Story note:

Dragon Age is property of Bioware. Original characters are mine, and are to be treated as such. If you want to adopt some of my AU changes then, please, do so.

Small sidenote: I edited chapter 2, adding a small piece from Fergus' POV.

Big sidenote: So, yeah, um, I'm back. I guess. I am truly sorry for my long time of absence, guys. I'm not dead. There was just a lot of stuff going on lately - mainly work und studying - and I haven't been able to really write anything of note lately. Then after having all the stress finally out of the way my spirit to write and think about how to put my countless ideas into adequate words and sentences was, well, non-existent, I guess. I just wasn't able to write anything, nothing that, in my eyes, had been worthy of use.

But, as already mentioned, I'm back. And I'll try to keep up a steady flow of chapters as much as I can. Please forgive me my long time of silence.

Enjoy this chapter, were councils are held, decisions are made and Farah'an hands out her own personal batch of nicknames.

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In An Age Full Of Heroes

Chapter VIII

Everybody wants to rule

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There was no paved road or cobblestone highway leading them through the Bannorn's rolling grasslands since they'd left the dusty South Road from the capital; no road taking them into treachery's arms to exert their rightful sentence. Accordingly, her armed forces marched in loose units behind her. Divided into companies, each one separated from the other far enough to permit the ease of movement, yet near enough to close rank should the dire necessity to do so arise expectedly or unexpectedly. The companies marched in formations of six squads each; arranged as befit their function. Light skirmishers formed the outmost curtain, with heavy infantrymen forming a solid barrier next. Innermost was a core of regular medium infantry.

The massive column that was the supply train forged its own path through the Bannorn. Hundreds of ox-drawn wagons and carts mingled with bawling herds of goats and sheep, countless in number, propelled forward by yapping and barking cattle mabari.

At the massive column's flanks rode units of light lancers and mounted archers, guarding the supply train. Far ahead of the vanguard preceding her armed force of three thousand men rode units of scouts.

Schismatic, the qunari mercenary company, numbering around five hundred, marched a hundred and fifty paces to the south in solemnness. Lumbering, horned beasts the colour of copper and ash, towering nearly half again as tall as grown men. Their long, muscled legs at times carried them at a pace that could keep up with her cavalry's slow canter. And they were by far not running. Even their leader, the one who called herself Isala'k marched afoot among her mercenaries.

Mounted, the King's Blade rode inside the tight column of her armed force, nearly at its head. Besides her rode her three battalion commanders. Accomplished tacticians one and all. Two she had already met countless times, for they had marched with Gwaren's forces to Ostagar. The third, a gaunt man with watery eyes, resembling that of a fish, belonged to the contingent supplied by Teyrn Howe.

The sky was a darkening sea of blue, disrupted by occasional waves of dull grey. Before staring down in relentlessness, the midsummer sun would now soon be sunk behind the horizon, light fading. Night would come as a relief for Cauthrien and her armed force, making their voyage into the grasslands more bearable. Midsummer's gaze was a humid and oppressively heated one, especially hidden beneath all the layers of metal and cloth they wore.

The King's Blade gave sign to make camp for the day. Horns blared along the massive column as it slowly halted and spread out.

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Farah'an walked along the major pathway, leading her directly to the massive tent in the camp's middle. In the absence of moving air, tapered banners hung limp from tall iron rods. The yellow wyverns embroidered on them looked disgruntled at the prospect of being denied their flight of freedom.

Two unworried and bored looking soldiers guarded the tent's entrance. Their helmeted heads downcast, not even pretending to be on lookout for danger. Farah'an snorted.

A figure approached from the right. And, quite suddenly, the two guards stood ramrod straight, their eyes wandering, watchful, searching for anything amiss. Once the elderly soldier reached the tent's entrance they saluted, but the man did not enter and neither did he return their salute. So they stood, waiting for – what was clearly an officer – to relieve them of their saluting stance. He did not.

Instead he turned towards her, arms crossed behind his back. Intrigued, Farah'an stepped towards the elderly man, rather than rush by him into the tent's embrace as she had planned to.

From a look at his garments and his military gear, one couldn't have distinguished him from a regular soldier of this human army. What few specks of hair remained on the old man were shot through with iron. Contradicting regularity, age had not stolen from him his soldier's physique. His features were etched with lines, but even, nothing overly repulsive nor attractive. If it weren't for the vicious scar that raked itself from his left brow ridge down, eviscerating his left eye into a patch of gnarled scar tissue and further down his cheek. It looked like a massive, jagged crevasse splitting a mountainside.

He nodded, his lone eye peering up towards her. 'Greetings, Isala'k. A few words before we enter?'

'Speak, if you must, human.'

'I've seen your company march. Their speed is quite impressive. Your ability to direct them through unruly territory even more so.'

She arched a brow, looking down at him. 'Is this your flimsy attempt at bedding me?' Farah'an bared her teeth in her most impressive consider-your-answer-very-carefully grin.

'What,' he exclaimed, lone eye bulging open wide, 'no! I was merely complimenting you and your men, nothing more. Grudgingly so, I've never seen mercenaries this well trained.'

'We are of the Qun.' Not anymore, actually, but who is he to know of such things. A human wouldn't understand anyway.

'Well, uh, yes. Nonetheless, I was meaning to ask: can you keep up such a stressing pace for a prolonged time?'

'You just said so yourself. We are well trained.' She looked over his shoulder. 'Unlike your soldiers.' He winced at that.

The veteran seemed to mull over something for a time, before slowly nodding, seemingly having reached a conclusion that he deemed satisfactory.

'Very well. Let us enter, then.'

The human battalion commander, whose name was unknown to Farah'an - she cared not for such trivialities - turned round and saluted the two guards. Strained by the continuous attempt to hold their rigid salute, they finally sagged in relief as the elderly man marched by them, pushing aside the tent's flaps.

Wry smile on her face, Farah'an followed.

A man who thinks ahead, human no less. Seldom enough, that. This will be interesting.

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Once Farah'an and the elderly commander entered the tent and took their places, the meeting immediately commenced. The others already awaiting their arrival.

A small, gaunt man, leaned over a table holding a map of the Bannorn, his voice low, immediately pressed, 'We have to push forward. Rout them as fast as we can.' His fingers traced a path leading deeper into the Bannorn.

The retort came instantly, from a younger commander. 'And how do you propose we do such a thing? Have you withheld information from the King's Blade, Blist? From all of us?'

Not only pleasing to the eye, this young man.

The gaunt man, Blist, looked indignant. 'Of course not, I'd-'

'Then you do not know where the enemy is camped? Where the rebels' patrols are, their strength?'

Knowing he'd been backed into a corner, Commander Blist grumbled, 'No.'

'Then, what you propose is foolhardy at best. At worst, well . . . suicidal. Charge in without second thought and we could very well be headed into a trap long in its preparation.'

Farah'an nodded to herself.

Blist's fishy eyes bulged out, brow and cheeks reddened. 'You insolent little whelp, how dare you-'

'Enough!' The King's Blade's voice whipped through the tent like a slap. It's thunder echoing like the last remnants of an angry storm. This seemed to be common occurrence, no wonder, then, that the woman was short of temper.

'Commanders, I do not need petty bickering. I need options. Iskara?'

The elderly commander spoke up, indicating towards his younger compatriot. 'Fledg stands correct. An aggressive advance into unruly territory will only draw us out, slowing our advance. Our line of defence will be spread. Our soldiers tired. Not to speak of the possibility of enemy activity . . . well everywhere, King's Blade. We know nothing of their location or movements. Tired soldiers are as good as dead soldiers. We cannot let the rebels decide the ground of battle.'

'Do you even hear yourselves speaking? Trembling in fear of a few traitors. Teyrn Howe's orders have been clear-'

The youngest of the three military commanders, Fledg, cut in, his hand slashing the air, 'Quit barking, Blist. The King's Blade does not care what your teyrn commanded you. This is the king-regent's army. Thus it'll be led by the king-regent's men.'

'Where to? Certainly not to battle, cowering as you all are.'

Farah'an flared her nostrils disdainfully. All the meeting's members stared at her. She only had eyes for the gaunt man, already yearning for a moment she and Fish-Eye would be alone. He reeked of being a commander sending his men into certain death. Fish-Eye averted his gaze as the first, silent for the rest of the meeting.

Out of the corner of her sight, Farah'an spotted the elderly commander nodding at her. She acted like she didn't pick up on it.

Old Geezer continued, laying out the situation, 'Way I see it, our only viable option is to send a small vanguard force. To scout the territory ahead and find the rebels main encampment. A force that can move quickly but can also throw a hard punch should they be locked in a skirmish.'

Old Geezer pointedly looked – quite expectedly in Farah'an's eyes, for she'd have done the same thing – at her.

'Like your mercenary company.'

Fish-Eye puffed up, ready to voice his unneeded opinion, but Farah'an cut him off. With an icy stare, as well as her words.

'I find this acceptable,' the mercenary company leader ground out between her teeth.

The King's Blade repeatedly tapped two fingers on her pursed lips, deep in contemplation. Farah'an like her, at least some of her aspects. The woman knew of her fallibility in military tactics, that much had been obvious from the start. But, wisely enough, she referred to her battalion commanders and heeded their advice carefully. Well, nearly all of their advice. What sputtered out of Fish-Eye's mouth couldn't be counted as advice.

'Very well. Isala'k, you and your men shall push forward into enemy territory. Discern as much as you can. Try to avoid engagement wherever you can. A few mounted messengers will accompany you, to keep me apprised of your situation.'

Farah'an nodded solemnly. 'So it shall be done, King's Blade.'

For her the meeting over, Farah'an left the tent. She had a company of mean bastards to prepare for marching.

The devilish grin overtook her face all on its own. It helped considerably with the task of crossing through the bustling camp.

Human, elf and beast gave her a wide berth.

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The sun had died a few bells earlier. Like stray sheep clouds passed overhead, radiant in the moon's silvery lances.

Elya stood in the tent's cool gloom. Where the numerous lanterns' illumination couldn't reach her, arms too short to conquer the darkness. Only succeeding in driving them back. Elya found herself to be amiss at these meetings, nothing sensible to contribute. War, after all, couldn't be described as one of her fortes.

Her ears picked up the sounds of shifting mail, soldiery marching by outside, patrolling. In search of company. Rumbling laughter from men huddled together, mingling, trading stories and playing cards. The cackle of many hearths in the night. Men and women bickering about who came first, ladles were stirred in brass pots, screeching, from the nearby impromptu kitchens. Variations of stew bubbling inside above the many fires.

Alien to her, all of this. Even though she'd stayed with the rebels for quite some time now. Yet, they always continued to invite her to these war councils.

War. Another such alien thing.

In the Tower there had been study and exercises and lessons. And, of course, the templars' ever watchful eyes, seeing everything and everyone. Always quick to punish. Intimately abusive to the freedom of choice, life and spirit.

But no war, or anything comparable. Nothing to equip her for the scale of all this. The savagery men seemed to have been bred with, the potential of violence, unleashed upon fellow men. Sure, she'd read about it in countless historical tomes. But historians always painted their tales illustrious, as Elya had quickly found out. The truth was far from it.

Only now, she shamed herself for never managing to gather enough interest to reach expertise in the subtle arts of healing past mediocrity. How many could she have saved from passing to the Maker's side, if it weren't for her laziness? Many, countless even was the definite answer.

Nonetheless, Elya found herself here now and tried to make the best of it. She owed them this much. They had sheltered her after all, an apostate on the run.

News had arrived not even a bell earlier, carried by a returning outrider, his horse nearly run to death. The outrider, too. Arl Bryland had ordered the man to rest for a bit and eat something to gather his strength before delivering his report. A very much dreaded report by all those gathered now. Yet eager all the same, for the outrider should arrive any moment.

Opposite the tent's entry flaps Arl Leonas Bryland stood at the round table occupying the tent's midst. Gathered around were commanders of various units of the amassed rebel forces. Prominent among them Bann Alfstanna Eremon – who had been with Arl Bryland from the very beginning, Ostagar – as well as Bann Loren who's family had been consumed in the fires of Castle Cousland.

Tragedy, all around. Elya wanted to shed tears for them all. And then some for herself, being with them in this horrid situation.

Finally, the outrider entered. Shortly he stopped, looking around, surprised at seeing so many faces regarding him.

'Please, enter.' Arl Bryland beckoned him to step further in. 'We've awaited you, outrider.'

Bann Loren seemed to be of shorter temper than their chosen leader.

'Your report if you will.'

Though, after consideration, the man seemed to be always short tempered. Nothing to be done about that, only time could heal the wound he had received. And Elya wasn't even sure of that. Admittedly, Bann Loren might not have enough time left for that in his old bones.

The outrider nodded hastily and began his retelling.

'Certainly, m'lords. Was scouting the borders of the Bannorn when I see walls of dust. Figured they must been coming from the South Road. So there I went.'

Now his gaze lingered solely on Arl Bryland, colour draining from his face.

'Ser, they're comin'. In force.'

Bann Alfstanna laid a calming hand on the outrider's shoulder. It seemed to work if only a bit. 'Calm yourself,' said she, 'and tell us everything you've seen.'

The outrider breathed deeply, nodding once more, this time visibly more for his own sake.

'Armed forces. Spotted the banner of Amaranthine, Denerim, Gwaren some others I didn't know. But mainly those three. Cavalry, heavy and light infantry. Huge supply train at the back, nearly as long as the army itself.'

'How many?' Arl Bryland cut in.

Bearer of bad news, the outrider looked apologetic, the poor sod. 'Roughly three to four thousand. Not counting the supply train and its guards.'

Elya's heart hammered in her chest, her mind sure it would stop any minute. Gasping all around supported her in her assessment. Three to four thousand, by the Maker.

Only Arl Bryland kept his iron composure, somehow. He pressed, 'What else?'

Andraste guide us, there's more?

'Don't know if this 's true, but I heard rumours. Some say Loghain himself is leading them, others say it's just some common commander. Them last fellows say it's the King's Blade.'

One of the regular commanders, a hard looking man, perked up at that. 'Impossible, I saw the King's Blade fall at Ostagar, with my own eyes.'

At this, the outrider quickly shook his head from side to side. 'The new King's Blade, one of Loghain's commanders. Ser Kathrin or something.'

Bann Alfstanna looked at Arl Bryland, perplexed. 'Cauthrien?'

'That's the name.' The outrider interjected, although the arl's and the bann's attention clearly not on him, their intense focus solely on each other.

'She's no commander. A superb soldier, yes, but no commander,' Arl Bryland added, equally flummoxed. 'Why would Loghain send her?'

Bann Alfstanna massaged her brow and offered, 'He must've sent others with her, ones with more knowledge in the arts of warfare. Should couldn't manage a force this large alone. And Loghain is far from a fool to place this solely on her.'

Arl Bryland nodded sagely. The tent descended into silence, filled with heavy contemplation and plotting.

That was when, the outrider spoke up once more, voice entirely timid, 'There's something else, m'lords.'

Gazes snapped back towards him. Pretty sure her heart had most certainly stopped pumping blood throughout her body, Elya inhaled, desperate.

'Before I left . . . some of them began to march into the Bannorn, while the rest camped. Got a good look. Was them horned beasts, qunari. Don't know how many exactly. Less than seven hundred.'

A miniscule part of Elya – the inquisitive, scholarly one – jumped up and down, thrilled at the eventuality of meeting these mystical foreigners. Notwithstanding that at meeting them, the qunari would doubtlessly try and cut her down. Internally, she pouted at that.

Bann Loren however sneered, spitting on the ground. 'Mercenaries.'

Closing his eyes, Arl Bryland started to massage his temples. Now even he looked beaten, weary. 'This . . . complicates things. Considerably.'

Then he threw a saddened look over his shoulder, directly at Elya. She understood. Trepidation bubbled up inside her, nausea rising. At what would be expected of her, soon probably. Nonetheless, Elya nodded once, albeit hesitantly.

Shortly after, the outrider dismissed, Arl Bryland postponed the meeting. They all direly needed to sleep.

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Farah'an had had her fill of human bickering for now. It suited her well enough to be separated from these civilised people. Only among her own kind. Not besieged by the constant pungent smell these humans carried with them wherever they went. It soured the air.

What meagre supplies they needed packed up, her mercenary company ready to march. Deep into hostile and unruly territory. Yet, for qunari there was no such thing as unruly territory. No advantage could be won over them by pressing them into a tight ravine or trapping them in a deep basin.

They'd adapt quickly. So quickly that the enemy wouldn't even realise that what they perceived as an advantage over the qunari was nothing but thoughtful wishing. A dire mistake. A blissful illusion. Something, these humans liked to clad themselves in. Blissful illusions, that is.

With a simple gesture her company rose from their packed camp and started at a jog into the rolling hills crowded with heavy trees, thorny undergrowth and jagged boulders, rich, fertile soil underneath.

A presumptuous species, they were, these humans. Thinking they could linger in the shadows and bushes, hiding from her keen eyesight. But Farah'an knew when she was being watched. She didn't need to lay eyes upon those who watched. The precious tingle crawling up and down her spine told her that she was being watched. Either with perverse affection or by an enemy out to take her life.

Farah'an knew when she was being watched by the enemy.

Death lay ahead.

Then enemy thought to have been unspotted. Yet, he wasn't

The tingle whispered to her the truth.

They were in for a rude awakening, dawning in bloodshed. A gruesome battlefield, rife with the dead and flapping carrions only awaiting their feast, hunger gleaming bright in their sharp gaze. They'd shriek in satisfaction.

Soon, she would meet the enemy. Fuck the King's Blade's orders. No contact with the enemy, pah!

Head on. Brothers and sisters at her back, bellowing harsh war cries that'd drive terror into men's fickle hearts, they'd charge at them.

Farah'an would remain silent.

For them.

For her.

In death she would lead her outcasts back into the Qun's embrace. Only just, for traitors to their own kind, as they all were.

Hear us trotting on and on, dear Qun. We're returning to where we belong.

Your gentle mantle, sheltering us.

Your children return home.

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Author's note:

Please, tell me your opinion, I'd very much like to hear it. Without comments, criticism and encouragement I can't better myself. And I'm sure I can. Especially now after my longer absence, I want to know if you guys think I'm still on the right path or not. So, if you've anything to say, at all, please do so. I'm eager to listen.