"Foggy and Badger," Sten stated.

Carver glanced back as the party crossed a stream. "What?"

"You knew the Karasaad corpses in Redcliffe," Sten observed, stepping where Carver did. "They were in the same military organisation as you, and you identified them by name."

The party moved from the stream to a path between two cliffs, wary of their vulnerable position. Carver distractedly made a noise of confirmation.

"Maric's Shield," Alistair muttered from the front of the line, "and a knight at that. You don't have to answer to your fellow knights; the only ones who in fact stand above you are the captain of the king's army, the commander of the king's army, and the king himself. Yet I thought you were a page!"

Carver shrugged. "I do run errands."

"Of the significant kind!" Alistair spluttered. "Who assigned you to mine and Elissa's mission? The captain of the king's army?"

"That would have been Ser Cauthrien," Carver replied.

A heavy pause followed. "Teyrn Loghain, then?" Alistair deduced. "Come on, Ser Carver, work with me here."

"Just Carver is—"

"Impossible," Sten remarked. "A sten commands an average of sixty men, the equivalent of a Ferelden 'sergeant.' This one is a rank above: a 'knight,' or a karasten. If he didn't receive his orders from his kithshok, he received them from the Kathaban or the Arishok. Neither would assign a karasten to a joint operation, but would rather send him to lead it."

"Kathaban?" Alistair echoed, head spinning. "Arishok?"

"Il Artiglio di Stato Maggiore della Marina," Zevran helpfully identified, "e della Difesa. The houses of the Antivan Crows each pursue personal interests, but we collectively prioritise our homeland's safety from external threats. The strongest houses' leaders, the Talons, each hold one of eight titles while they prove themselves capable of keeping it. The Talon of the Navy Staff excels the most at naval combat through their skills, the Crows under them, and their connections to the Felicisima Armada. The Talon of the Defence Staff is the strongest Talon and commands the other Talons in the name of the country."

Sten grunted. "The Antivan Crows are the reason why the Antaam avoids Antiva."

"Ferelden's ranks aren't nearly as structured as the Qunari's," Carver deflected, "and don't have a strong comparison to the Crows. Teyrn Loghain commands Ferelden's navy merely as part of his Lieutenant-Commander duties."

Alistair hummed thoughtfully. "Uh…so a Lieutenant-Commander is like a Talon of the Navy Staff, or a Kathaban? That makes our Head-Commander, King Cailan, a Talon of the Defence Staff or an Arishok!"

Wasn't this man's head supposed to be made of cheese!?

Alistair glanced back at Carver. "Why would you be assigned to this mission? Wouldn't Teyrn Loghain or King Cailan rather put you in charge of it?"

Sten scoffed. "I just said that."

Zevran chuckled. "It seems you were assigned to Carver's mission, Alistair."

The warden grumbled. "I would have honesty from you now, Carver!"

"…Zevran speaks true," Carver reluctantly confirmed. "The knowledge I shared with Warden Theron in Ostagar is buying King Cailan time — the last ingredient for the king's recovery is just archdemon blood."

"So Duncan sent me and Elissa," Alistair concluded. "Maker, Carver, you're the reason why we even have a mission!"

"Duncan would have sent you two after the archdemon anyway," Carver weakly defended.

"How would you know that?" Alistair asked.

Carver said nothing.

"Maker's breath," Alistair swore, "you are in Maric's Shield."

Carver paused. "Quiet."

"I'm not moving past this that quickly—"

Zevran pulled Alistair back by his elbow, picking up the noise as well. "There's someone ahead," he whispered.

Sten peered over everyone's heads and the worst of the forest's vegetation. "An injured elf," he noted. "He's alone."

Carver grabbed Alistair's other elbow before he could react. They were traversing Clan Siona's main path through the forest, only to find a sole wounded hunter in the middle of it? Despite Zathrian's assertions, the werewolves of the forest were sapient — capable of reasoning, speech, and complicated anger. Now, with Zathrian finally in the woods again, they were also desperate.

This was a trap.

Zevran murmured to Carver. "How are you with climbing?"

The party was currently between two cliffs the same height as Sten. Trees like redwoods grew upon the elevated earth, their branches intertwining and stretching wide to replace the sky with an emerald canopy, and their roots similarly permeated the earth beneath them. Ferns, huckleberries, and other shrubs concealed the forest floor and made it difficult to not trip over the roots without staring at one's feet. The trees' lowest branches were higher than a house's roof, but the cliff sides were notably woven with twisted wood.

Carver shifted. "I'm not exactly wearing light armour." Like Sten and Alistair, Carver fell under a warrior class. The werewolves would hear Carver moving before he and Zevran would be able to surround them.

Sten lowered his voice. "There's a bow and half-empty quiver near the injured elf."

And Carver was knighted.

"Sten," Carver reluctantly decided, "dash in, grab the hunter, and dash the way back to Clan Siona's camp. Your armour is heavy enough to take glancing blows from the ambush. Alistair, you'll run in before him; use your shield to protect Sten while he's picking up the hunter. I'll come in last and cover the both of you while we retreat. Our resident assassin will concurrently turn the ambush around on them. Once your stealth fails, Zevran, kite as many werewolves as you can to lessen the burden on us." He paused, looking at Sten. "Can you handle crossing the stream?"

"Seheron is my homeland," Sten curtly stated. "There, when you aren't in a jungle, you're in a rainforest."

Fair enough.

Zevran silently scaled the cliffside and vanished over the edge, and the warriors of the party lined themselves up. Carver waited before patting Sten's side, who patted Alistair's, and they burst into action.

A werewolf immediately pounced on Alistair's raised shield as he bashed his way to the fallen hunter, and through the dirt kicked up by the scuffle, Carver blearily witnessed Sten scoop up the wounded hunter. As the qunari turned, Carver snatched the bow and quiver and loosed an arrow into a werewolf's eye before its claws could separate Carver's head from his body. Carver blindly hooked the quiver to his belt as he moved in front of Sten, catching the fallen werewolf with his chest plate.

Alistair stepped back, shielding Sten's retreat, and Carver sensed the moment to begin moving back himself. He quickly fired three arrows across his field of vision, then another burst. The distance between the werewolves and the party grew wider with Zevran's assistance as the werewolves' focus split. Alistair finally pummeled the last enemy in his range and turned after Sten.

"Retreat!" Carver called out.

He pivoted and ran after Alistair's shrinking back. The forest blurred past them, time becoming something measured by their adrenaline. When they finally came to, they were tripping over a Dalish patrol halfway to camp.

"Giving up already?" a hunter mocked, only for Sten to drop his luggage on them. The hunter fumblingly caught their injured clansman.

The party checked on each other, caught their breath, and straightened to head back in.

Another hunter in the patrol slapped their comrade upside the head. "Ma serannas!" they sent after their backs.

Carver sighed as they trudged deeper, away from the patrol. "The werewolves don't seem open to communication."

Zevran snorted. "What gave that impression?"

"Better question is why would they," Sten commented. "They are blinded by primal instincts, no better than an unlearned imekari. Qunari know how to see past our bloodlust and leash it."

Alistair jerked. "The werewolves are sentient? But the Keeper Zathrian said—"

"The elf," Sten stated, "can speak no better of werewolves than humans can of qunari."

"You're saying the werewolves are like qunari," Alistair interpreted, to which Sten scoffed.

"I'm not."

Alistair grumbled. "Can you speak clearer?"

Carver threw him a bone. "Ask yourself why qunari would harass Clan Siona like this, and you'll get an idea of how fishy this feels."

Zevran hummed. "The werewolves have no intention of converting the Dalish, nor are the Dalish threatening the werewolves' home. We have to use a map to find our way to where the most werewolves have been sighted. The Dalish are camped nowhere near them."

"The werewolves are protecting something more precious," Carver helpfully deduced, then stopped the party. "Ahead."

"One of the beasts," Sten observed. "It's in pain. Allow me to guess — you wish to reason with it?"

Carver approached the werewolf, and the party moved after him. The werewolf noticed them and clawed at the ground, keening with animosity and frustration. It didn't run at them or flee.

"You were an elf," Carver noted. "From Clan Siona. How and when were you turned?"

"No closer!" the werewolf barked. "This lycanthropy is a disease, and I wish to spread it no further!"

"Nice scarf," Zevran ignored the mood.

The werewolf twitched its claws around the fabric in its grip. "Don't tell my husband. I died from the disease before I could fully turn, understand? The truth would ruin him!"

"You are capable of reason," Alistair murmured with horror, "and selfless love. Are the others like you?"

"How ignorant," Zevran teased. Alistair elbowed him.

"You are more than your new instincts," Carver placated, kneeling down to eye level. "We seek a cure. Allow us to help."

If the werewolf was aware of Carver's hand warily resting on his sword hilt, she didn't display it. "The other werewolves lie — they say the Keeper knows how to dispel this curse, but Zathrian has already tried. Why else would the clan continue to suffer? Please, this sickness is burning through me. Soon I will lose sight of friend or foe. Kill me now while I can still ask for it!"

"The other werewolves are capable of speech," Carver pointed out from her information. "They found a way to maintain their sanity, and you can too."

"My spousal love can only help me this far," the werewolf denied.

Carver glanced over his shoulder at Sten, then at the werewolf. "Do you believe that even now, you're part of the world order?"

She squinted through her throbbing senses. "I-I can't say whether or not this curse is driven by the Fade, or by nature—"

"I don't speak of the curse," Carver corrected, pointing at the scarf in her claws.

She straightened. "I can't call myself an elf anymore, or Dalish, but…I don't identify myself as a mindless beast! My soul alone still belongs here!"

Sten huffed, grasping Carver's intentions. "I am no priestess. My grasp of the Qun's wisdom is restricted to my role. This one will suffer should I speak of the Qun in ignorance."

"You don't need to ascertain her role in society," Carver reasoned. "Just comfort her with the truth that the Qun has taught you. All living things — even locusts — have a nature, and the world order is nature. Self-control and having a place to belong allows one to find internal balance. Help her realise that her suffering right now is simply from internal imbalance."

Sten paused, then crouched down to speak quietly with the werewolf. Carver rose to join Alistair and Zevran.

"The werewolves blame Zathrian," Alistair observed, eyes straying to the victim's scarf. "If he was guilty, though, why would he let his clan deteriorate this far? No, I should think like Carver — why would Zathrian curse the original victims in the first place?"

Carver twitched at his name, and Zevran happily cut him off. "The Dalish proudly claimed their Keeper was several lifetimes old. That's about as long as tales of werewolves have been around, no? The same tales insist that lycanthropy is born of injustice."

"The original victims wronged Zathrian first?" Alistair followed. "Why then should we try to talk to them? Ugh, I prefer fighting darkspawn."

Carver thought of the Architect, and coughed. "Anyway, we can't be sure the other werewolves are even guilty of the original crime. Before the blight, travellers who cut through the Brecilian Forest for Gwaren never reported werewolf sightings, nor went hunting for them. The ones alive today must be descendents of the first werewolves, and only now are they proactively seeking victims." At the looks directed his way, he defended, "I'm a nerd, I read records."

Alistair fretted. "Are the current werewolves innocent, then? They might not have wronged Zathrian at the beginning, but they still attacked his clan. The clan members have nothing to do with whatever hostility lies between Zathrian and the original werewolves."

Sten and the female werewolf stood up in that moment, the latter now calm with newfound clarity.

"The other werewolves live in harmony with the forest," the werewolf shared. "So long as you seek conflict with the werewolves, the forest will reject you. Like me, you will wander in circles until you faint."

"We fought a few sylvans when we left the camp's bounds," Carver recalled. "I don't suppose the forest speaks through a big tree?"

"The Grand Oak is merely friends with the forest," the werewolf denied, "but his favour can't hurt. I can point you to his direction, but I do not wish to move until I have meditated through the rest of my affliction." The party accepted this, and she saw them off. "Thank you, Sten. Karasten."

Sten murmured something back in qunlat while Carver twitched at the address, lost on how to react, and followed the party.

With a new direction marked on their map, they traced twisting and winding routes through the living forest, cautiously tracking the days through the angle of sunlight filtered by green canopies. It was a struggle to maintain course. Twice they tripped over a tombstone that resulted in battle against skeletons and revenants, and twice they crossed paths with odd characters. A former Circle student of Wynne's amiably exchanged messages to be sent back to Wynne, while a mad hermit greeted the party's presence with less civility and pushed them into a game of questions. When Zevran, bored, looted the tree stump being used by the hermit as a home, the hermit blew a gasket and attacked them on sight. They hastily slew the riddler and went on their way.

The entire trip at least proved fruitful. The party persuaded Sten to replace his armour with the juggernaut pieces found in the tombstones, and upon meeting the Grand Oak, Zevran handed over an acorn that the hermit had apparently stolen from the sylvan. The Grand Oak rewarded the party with a sliver from its branches, which proved the sylvan's name was misleading. Resembling the Thedosian redwoods around him, the Grand Oak's branches were as wide as a grown man and stretched out to the sky. When Zevran carried the sliver, he appeared equipped with a wooden sword.

At that point, night fell, and the party made camp. Or, tried to. They fell victim to a sloth demon that erased three full days of memory from them. When they came to, they found themselves dehydrated, starving, and drooling in the middle of their unfinished campsite. Sten had apparently realised the demon's work first and cut it down the instant its illusions fell, but they had still lost a lot of time. The party quickly restored their energy, refilled their waterskins, and tripped over their third tombstone.

The revenant there got wrecked.

By the time they arrived at the werewolves' lair, they were short-tempered.

"Turn back now, outsiders," a werewolf warned at the steps of an elven ruin. "Our quarrel is with Zathrian."

Carver sighed crossly. "What is your name?"

The party looked at him, and the startled werewolf replied, "Swiftrunner."

"Why give a warning now?" Carver asked. "I recognise you from the ambush many days ago, Swiftrunner. You and your people appeared ready for violence then."

The werewolf shifted. "Zathrian has sent you after the Lady of the Forest, has he not?" He regained his confidence. "That is why you outsiders have travelled this far! Well, we werewolves will not let you kill her!"

"What lady?" Zevran fittingly asked.

"The forest itself," Swiftrunner bared his teeth, "the spirit that Zathrian has forced into Witherfang, and cursed our ancestors in effect!"

"The lady who bars you from attacking innocents," Carver inferred, gesturing past him. "Confined as she is, she still has a connection with the forest, else we wouldn't be allowed near here. Does she know of what you've done to Clan Siona?"

Swiftrunner recoiled. "W-We have no choice! If Zathrian wishes to rescue his clan, he must lift the curse!"

"Negotiate with him," Alistair suggested.

"We have!" Swiftrunner snarled. "Every time he has passed through the forest, the Lady has reached out to him, and every time has she been rejected! Past our desperation lies only an animal's death!"

"We don't have time for this," Alistair grumbled. "We don't even know if anything you or Zathrian tell us is true." He turned to the party. "Let's sit Zathrian and the Lady down to have them speak plainly on this topic. If their stories don't align, I'll feed them to Carver."

Sten nodded, and Zevran chirped, "Sounds good."

Carver blinked. "Wait, what?"

"Alright," Alistair clapped his hands, "show us to your Lady."

"As if I would!" Swiftrunner rebuked. "You bring Zathrian here first! No, that's your plan, isn't it? You're after the Lady! Well, I won't let you!"

Carver drew Summer Sword from its sheath, just enough to allow its sharp brilliance to peek out.

Swiftrunner stumbled back and fled into the ruins. The party watched him vanish down shattered stone steps on all fours.

Alistair stared. "Hopefully their Lady is more reasonable."

The party turned into another dead end. Alistair fidgeted with his helmet, wishing to wipe sweat that tickled his brow. "Why are we talking to the Lady first, again?"

Zevran disabled another trap in the ruined temple. "It was your idea."

"If we retreat now, the forest may never accept us again," Carver commented. He, too, was quickly tiring of the maze-like ruins.

The party retraced their footsteps and turned a different direction, stumbling into a series of connected chambers. Zevran picked up a stone tablet, glancing at the etched elven. He noticed when Carver looked over his shoulder.

"What say you, knight of knights?" Zevran shook the tablet. "Want to say a prayer?"

Carver maintained a neutral expression. "You just looted a sarcophagus."

Zevran shrugged, replacing the tablet and moving on to the next room. "The old man didn't have much on him anyway."

An earthen jug, a pool of clear water, and an altar awaited in the next room. A pair of doors on the other end of the room refused to budge, even with a shove from Sten. Alistair threw caution to the wind in an uncertain environment; he removed his helmet to breathe, grabbed the jug, and filled it with water from the pool. Carver snatched the jug from him before he could take a sip.

"Hey!"

Carver placed the jug on the altar and gestured at the faded inscriptions on it. "Zevran, I don't suppose you can read these, too?"

Zevran mirthfully sauntered over. "Those are faded beyond recognition, friend. Why would you think—" He halted. "The tablet was in Antivan."

"You mean Common," Alistair corrected. He and Zevran shared looks.

"The tablet must have been carved with ancient magic," Carver deduced. "Its intent is delivered to those who gaze upon it. Sten?"

The qunari had apparently not even glanced at the tablet, pragmatically moving past the distraction. He frowned at Carver from in front of the sealed doors. "Get to the point."

"We need Zevran to pray," Carver replied. He clicked his tongue at Zevran's immediate expression. "Stop thinking like that. What purpose would an ancient elven structure contain sarcophagi, unless it's a place of uthenera — eternal rest? We have to behave as people coming to pay respect to our elders."

Zevran lowered himself before the altar to mentally recite the prayer he had read. He shot the party a smirk. "You know, I'm only getting on my knees for you." When he rose, Carver took the jug and offered it to Alistair to sip. The doors then immediately opened.

"More sarcophagi," Zevran noted.

A spirit of an elven boy ghosted in, then down the chamber, crying out for comfort.

Carver drew his sword.

"Uh…."

Carver went in and shoved the sarcophagi open.

Zevran's confusion increased. "Umm…."

Skeletons and a revenant sprouted, zeroing in on the party. They quickly disposed of the threats.

Alistair spluttered. "What happened to paying respect!?"

Carver took out the last juggernaut piece for Sten's set, straight-faced. "We're respectfully making use of what the elderly have left behind. Besides, if a child died in fear here, then this place mustn't only be spiritually ancient, but haunted. We need to be as cautious and geared-up as possible."

Sten suited up in full juggernaut armour, then turned the corner. "Dead end."

Alistair shoved his helmet back on with a groan and turned back for another direction.

Much like the forest, the party stumbled across many unwanted obstacles, namely dead ends and ancient traps. Zevran eventually ran out of space for precious stones, while Alistair, in his full gear, fumbled an ancient phylactery and accidentally shattered it. Luckily, this was after the soul inside had given him knowledge of arcane warriors, and its gratitude for a long-awaited release. With the party now distinctly cautious, they eventually found their way to a flight of stairs descending for five stories. Behind the doors at the end of them was undoubtedly the deepest level of the ruins.

There, they also found Zathrian pacing.

"I worried why you were gone for so long," the Keeper expressed by way of greeting. "Why have you yet slain Witherfang?"

"We've been lost," Alistair curtly replied, him and the party removing their helmets. "Besides, we've heard claims that conflict with yours. We want the truth."

"You've been talking to them?" Zathrian recoiled.

Before he could continue, Sten cut him off. "How did you know to find these stairs?"

Zathrian stammered under the full weight of qunari impatience. Alistair shoved the Keeper aside to open the door.

The Lady of the Forest greeted the party's arrival without batting an eye. Contrastingly around her, werewolves growled and sylvans hunched down threateningly, even then just barely containing their massive sizes to the hollow basement.

The Lady placated those around her. "They come without bared weapons, see? The outsiders mean no harm."

"Not yet," Alistair added, stepping aside to reveal a shocked Zathrian. "The werewolves near you have attacked innocents. We would like to at least hear why."

"Swiftrunner has not told you?" The Lady's lips thinned. "The werewolves here are innocents, too. We have together reached out to Zathrian for freedom from this curse, but he refuses to grant it."

"Of course I do!" Zathrian lashed out, storming in. It spoke to his abilities that he wasn't the slightest bit intimidated by the chamber's occupants. "Humans are beasts by blood, and now they reflect their true nature!"

"Racist," Zevran remarked.

Zathrian turned on the party. "I only speak of things seen. The first of these vermin had killed my son and violated my daughter. She had remained strong until she had learned of her pregnancy. Then the humans had committed their second murder!" His eyes turned pleading. "What could these monsters be called but evil? What balm is there for the horrors my children and I have suffered?"

Alistair stumbled back, shocked. He turned to the Lady, who nodded in confirmation. "When he had bound me to the wolf Witherfang, the curse had forced me into a rage that had seen to the humans' deaths or infections. However, the werewolves of today have nothing to do with the crimes committed against your family, Zathrian. It is wrong to make them pay for their fathers' sins."

Alistair glanced back at the party, lost. When he met Carver's eyes, he perked up, begging for assistance.

Carver reluctantly stepped forward, drawing the room's attention. "Though I sympathise with both sides, you must answer to your actions alone. Zathrian, did I speak falsely of the curse's connection to your long life?"

Zathrian waved his hand. "You did not, Warden."

"I'm not—" Carver sighed sharply. Right, the party had been allowed into camp for Warden business. Correcting the assumption would work against them right now. "And did the Lady speak falsely of the current werewolves being innocent?"

Here, Zathrian stumbled. "Th-That—"

"The Dalish treasure children," Carver continued. "They are pure and considered the clan's future. What would your son and daughter think of the suffering you have delivered to these people?"

The Keeper hesitated.

Carver delivered the final blow. "I ask you to seek the wisdom of your long years, Keeper. Release the curse, and finally rejoin your son and daughter. The humans you cure will help the Wardens end the blight, as our Rites demand. They will spend the rest of their lives protecting innocents, not hurting them."

Zathrian clutched his staff, torn. For a long minute, he stared hard at nothing, before finally he slumped. "I have been an old man for a long time," he confessed.

;

A/N:

Another crazy old man has been humbled.

Also, how is the Warden able to read the elven stone tablet in the Brecilian Ruins, even when the Warden isn't Dalish? My answer is to make ancient elves able to imprint intention into their carvings. After all, the Warden just needs to simulate the tablet's prayer at the altar, not recite it. It's almost similar to the ancient elves storing memories into objects, like what the Inquisitor experiences in Trespasser.

As for Carver, my basis is that if a dwarf Warden can do it in the games, then Carver can too.