Alim had read called simply "firewater", a fluid that glowed a bright reddish-orange — the Circle assumed firewater contained lyrium, but beyond that they knew practically nothing about it — filling glass vessels as large as Fergus fixed into the stone, the floors and walls gleaming in the constant, unwavering light but shadows left clinging to the ceiling.

Down the center of the Hall stood a double row of statues, dwarves several times life size, their features sharp and dramatic, perfectly symmetrical, formed of straight lines and hard angles. Their accoutrements — armor, weapons, tools, some objects Alim couldn't even identify — made of more colorful materials, metals polished to a shine, somehow integrated into the sculptures, as though the statues truly were living people who'd picked the objects up with moveable stone fingers. Each represented a Paragon who'd been born or lived most of their life in Orzammar, mortal beings so greatly revered they'd been raised to something not so unlike divinity.

Alim had read descriptions, seen drawings of the Hall of Heroes before. They didn't do the place justice.

Not that he could blame those authors or artists for that failure. Looking upon the place with his own eyes, it... Someone could describe the structure and the materials it was made from, yes, but that would always fail to capture the sheer weight of the place. Everything gleaming, light from the firewater reflecting off of metal here and there and everywhere, parts of the statues and bits of the mosaics on the walls and the lines dividing the tiles in the floor, and just so much of it — one mosaic after another after another after another, the walls just extending on and on and on, simply too much detail to take it all in at once. No words could quite capture the awe of standing just inside the Gates, the gleaming hall ahead and murky shadows above, the grandeur of it, the size, because the dwarves were definitely compensating, fuck...

Alim would admit he ended up just staring out at the Hall, gaping. He was hardly the only one, though — most of their group were just as overwhelmed by it all as he was, hardly a whisper passing between them.

"Greetings, Wardens." The low, gruff voice was unexpected enough Alim about jumped out of his skin. A dwarf had approached them, a man of maybe forty, short hair dark and broad face creased with lines. He was also wearing armor, though rather less impressive than that of the guards outside, mail and plate gray and rusty red — the colors of the throne of Orzammar, Alim knew — a sword at his hip and the rim of a shield visible over the top of his head. "I am to show you to the Last Watch, on the Way of Diamonds," he said, each word enunciated slowly and delicately, his accent rather worse than that of the talkative door guard. "Lifts are this way, come." The dwarf turned and started stomping off into the hall, his boots clicking against the tile.

Only a few followed immediately — Fergus, Alistair, Sola, and of course Lýna — the rest of them scrambling to follow, the horses' hooves loudly clattering. Skipping closer behind him, Lýna asked, "Is there a place here to put the horses? Unless the stairs are very shallow, they can't climb them."

The dwarf grunted. "The lifts will take them. You will see."

They weren't walking straight down the enormous hall, instead angled sharply to the left. After a couple minutes — it was hard to tell, the massive size of the space fucking with Alim's sense of distance, but he thought they'd crossed maybe a fifth of the length — they passed through an enormous doorway set into the left-side wall, a good fifteen feet high and wide enough for a pair of wagons to pass through side-by-side. In fact, there happened to be one coming from the other direction just as they came up, pulled by a single large druffalo, the group sidled over to one side to let them through. Beyond was another hallway, though shorter and narrower, a large portion of it blocked off by a large metal grate, long, flat spars of metal the width of his wrist kinking back and forth and woven together, forming a huge web running floor to ceiling all down the hall.

No, multiple metal grates — it didn't split the hall in half but sort of fenced off the opposite half into multiple square sections, each several yards wide. Alim didn't know what was going on with that.

One of these sections, the web had been sort of...folded aside somehow, compressing, as though all the tangled junctions in the fence had joints worked into them, allowing them to swivel closed. Their group were led through this opening into the enclosed square — there was room for all of them with plenty left over, the square maybe half the size of the courtyard inside Redcliffe Castle. Alim was close to the front of the group, waiting for everyone to catch up he looked around, wondering what the hell this was supposed to accomplish. Were they going to open a door on the other end once they were all inside? Alim couldn't see the frame for one in the wall, but then he hadn't seen the smaller door set in the Gates either...

There were a couple other dwarves around, they talked briefly with their guide and then something was being shouted in dwarvish, the fence pulled closed from both ends — that looked fucking weird, the gaps in the mesh expanding and changing shape as they went, made him feel oddly dizzy watching. Still looking around, he spotted Lacie not so far away from him, toward the edge of the group, looking...nervous?

Alim sidled over to her, even as the two halves of the fence met each other, a dwarf ratcheting them closed with a high clanking. "Are you okay?" Was Lacie claustrophobic? He didn't think so, but he also didn't see why it should matter — they were underground, but it was so fucking big in here he didn't think it should bother anyone. Hell, he suspected Lýna would be perfectly fine in here.

Lacie turned to him, eyes wide, almost twitching with nerves. Instead of answering, she pointed at the floor behind herself. Frowning, he leaned around her, looked into the next square over...except there wasn't a next square over. On the other side of the fence, only a few feet away, was a sheer drop. A deep shaft, the walls entirely smooth stone, save for a curious metal track in the center front and back, down and down and down — he took a few steps closer — and down and down and down...

Oh, lifts, he got it now. Since leaving the Circle, they'd discovered Lacie didn't do well with heights — the view over the lake from the walls of the Castle was very pretty, but Lacie had been far too nervous to appreciate it. So. That made sense.

There was a deep, reverberating clank, the air around them seeming to shudder, the ground jerking down a couple inches. Several people let out shouts of surprise, one of the horses huffing in protest; Lacie squeaked, both her hands latching around Alim's arm. The floor started descending in little intervals, shivering down step by step with a heavy ratcheting coming from the walls, the hallway they'd entered from gradually rising, the dwarves outside the fence cheerfully (almost mockingly) waving at them. (Probably amused by the shouting and squeaking.) Lacie was practically shivering, Alim dragged her further away from the fence, so she wouldn't be tempted to look out over the edge.

The nervousness from most of the group gradually faded away as the descent continued without incident — though the horses clearly hated the way the ground jerked down inches at a time, shuffling and tossing their heads, held in place with firm hands on reins and ceaseless head pats. In seconds, Alim couldn't see into the hallway anymore at all, reduced to a square of light overhead, growing smaller as they dropped lower and lower, hemmed in by stone front and back, beyond the fence to left and right a seemingly bottomless drop. Their group broke into chatter, their voices raised over the noisy ratcheting of the lift, talking about how insanely huge this place was, that first hall had been seriously impressive, the amount of work that must have taken to build — not to mention the regular cleaning, keeping it clear and shining — and how did this thing taking them down work anyway, and if this was just the entrance how fucking big was Orzammar?

After a little while, Lacie stopped shaking, but she didn't let go of Alim's arm, the tightness of her grip revealing just how nervous she was. Neither of them knew how to fly, after all, if this thing broke and dropped down the shaft there would be nothing they could do about it. Maybe they'd take the stairs instead on the way back out...

Eventually, Alim's head starting to seriously hurt from the noise, a little chink of light peeked out from under the flat stone ahead. Beyond the fence another hall revealed itself in intervals as they approached, inch by inch. He noticed that, despite there being a thick metal track on the wall, there was nothing here in the opening — did they drop one of the only two things holding the platform in place during this part? Hmm. Maybe the platform was deep enough it'd already made contact with the track under this level — which was slightly absurd to think about, that much stone would be terribly heavy — but there was really no way to tell. Oh well, he assumed the dwarves knew what they were doing, these lifts were how they got food into the city, so.

The platform finally matched the floor of the hallway, so perfectly even the seam between them was almost invisible. But the ratcheting didn't stop right away, the stone under their feet twitching a little once, again, with each twitch an odd clang joining the noise of the lift working. There was a shout in dwarvish, and with a final shiver and clank the machinery went silent, the floor falling still. A dwarf on the other side of the fence unlocked the fence with another storm of clattering — clearly they were very serious about making sure nothing fell out of the lifts as they descended, undoing the lock took multiple motions — and the fence began to fold open, the holes in the mesh compressing as it went. Their guide waved them on, his mail clinking a little with the motion, and they stepped out into the hall.

The hall they walked into was rather less impressive than the one above...in some ways. It was much narrower, with room for two wagons to pass abreast and not much more than that — it was a little wider near the lifts, apparently space for wagons to maneuver — and the ceiling a meager fifteen feet high (ridiculous). In scale, it was less impressive, but in the sheer richness of the construction it was perhaps superior. The floors were granite, white streaked here and there with black and pink, not sanded smooth but instead allowed fine whorls of texture, presumably to give boots and hooves and wheels more traction. Even so, specks of quartz winked in the light, like a million tiny gemstones under their feet. And they weren't the only gemstones.

The walls were covered in more polished stone tiles, in places forming pictures much like those overhead, but the style was somewhat different — newer, Alim assumed. For one thing, the tiles came in a greater variety of shapes and sizes, fitted together in intricate patterns, not so much repeating as iterating, at once rigid and hard-angled but asymmetrical, the changing intervals between the lines unsettling Alim a little, screwing with his sense of depth. The end of the hallway looked like it was further away on one side than the other, despite Alim's certainty that it was perfectly even, but walk for a little bit and it might look like the edge of the other wall was further away, and he really couldn't guess how long the hallway was, at all.

And then there the gemstones, yes, the mosaics weren't only plain rock, also inset with glimmering gemstones in every color of the rainbow. Dense with sharply-angled facets reflecting the light, those closer to the light sources — silvery lanterns holding ampoules of firewater, because of course — casting little chinks of color across the stone at seemingly random angles. The hallway was bright, and shining, and sparkling, and so intensely colorful, it was dazzling, too much, enough it was even hurting his eyes a little.

After a dizzying walk, the hallway emptied out into a small courtyard, the floor tiled in the rusty red and steel gray of Orzammar. They clearly weren't on the 'ground' floor yet — which was kind of a meaningless term, they were underground right now. There was a sturdy iron railing at the opposite end, fencing off a drop, Alim couldn't see how high from this angle. A few low benches were in the corners, to either side a staircase and a long, shallow ramp, curving down and away. A group of Avvar were nearing the top of the left-side ramp just now, gently leading a pair of those pale, pebbly-skinned creatures around the curve, a rough, roofless wagon dragged behind them. Out of curiosity, Alim skipped across the courtyard toward the railing to get a better look at the city, followed by at least half of their people.

He gaped uncomprehendingly at the vista, for a moment his brain simply refusing to process what he was seeing.

Orzammar was settled in a cavern, a rent in the earth that the dwarves had worked over uncounted generations, the natural formation long ago expanded and reformed. Its shape was circular, though not perfectly so, the outer wall wavering back and forth just a little, curving downward to form a sort of bowl. Eight to ten feet below the courtyard Alim stood on was a grand avenue, smooth stone floors variegated with repeating patterns, occasionally broken by mosaics, forming sigils Alim assumed must be meaningful to the dwarves. The road ran to both left and right, arcing around the breadth of the cavern to meet again on the opposite side.

On the outer side of the avenue were large buildings, angles sharp and contrasting, giving the blocky structures an odd sense of depth, decorated along the roofs and the edges and windows with switch-backing, geometric shapes. The colors varied, some in white marble or reddish granite or even black and green serpentstone, blue and pink and...well, all sorts of stone there could possibly be, gleaming here and there with bronze and silver, hints of sparkles catching his eye, gemstones too small to make out from this distance. The opposite side of the road was blocked off with a high iron fence, the straight, rigid lines forming into a single pattern repeated over and over, almost looking like a stylized dwarven face. Arcing over the avenue were tall lampposts, at their ends holding large reservoirs of firewater, washing their surroundings with light red and orange and gold, setting stone to glimmering and metal to shining, though they weren't bright to chase away the shadows entirely, still clinging in alleys and the roofs of buildings.

And beyond the fence, down, was another level.

And another.

And another.

Down down down, the floor of the bowl was lost in shadow, occasional shapes hinted at in the darkness, fires flickering in the deep illuminating a patch around, but otherwise too dim to make out. Rising out of the floor at the center was a plateau, at its top a grand palace, at the sides shaped in imitation of the dwarven form, standing straight and tall and proud, hands upraised, as though the figures were holding up the walls, arcing out somewhat as they rose, through titanic strength alone. Toward the center of the palace was a large section open to the sky a—

Oh, not a palace, an arena — this open place in the middle, there was a texture to the sides that suggested to Alim tiered seating. That must be where the dwarves held their Provings. (A barbaric, wasteful, and needlessly violent institution if they asked him, but the dwarves hadn't asked him.) Causeways linked the arena to the ring road at more or less the same elevation, but also a ring road down, and one above, and another above, and another and another, the walkways creating a sort of net of stone, as though weighed down at the middle by the arena, the firewater lights along the bridges setting it all to gleaming.

And the place was absolutely, breathtakingly, overwhelmingly enormous.

Alim's mind refused to properly make sense of it. Details jumped out, the mosaic on the floor here, that one manor there, the statuesque arena walls, more dwarven statues at titanic scale looming out of the shadows near the ceiling, as though holding up the roof, the latticework on the lamppost only a couple yards away, the angles made by the causeways leading to the Proving, a market to the right, littered with tables and stalls, dwarves wearing armor in a litany of colors and styles bustling about, the little groups walking this way and that across the avenue — almost universally armed and armored, he noticed — the unmistakable blue glow of lyrium emanating from a building a quarter turn around the cavern that way, and, and, and...

There was too much. Alim couldn't take in the totality of the city all at once, it was simply too big. The cavern had to be miles across, he couldn't...

Most of their group stood with him at the railing, looking out over the cavern in astounded, breathless silence. Alim would catch a word now and then, but not conversation, no, whispered oaths and most of those aborted, nobody had any fucking clue what to say to this...this.

"Grey Wardens, friends..." Alim blinked, turned to follow the voice, leaning around Wynvir and Jowan (standing right next to him, hadn't even noticed him appear) so he could make out the dwarf. Their guide was grinning, blocky teeth peeking past his lips, the expression amused, proud. "...welcome to Kal-Orzammar."

Their guide sounded almost smug, but then, Alim guessed the dwarves had every right to it. This place was fucking incredible.

And even they, a traitorous thought whispered, cannot defeat the Blight. For all their wealth, for all their technology and all their mastery of enchantment, for all their great works, the dwarves had been all but annihilated, a pair of isolated cities — Orzammar in the south, Sharok in the north — all that remained of an empire that had once spanned the length and breadth of Thedas. For all Orzammar's majesty, dwarven civilization was on the edge of extinction, slowly strangled to death under the tide of darkspawn at their gates.

Looking out over the massive, glittering city, Alim sighed. Now that was a sobering thought...

---

Endrin Aidúkan — I've mentioned before that I've basically stolen Hungarian phonology for dwarvish (though there are minor differences, and the vocabulary will be entirely constructed). This name would be pronounced ['ɛn.(d)rin ' :.kɒn], which is very similar though not quite identical to what is said by the voice actors in the game. The canon spelling is Endrin Aeducan — the voice actors pronounce ae like [aj] ("aye"), so I changed the spelling to ai to reflect that.

There will be some changes to the spellings of various dwarven names and terms, because of course I can't just leave a conlang alone.

désjür — I've decided to interpret canon "deshyr" as plural, making the singular désj. If it's spelled "désjür" the speaker is pronouncing it exactly correctly; when it's spelled "deshyr" the speaker is a foreigner not getting it quite right. Désjürvesj is a possessive form.

léntsjek — A derogatory term for a person who lives above ground.

vietesj — Canon "vieta", a command to stop.

válasj atráts — An informal greeting, canon "atrast vala"

Right, that's enough of that.

This chapter ended up cutting off earlier than I originally anticipated, but as an indirect consequence I know exactly how the next chapter is going to work — this and the next chapter should definitely be considered two halves of the same thing — so that's convenient. It's a dialog-heavy one, though, and I struggle with dialog, so we'll see how that goes.

And yes, Orzammar has been entirely redesigned. As you might expect, given this is me, I have issues with their worldbuilding. (If you wanted something that's entirely faithful to the original material, the fuck are you doing reading my fics?) One of the most important things to keep in mind about Orzammar is that it's a city under constant, unrelenting siege by the darkspawn, and has been for over thirteen hundred years. As the only outsiders who take the Blight as deadly serious as they do, Grey Wardens are always, always, always welcome in Orzammar — there is literally no circumstance in which they would ever turn Wardens away at the gate.

Okay, I've babbled long enough — on a completely unrelated note, this fic is as of this update the longest one I have posted on fanfiction. And we're only just getting to Orzammar, ha ha whoops...