Nineteen years later—9:30 Dragon Age
Eldred Surana leaned upon his staff for support, weakened by his recent dosage of corrupted lyrium, as he and Duncan, the Warden-Commander of Ferelden, passed the Tower of Ishal and came face-to-face with a man who Eldred assumed that, based on the intricacy of his armor, was none other than Cailan Theirin, the Boy King himself. Though, Eldred observed, he was no longer a boy. The mage stopped beside Duncan, his thin frame concealed within his robes. He waited, watching from under his hood as King Cailan and Duncan exchanged pleasantries.
"Your Majesty, allow me to introduce you to…"
"There's no need to be so formal, Duncan. We'll be shedding blood together soon after all. Ho there, friend! Might I know your name?" asked Cailan, addressing him now directly.
"I am Eldred, your majesty," said Eldred politely.
"Pleased to meet you! The Grey Wardens are desperate to bolster their numbers, and I for one am only too glad to help them. I understand you hail from the Circle of Magi. I trust you know some spells to help us in the coming battle?"
Eldred bristled at that, his misty, ethereal grey eyes flashing dangerously. "With all due respect, Your Majesty, I do not cast spells on command. Nevertheless, I shall do my duty."
Cailan seemed almost nervous behind his haughty exterior. "Excellent. We have too few mages here as it is. Another is always welcome. Allow me to be the first, then, to welcome you to Ostagar. I have no doubt the Grey Wardens will benefit greatly with you in their ranks."
"You're too kind, Your Majesty," he replied with a bite of subtle sarcasm in his tone.
The Boy King noticed and winced. "Well, I'm sorry to cut this short, but I really must be getting back to my tent. Loghain is probably waiting eagerly to bore me with his strategies." Eldred, absorbed in his own amusement tempered with anger, did not hear what Duncan said… something about the king's uncle. He found it amusing, at times, how much fear he could inspire in men with the very truth of his nature.
When Cailan turned to head back to the camp, Duncan rounded on the mage. "What the king said is true. They've won several battles against the darkspawn here."
"Yet you don't sound very reassured," Eldred noted wryly, his eyes gleaming with an unearthly—yet slightly muddled—glow from under his cloth hood.
Duncan indicated the bridge into the ruined fortress, and the mage fell into step.
"Despite the victories so far," he began. "The darkspawn horde increases with each day. By now, they look to outnumber us. I know there is an Archdemon behind this, but I cannot ask the king to act solely on my feeling."
They stopped.
Eldred snorted. "You could, were he not such a fool."
"You must not speak of the king so," said Duncan disapprovingly. "He is... overeager, perhaps, but he is also one of the few Grey Warden allies. Our numbers in Ferelden are too few. We must do what we can and look to Teyrn Loghain to make up the difference. To that end, we should proceed to the Joining ritual without delay."
"What do you need me to do?" Eldred asked, his curiosity piqued. Rituals were, by their nature, long and strenuous, often requiring ridiculous amounts of power. He liked rituals—their execution meant that he could go without the fatigue induced as a side effect of the concentrated liquid magebane poison that suppressed his magic. It was like wildfire, as Irving would often say. Great and terrible, such that he lacked sufficient control to channel it all properly. But with such a ritual—as he could do most of them alone—he could let loose his full, untamed power, such as it was.
"Feel free to explore the camp here as you wish. All I ask is that you do not leave it for the time being," he said as they again began to walk. "There is another Grey Warden in the camp by the name of Alistair. When you are ready, seek him out and tell him it's time to summon the other recruits. Until then I have business I must attend to. You may find me at the Grey Warden tent on the other side of this bridge, should you need to."
Eldred stopped to bow respectfully to the Warden Commander of Ferelden as the warrior continued walking. He looked about him. Difficult to believe that the people who had enslaved his ancestors, the elves of Arlathan, could create a fortress of such beauty. Never mind that much of modern shemlen culture was based on the ways and customs of the mage-ruled Tevinter Imperium that had dominated the world for millennia. He had mixed feelings for the magisters. On the one hand, they were incredibly powerful mages who had brought forth major advancements in the use of modern magic—much different from the ancient power given to the Elvhenan by the Creators. But on the other, their carelessness and arrogance in contending with powers they did not fully understand had not only led to the Blights, but had created a world that hated all mageborn, in which people saw fit to lock them in gilded cages like the Circle and treat them like dogs. Eldred sighed, thumping his new magic staff into the paved ground, walking across the bridge and into the chaos of the army's camp.
"Eldred?" asked a grandmotherly voice. "Eldred Surana?"
"Wynne!" he exclaimed, throwing his hood back to reveal long sable hair held in a rogue knot with a black leather tie and long, sharp ears. The twenty-year-old elf went up and hugged the woman he had considered a surrogate mother for many years.
"What are you doing here?" she asked.
"I'm here to join with the Grey Wardens," he said, his smile making the gleaming black tattoos in the shape of flames upon his face waver and shift in the sunlight.
"Well, then, you must have duties to attend to, then. More than greeting an old woman. And whatever happened in the Circle that made Duncan invoke the Right of Conscription, I will hear of it from Irving. I would not force you to remember." And with that, she walked off.
Eldred went his own way around the camp, shaking his head. He had never really understood Irving's on again-off again lover, but perhaps that was for the best. He found himself walking over, making his way towards the mabari enclosure. The hounds had always fascinated him—all the intelligence of a shemlen with the sleek physique that spoke to their past as wolves. He noticed the kennel master fidgeting around as if he wanted to say something. The mage decided to help him.
"What is it, messere kennel master?" asked Eldred.
The shemlen ran his hand through greasy brown hair. "Ah, the Warden recruit. There's this mabari, see, and in the last battle he got a little taste of darkspawn flesh. Nasty stuff, that is. Got a bit of the taint in 'im. He bites, so I need someone to muzzle 'im who ain't afraid to get 'is hands dirty. 'E's a fine specimen. Hate to have to put 'im down."
Eldred nodded. "I could undertake such a task."
The kennel master's face lit up. "Really? You have m'thanks, messere. Here is what needs to be put on him."
Eldred nodded again, slipping into the enclosure and taking the muzzle. He threw back his black travelling cloak, freeing his hands to help the animal. The war hound in question was a brown mabari weighing in at a little over two hundred pounds. It was about two hands tall at the shoulder, and its coat was spotted with black, sickly-looking spots that smelled of rot. The mage assumed this to be the darkspawn taint; he didn't dare try to reach out to it with his magical seventh sense. That created a sense of familiarity he didn't want to feel in relation to the taint anytime soon.
The beast cowered in the corner of the fence, and Eldred reached out with his sixth sense that all elves had, few knew about, and even fewer ever mastered, trying to convey to the frightened dog that the mage was not seeking to harm him. Mercifully, this worked, and with nothing more than a whimper, it allowed him to slip the muzzle over its head. The elf felt that that was not enough, and so relented, reaching his hands out and speaking words haltingly, for he did not fully understand them. His magic leaned quite heavily towards the primal, the destructive magicks that allowed him to control and simulate certain weather conditions, but he nevertheless reached out and wove healing magic as best he could. Satisfied, he stood back up with the help of his staff, retching blood into a simple cotton kerchief he had palmed from his belt. Scolding himself for trying to use magic so soon after consuming the magebane—the only way he could keep his power under control— and healing magic, no less! He knew full well it took far more out of him; he was no healer, and could not create anything with his magic that did not destroy. It was ironic; it ran counter to his nature as many knew it. On the outside, he was pleasant, genial and calm, which seemed to bespeak one who knew how to heal, although he was that way because he feared the dark rage that so often boiled inside of him.
Eldred straightened, putting away the bloodstained white cloth. He walked from the enclosure and moved to speak to the kennel master.
"Your mabari is muzzled and stabilized, messere. But I fear he will not get much better. A pity, too. It is truly a fine animal."
"Y'see," said the man. "That was what I wanted to talk to you about. I got word that there's this flower, whi'e wi' a blood-red center, tha's buil' up an immu'ity to the taint. Grows ou' in the Wilds, it does. Could make a poul'ice to treat the taint."
"I'll keep an eye open. If I come across it, I'll get it to you," said Eldred. What his healing magic lacked, his skills as an herbalist and an apothecary more than made up for. Often, he could notice and identify plants much faster than any of the other apprentices. He thought it might have had some effect on how quickly he went from apprentice to mage, but dismissed it. He knew full well why. Gregoir wanted to see if he could control his (so he'd been told) "considerable" power well enough that he didn't turn into a very dangerous pride abomination, the blighted templar bastard. And if not for his quick mind and seventh sense that only he seemed to have, he would have.
He turned away from the very grateful kennel master and made a trek through the camp, catching a glimpse of a very nervous-looking fat man with a big sword and even bigger head, as well as a dubious-looking chap wearing studded leather armor and twirling an iron dagger between his fingers, a bow on his back. Eldred continued on toward a sound of distress coming from the ruins of the fortress.
"I will not be harassed!" yelled a mage he recognized as Owen Amell at an amused-looking blonde shemlen who looked much like a certain monarch he knew…
"Aww, and I was gonna name one of my children after you. The grumpy one," said the shemlen. Eldred suppressed a chuckle, watching the blonde. A funny one, especially since the mage had no love for the lordling mage out of the Free Marches. Too self-important and snotty. Refreshing to see him taken down a peg or two. Or forty-five, but Eldred would have to be satisfied with three.
"Your glibness does you no credit, Alistair. If you insist, I will attend to the Revered Mother," said Amell, walking away. Eldred, knowing this strange shemlen was the one he was to meet on Duncan's orders, strolled up to him with barely a glance in the direction of the browbeaten enchanter.
"Y'know, one thing I love about the Blight is how it brings everyone together," said Alistair, addressing the elf.
"I know what you mean," responded Eldred, chuckling.
"It's like a party; we could all stand in a circle and hold hands. That would give the darkspawn something to think about." They both shared a laugh at that. Then Alistair began looking at him quizzically. "Wait, we haven't met, have we? I don't suppose you happen to be another mage?"
Eldred bristled despite himself. "Would it make your day worse if I was?"
"Not really. I'd just like to know my likelihood of being turned into a toad at any given moment," Alistair responded, seemingly unfazed. The elf had to laugh at that despite his anger, and the emotion quickly diffused.
"You're a strange one, you know that?" Eldred commented.
"Strange as they come… wait, I know you! You're that new Warden recruit Duncan brought!" the human exclaimed.
The elf chuckled. "I'm Eldred," he supplied.
"Right, that was the name," Alistair replied. "Well, as a junior member of the order, I'll be accompanying you when you prepare for the Joining." Changing tack, he spoke. "So, I'm curious. Have you ever actually encountered the darkspawn before?"
"No, I can't say I have," Eldred answered honestly, wrapping both hands around his staff as if he were leaning upon it for support–which, given his frail form, he most certainly was.
"When I fought my first one, I wasn't prepared for how monstrous it was. I can't say I'm looking forward to encountering another. But since Duncan sent you to me… It's time, isn't it?" A nod was his only answer. "Then when you're ready, let's head back to Duncan. I imagine he's eager to get things started. "
Eldred considered the human before him. The human bearing the Chantry's sigil was amusing; odd, yes, but in a decidedly good way. It was clear to the mage that, though Alistair had obviously at one point been training to be a Templar, but never took his vows–he lacked what Eldred liked to call "that special touch," which seemed to make every member of the Order a curmudgeon at best, and a homicidal sadist the next, though most were arrogant windbags who, in reality, were simpering brats–and for that, Eldred was immeasurably grateful. He knew not whether or not he could have borne the stress of serving in the Grey Wardens with a full Templar of any of the three aforementioned varieties, though it was true that the sociopathic Templar was far more native to the Free Marches, and thank the Maker that there were none of the fanatical variety in Ferelden; they were found in the Free Marches, but mainly in Orlais. He decided that this would be a most… interesting experience, travelling with Alistair.
"I look forward to travelling with you," he said at last.
"Really?" Alistair asked, surprised. "You do? Huh. That's a switch. Well, lead on!" He gestured toward the road back. Eldred nodded his head; indeed, it was past time that they deal with the task at hand. In fact, if he was being honest with himself, he was quite excited to be on with the journey ahead.
The path to Duncan's fire was pretty short, all things considered. Alistair, unlike what Eldred would have expected of someone possessing his considerable constitution, did not object to the elf's necessarily sedate pace; having a childhood locked in a tower working with magicks that were considered far above his years, in addition to the power Irving said he had, which was "vast but untamed"–which was putting it mildly; indeed, without his magebane potion, working magic for him was akin to attempting to force a monsoon into a reagent pouch–resulted in him being physically weak to begin with; coupled with the magebane required for him to cast safely, he was positively sickly. He was grateful, then, when the sword-bearing Warden besides him proved to be so accommodating.
Finally, they reached the fire, where the other two recruits were already present.
"You found Alistair, did you?" noted Duncan. "Good. I'll assume you are ready to begin preparations." His intense gaze shifted from the elf to the warrior. "Assuming, of course, that you're quite finished riling up mages, Alistair," he said disapprovingly. Surprisingly, Eldred didn't snicker. Not at all; his calm expression was glued to his face securely, the mask firmly in place.
"What can I say?" blustered Alistair. "The Revered Mother ambushed me. The way she wields guilt, they should stick her in the army," he remarked wryly.
Duncan was not amused. "She forced you to sass the mage, did she? We cannot afford to antagonize anyone, Alistair. We don't need to give anyone more ammunition against us," he chided, sounding very much like a father speaking to a small infant.
Alistair smarted at this, sounding, in a curious parallel to Duncan, much like the scolded toddler who had accidentally broken the window with a badly aimed pebble. "You're right, Duncan," he said. "I apologize."
"Now then, since you are all here, we can begin," said Duncan, redirecting his attention at the assembled recruits. "You four will be heading into the Korcari Wilds to perform two tasks," he continued. "The first is to obtain three vials of darkspawn blood–one for each recruit."
"And the second?" spoke Eldred, listening attentively.
"There was once a Grey Warden archive in the Wilds, abandoned long ago when we could no longer afford to maintain such remote outposts. It has recently come to our attention that some scrolls have been left behind, magically sealed to protect them. Alistair," he said, returning his regard to the unusually reticent blond-haired Warden. "I want you to retrieve these scrolls if you can."
"So," began Eldred, all eyes turning to him–some sharply, others decidedly less so. "In summary, go into the Wilds, find the old archive and obtain three vials of darkspawn blood. Understood?" he questioned.
Duncan nodded. "These scrolls contain treaties promising support," he elaborated. "Treaties that may prove valuable in the days to come. And watch over your charges, Alistair," he said, addressing the other Warden once again. "Return quickly and safely."
"We will," replied Alistair.
"Then may the Maker watch over your path. I will see you when you return," spoke Duncan, in the tone of a farewell.
"Well then," spoke Eldred, drawing his hood once more over his head. "What are we waiting for? We've got a world ahead of us and tasks to complete. Let's be off!" And with that, he walked off; Ser Jory stared at the back of his hood, slack-jawed, while the others, though surprised, took it in stride. After clearing their departure with the guard at the gate, Eldred led the motley crew into the Wilds. The gate closed…
…and the maws of a pack of wolves greeted their first foray into the wilderness.
