"Don't you have more messages to run?"

Carver placidly marched with the Cousland legion. "Not unless Lady Oriana grants me leave to Lake Calenhad or Orzammar."

Fergus Cousland blinked. "My wife…?"

Carver suddenly drew his sword and cut down an arrow before Fergus's chest.

"Archers!" the Cousland legion shouted.

Everyone hastily formed up to shield each other and address the company of Howe soldiers that had ambushed them. Fergus raised his shield and barreled through the Howes' vanguard, before drawing his sword and cutting two limbs off a man in one stroke. The Cousland heir roared - shocked and betrayed - and the Howe legion flinched.

"Halt!"

A few Howe soldiers froze, unsure how to proceed without a Howe to direct them, but the majority of the troops pushed forward in their task to slaughter the legion of Highever. Fergus and his soldiers, however, had received enough warning of the ambush, and the Howe legion's plan was crumbling at first contact.

Fergus bashed another soldier to the ground, then stomped on the enemy's head once. Their head exploded like a dropped egg.

"Traitors - I said halt, or die!"

The remaining Howe soldiers dropped their weapons and held their hands up.

Fergus caught his breath, swivelling his head. "Where is your commander?" Panic rose in his voice. "Where is Arl Rendon!?"

"C-Castle Cousland by now," a Howe soldier bravely answered.

Fergus grabbed them. "And my family!? My son!?"

"Arl Rendon ordered the deaths of all Couslands, milord…."

Fergus pivoted.

Carver wiped his sword on a Howe soldier. No one had left the ambush unchallenged. "Lord Fergus."

The lord rounded on him. "Arrest me later, knight!"

"Return home," Carver evenly continued, but inwardly shivered. Had Rendon Howe not been an ambitious snake, Carver would have been forced to try arresting the enraged Fergus and entire Cousland legion for desertion - on his own. "Arl Rendon broke the law first by turning his legion on his fellow countrymen. If he has grown bold enough to target a big name, I have reason to fear he has also set his sights on his next most powerful neighbour: the Kendells of Denerim. Secure your ancestral home first - then divide your legion with the Kendells legion and the king's army left in the capital."

"Are you done?" Fergus pressed.

"You have time to listen," Carver curtly replied. "Arl Rendon's main legion is already headed south for Ostagar, led by his son Lord Thomas." With persuasion. "It appears Arl Rendon has sent a leaderless portion of the rest of his soldiers to ambush you, leaving Arl Rendon with only a squad to cooperate with him in a castle siege. If your father wasn't expecting Arl Rendon and his soldiers, Teyrn Bryce could have kept the gates closed against them until their intentions were revealed. I believe that Lady Oriana and your son reside in the living quarters of Castle Cousland, placing them far from the gates."

"My mother and sister are shieldmaidens," Fergus slowed. "They could have armed themselves, located Oriana and Oren…."

"Go see Castle Cousland secured." Carver breathed. "Recall your people and their families back home to Highever until the full extent of Arl Rendon's plan can be perceived. I must ride to Denerim."

"Take one of our horses." Fergus composed himself and removed a chain from his neck. "And my crest - my people will know you speak for me when you send them to Highever. The Howes will pay."

Carver accepted the horse of one of the legion's fallen and conspicuously rode away, then veered off the path for the Chasind who had secretly witnessed the ambush. In another timeline, the Chasind would have carried Fergus - the only survivor of the slaughter disguised as a bandit attack - away from the wreckage and nursed him through his wounds and a terrible fever, before Fergus would ride to Denerim to learn that the blight had come and gone. Now the Chasind, the original locals of Ferelden, warily eyed Carver with his Marcher-blue gaze as he descended from his horse, approached them - and with a straight face, asked them about a honey-scented flower that had a red bud.

The two parties exchanged tense and bewildered words. Eventually, the Chasind realised that Carver was just Too Stupid to be a Threat.

"Ah, the Mabari Madness." A Chasind nodded. "It's an ol' mabari disease that don' matter to men."

"It matters to me," Carver insisted.

A scoff. "You don' understand, lowlander - the Madness is a sickness for mabari, but a death sentence for humans. Besides, it's been gone for hun'reds of years."

"Luckily, I don't intend the cure for a human." Carver turned cross. It was a long day. "Just share the recipe with me, please. I'll hunt down the ingredients myself, starting with the flower."

The Chasind eventually shared the cure's recipe in exchange for the most valuable possession on Carver, with his castle-forged armour, sword, and crests of influential meaning: his horse.

Carver grumbled and traded it over. He'd walk to the nearest town and rent a horse from there, then relay until he was back in Denerim before certain noblemen could violate the capital.

He passed by more wild rumours as he did, and tried not to let them stick in his mind like filth picked up by a ball of fur.

Word was that Teyrn Bryce had allowed Arl Rendon into his home to clarify a misunderstanding. The next morning, Castle Cousland had caught on fire, Bryce and his wife Eleanor had been found slain in the castle's pantry, and the next generations of the Cousland line had gone missing.

Word was also that Fergus had set fire to the castle himself and killed his own parents to make teyrnirs of his new family, while the youngest of Bryce's children had run away to be with an older man.

Either way, Highever was in disarray, and there was no word on Rendon Howe's location.

Carver rode hard.

"You want me to what?"

"Arrest Arl Rendon for desertion when sighted," Carver repeated. "I have more highways to supervise."

"All the way to Ostagar?" Ser Rhiannon, the oldest knight left in Denerim, cocked a brow, then scrubbed her weathered face. "It should be you in this chair, not me. I can handle logistics, Ser Carver. I cannot presume to grasp how Teyrn Loghain wants the capital to be run while Ferelden's most important figures are all down south."

"Delegate."

"Just not to Lord Vaughan?" Rhiannon intoned. "While Arl Urien marches with the king, his son is Lord of Denerim. Help me understand why you're opposed to the residual king's army cooperating with the residual Kendells legion to keep the peace in the capital."

"I have no issue with the Kendells legion, just Lord Vaughan."

"Does he deliver mail late?" Rhiannon deadpanned. "The others are starting to call you Postboy."

"Better than what they used to call me."

Rhiannon's lips thinned regretfully.

Carver shrugged. "Delegate, Ser Rhiannon. Others listen to you. I have to assess the southern highways."

"You couldn't be convinced to leave Denerim, before. Now you can't be convinced to stay? Will you at least give me a believable reason why Arl Rendon would disobey the king's call to Ostagar?"

"For whatever reason could compel Arl Rendon to wipe out half of the Couslands."

Rhiannon paled. "Then…the rumours…."

"Lord Fergus assigned me his crest to send loyal servants of his family back to Highever. For their safety."

Rhiannon's face reddened. "Arl Rendon would dare turn his gaze here!?"

"Don't allow suspicions to carry you away, Ser Rhiannon. Do your duty, and I will see to the rest."

"I…of course, Ser Carver." She sighed. "We're the same rank, but I guess this is the difference between the common soldier and a member of Maric's Shield. I'll have some of our soldiers protect the servants and families returning to Highever. Leave the king's army here to me - the path to Ostagar is waiting."

Carver shed a little sympathy for Rhiannon. He wasn't going to leave Denerim without stirring a last bit of ruckus first.

When he found Denerim's alienage, he flashed Fergus's crest to the first elf in sight and demanded all Highever servants and their families leave for home by the end of the day. His abrupt command was welcomed so excitedly, the local hahren had to intervene.

"We cannot suspend two weddings at the drop of a hat!" Valendrian halted.

"Are the couples engaged?" Carver manoeuvred. "They'd already be family to the Couslands' servants. Their weddings can be moved to Highever."

"What of my cousin, who isn't engaged to a Highever servant?" an elf in Carver's face hotly demanded. "I can't get married in Highever while my cousin weds alone in Denerim. What is a wedding without the presence of friends and family?"

"You are engaged to a Highever citizen?" Carver addressed. "You are family to the citizen, and your cousin is your family. All of you may travel for Highever together."

The elf blinked as she followed Carver's logic, before hesitantly clasping hands with two more elves, forming a trio of red-heads. "Shianni, Soris…?"

The shortest woman shrugged. "I haven't seen the outside of Denerim in years."

The only male smiled. "So long as Valora doesn't mind. I want her to enjoy her wedding."

The first elf sighed. "All this because I'm engaged to the Highever-born Nelaros…."

The elves that were crowded around Carver suddenly burst with vocal excitement. "He's a dream come true!" "You can't not marry him!" "Go, Kallian - or I will!" Laughter peppered the alienage.

Carver exhaled. So long as the alienage didn't turn into a mob.

Valendrian touched the shoulders of the elves Kallian, Shianni, and Soris. "Collect your things and travel with young Nelaros to Highever, da'len - and tell Cyrion and young Valora's family the same. Dareth shiral."

"Ma serannas," the trio thanked in unison.

"One more thing," Carver delayed. The elves' faces turned suspicious and unpleasant, before Carver handed Fergus's chain to them. They blinked. "Tell others what I told you, and return this crest to Lord Fergus at Castle Cousland when you arrive. If you face resistance on your journey, summon a member of the king's army and mention Ser Rhiannon."

Carver sold all the possessions he didn't need for his trip, then purchased updated maps of the Brecilian Forest before rushing south for Clan Sabrae's camp. He encountered a remote village stirred up by the presence of Dalish elves in their forest, and he stepped in to scare them with darkspawn more than nomads, and persuade them to call for the king's army patrolling the highways for protection. If the war front in Ostagar didn't pan out well, Ferelden could benefit from established communication and organisation in the remote village. Carver also extracted the location of elven ruins from the villagers before rushing in the direction of the site.

The Sabrae clan abruptly drew their weapons at Carver as he barged into their camp, red-faced and panting. He hadn't had to hike through forests in a lifetime - so to speak. At least, not while wearing and carrying all he owned.

"Is this - huff - a Dalish clan?"

"Leave, shem. We have no patience for trespassers - especially today."

Beyond the line of elven camp guards, Carver could see an elf moaning in his cot while a grey-haired elven woman ran glowing hands over his forehead.

"Has your patient been feverish?" Carver bulldozed. "Delirious? Did he recently enter a dense, humid structure taken over by nature, old enough to attract transformative diseases?" Now he was just improvising.

"Did you not hear us the first time, shemlen? Leave!"

"Hold."

The guards turned while the other camp-dwellers watched the exchange with their hands near hunting and crafts gear, just in case. The elderly woman tending to the bedridden elf beckoned Carver approach. He did, and twenty nocked arrows followed him.

"You know of this sickness?" the woman asked.

Carver kneeled by the unconscious patient's side and nodded solemnly. "Yes - keeper? It is the blight. I have a tonic that will alleviate the symptoms, but the young elf in your care would do better with the Grey Wardens gathered in Ostagar."

"I appreciate your brevity, human. How do I know you speak true?"

Carver showed the Mabari Madness cure he had concocted ahead of time. "Your ward is already dying. If this tonic doesn't improve his state by the end of the day, you may take my life as compensation."

She peered at him for a long breath. Eventually, she spoke. "You risk much for a stranger, and an elf. Who sent you?"

"This is no ploy," Carver denied. "If you need an angle, then trust in the Wardens' perpetual shortage of recruits."

"You serve the Wardens?"

"We are…co-workers." The keeper didn't appear familiar with the term. "We happen to share the same purpose and place of work. If they lose, we all lose." Carver watched the sick elf struggle to breathe. "How long ago did he contract the taint?"

The keeper jerked her chin once, and the guards lowered their bows in unison. She explained the situation to Carver as he slowly fed the tonic to the patient, and she used magic to persuade the young elf's body to recover with the mixture's assistance.

Apparently, a pair of Dalish youngsters had gone missing two days ago, and after nonstop searching, the clan had been able to find only one of their missing lying feverish and unconscious in an elven ruin, surrounded by corpses decayed to the bone and a four-legged mass of flesh and fur that could have been a bear once. The ill elf's life was now hanging by a thread composed of the keeper Marethari's magical prowess and the elf's own insurmountable willpower. It was a miracle the elf hadn't died before Carver arrived. With half of the clan still searching for the other missing elf, it was no wonder the traditionally neutral Dalish had greeted Carver's sudden appearance with frazzled nerves and quick hostility.

Carver grilled Keeper Marethari. How had the mutated bear smelled? Did anyone touch it? Were there surfaces that shared the same intrinsic strangeness as the bear? Marethari answered patiently, with quick responses from her clanmates around her when she needed clarification. She expected Carver to receive more accurate descriptions of the elven site when the search party would return that night.

"Keep them separate from the rest of your clan," Carver advised. "The bear and the strange mirror you describe potentially have the blight, and prolonged occupation of the same room as them may have endangered the search party. The greatest concern is darkspawn, as once-animated corpses aren't an issue. With the bear dead, darkspawn won't be attracted to its location, but I'm concerned about this mirror."

"No artefact of our past is worth the safety of our present," Marethari decided. "We are willing to shatter that mirror to pieces if it means protecting the rest of us. What advice have you, however, if Clan Sabrae turns out to have contracted the blight? Most of us have searched the ruin at least once."

"You say the bear had no memorable scent," Carver recalled. Smell was caused by particles of an object making contact with one's sensors. A scentless darkspawn meant the amount of the blood it was emitting was insignificant, and most Thedosians were immune to anything short of actually ingesting or bathing in darkspawn blood. Otherwise, battling darkspawn would have resulted in more darkspawn with every blight. "These precautions might mean nothing. However, if we all contract the taint, I have enough tonic for three people, and a recipe to make more. That would buy your clan enough time to travel to Ostagar and request permission to join the Grey Wardens."

A sigh of relief rippled through the clan.

Marethari minutely bowed her head in gratitude. "If none of us have a fever by the end of today, we will know the Creators have smiled on us."

It was a tense twelve hours marked with the return and quarantine of the search party, before the young, tainted elf's eyes finally fluttered open.

"Keeper Marethari…?"

The elven woman tiredly smiled. "It appears we may all keep our lives, tonight."

Carver later woke to the sun already breaking through the trees and Clan Sabrae packing up to find a new home. The elves who had been warily watching him were gone. Carver wandered through the camp until he found the keeper quietly conversing with the elf who had been bedridden last Carver remembered. Marethari looked up when Carver approached.

"Theron came through while you were asleep," Marethari greeted.

Carver sighed. "I wish you had woken me." He would have wanted to check the patient's condition. Regardless, Carver nodded once. "It's good to see you up. You might have the strongest spirit in all of Thedas."

Wine-red eyes blinked slowly. "You are the human who saved my life." The young elf inclined his head. "Ma serannas."

Carver nodded, then turned. "Keeper, I admit I wasn't supposed to dally in the forest this long. I'll share with you the tonic's recipe, but I must leave posthaste."

"A moment," Marethari stilled. "Knowledge is power, and I have questions. How did you know your tonic would work? I am a keeper of history, and I would have expected this tonic to be widespread if its effects were known."

Carver sighed. "It's originally intended for mabari, but compared to them, elves have a longer and richer history of magic running in their veins. While the tonic does nothing to humans, I figured it could help the People."

"You brought us a tonic that was useless to you? …You were prepared to die the instant you stepped into our camp. I would have your name."

"I'm no one."

"Now don't give me that, da'len." Marethari didn't place her hands on her hips, but she did lift her chin, and Carver straightened. "You wandered into our camp and didn't help Theron to lower our arrows, but to address someone in pain. The Dalish have a long memory, and Clan Sabrae would have a friend's name."

"Keeper—"

"I'd have it now, if you're in such a hurry."

Carver wasn't used to direct attention, especially outside military context. Most everyone he encountered ignored him. "…Carver," he mumbled. "Really, I'm no one."

"Not to us, you aren't." Marethari touched the elbow of the young elf and nodded to Carver. "A few of our hunters carefully destroyed the mirror and returned to us. I now declare that Theron Mahariel will be the clan's halla breeder no longer, and shall travel with you, Carver, to Ostagar. With the Creators' mercy, the Wardens will take Theron in."

Theron moved to Carver's side, but Carver stopped him. "I believe your clan has a certain farewell planned for you. I will wait at the edge of camp."

Theron looked to Marethari, who paused in surprise at Carver's decision, then nodded. "If Carver is willing to wait, then…yes, we would send you away properly, da'len."

Clan Sabrae was small and attached to each other.

Carver stood at the edge of camp and watched the news spread through the clan with every elf assembling in two rows. Marethari eventually walked down the aisle of sorrowful faces and turned to face the other end, from where Theron tentatively stepped through to meet gazes with his clan-mates once more. Carver wasn't entirely familiar with Dalish traditions, but the farewell seemed a subdued affair, similar to a lost soul's boat drifting down the quiet corridor of Styx's shores. No words were exchanged, but the elves each nodded to Theron meaningfully, and when the young elf reached Marethari, he was close to tears.

It was rough to watch.

Carver's eyes flicked to the keeper's First, who had been in the search party and was now biting her lip with sudden emotion. The clan had apparently reached a consensus regarding their missing member's fate, and declared the young Tamlen dead on the same day Theron's departure was announced. Not everyone had agreed with the decision, but they didn't have the resources to keep searching for Tamlen, and it was prudently determined that it was time for a new forest space to call home. Carver had admittedly been keeping his distance from the First, Merrill, to prevent himself from speaking with someone he had already decided should be "Garrett's friend," and to avoid the likely danger of accidentally making the elf mage cry during the clan's bluest hour. Merrill possessed a sweet face, and to paint it with tears would fill Carver with guilt appropriate for having kicked a puppy.

It was too late for Carver to realise that he was socially awkward.

He wordlessly turned when Theron reached him, unable to find a gesture that would lessen the pain of leaving one's family and possibly dying in at least a year's time. Thus Carver and Theron vanished silently, solemnly, into the forest together like raindrops tossed into the ocean.

They eventually rented two horses from the remote village, then crossed Drakon River to ride the West Road for the Imperial Highway, a remnant of the Tevinter Empire and the only road to Ostagar. The villagers suspiciously eyed Theron, three of their own recognising the young elf as one of the Dalish who had pointed an arrow at them and demanded their leave. Theron didn't shy from the attention and held his head up high, silent but not apologising for his character. Carver respected Theron's strength to do so when he was quietly weeping just moments ago. The halla breeder accepted his horse calmly and mounted it as if it wasn't his first time. He didn't speak until the two of them were well down the West Road.

"…Carver?" Theron's voice was rough from crying and prolonged silence. "Why do we move west, instead of south through the Brecilian Passage? I understand bandits plague human roads, while the only dangers of the Passage are bears and wolves. The humans that trek the Passage also do so in tight groups and on a schedule, allowing for clean avoidance of them."

Carver knew what Theron spoke of. The Brecilian Passage connected Denerim with Gwaren, Loghain's domain, which was why the teyrn was able to rule Gwaren from the capital. Ever since Maric's disappearance, however, Loghain had grown more occupied with northern affairs than ruling a territory that was already running well with minimal interference, and the traffic through the Passage correspondingly lessened. Still, Carver had to inwardly deadpan at Theron's description. Bears and wolves were enough deterrent for normal people to travel the Passage, much less bandits. The Dalish must have had a higher floor for what constituted a threat.

"I can't make you fight the way to Ostagar," Carver shared. Carver might have been swinging a sword since he was a child, but he couldn't compare himself to the grey-haired veterans of the king's army, the forest-frolicking Dalish, the Gwaren militia, or a seasoned Grey Warden. If they rode the Brecilian Passage, Carver knew who would end up fending off wildlife for the both of them. "You might feel fine now, but this is also your first time riding a horse's saddle. You'll feel sore starting tomorrow, and evasive of battle - not to speak of the taint still slowly running through you. Even if we rode down the Passage, we'd still have to eventually head west through the Southron Hills for Ostagar. If we take human highways, at least the king's army will smoothen out our journey."

"Your king's army would help us that much?"

"Every able-bodied soldier is riding for Ostagar." Carver's lips quirked shallowly. "We aren't the only ones seeking out the blight." And the Imperial Highway leading to Ostagar began at one place.

Lothering.