Ostagar–9:30 Dragon Age

"You all go on ahead, meet up with Duncan; I'll join you later. Right now, I have some unfinished business to take care of," offered Eldred. The night was upon the camp, and so, pulling down his hood, he broke off from the group. Looking around and seeing the kennel master standing at his post, tapping his foot impatiently, the elf grinned and walked over to the man. "Ho, kennel master!" he greeted.

"Ah, it's you," said the kennel master in response, his voice tinged with an expression that sounded very much like relief. "The mabari's stable for now, but not really improving. Unless I get that herb I told you about, there's not much hope."

"Well, I do believe that this is the flower you need" replied the mage, bringing the perfectly preserved flower from its state of cryogenic stasis within his enchanted reagent pouch. "Would I be incorrect in that supposition?"

"Let me see…" said the kennel master with undisguised interest, drawing closer so as to get a better view of the plant in question. With a gasp, he spoke. "Yea, that's exactly it, wonderful!" he exclaimed. "Err…give me a moment and I'll make this into an ointment." Eldred offered the flower to him, which he accepted gratefully. Turning around, the kennel master set to work concocting and applying the ointment that would save the dog's life. The animal whimpered in fear as the man approached, but Eldred reached out with his elven sixth sense, drawing the creature's attention to the elf. Once it caught sight of the mage, it quieted and stilled, locking its eyes with the mist-like orbs of its savior. When the kennel master was done, he stepped back out of the enclosure and regarded the mage. "He looks better already. I'm sure he'd thank you himself, if he could."

He already has, thought the elf. "What will happen to him now, though? Given the extent to which the taint had spread, he's going to need at least a day or two spent in recovery and rehabilitation," he asked instead.

The kennel master was silent for a while, considering. After a while, his face lit up, as if a new idea had just now occurred to him. "Why not come back after the battle?" he suggested. "Perhaps we can see about imprinting him on you."

The mage laughed in amusement at the idea. "You think that's possible?" he asked. "Well, perhaps you're right; mabari are at least as intelligent as your average Templar…"

"…and he probably knows that you're the one that cured him," finished the kennel master. "Look, just… come back after the battle and just… well, take another look. Please." The elf nodded in agreement; it might be useful to have a mabari on his side, if for no other reason than the fact that the sheer novelty would be disarming, at least in negotiations–he wasn't quite certain as to the darkspawn's capacity for the comprehension of novelty.

Bidding the kennel master a farewell, Eldred departed the area around the enclosure, walking towards Duncan's bonfire where Daveth and Jory waited, Duncan stared into the flames and Alistair looked on. Upon his approach, the old Warden turned towards the mage expectantly. "So, you return from the Wilds," he observed. "Have you been successful?"

"We have," replied the elf.

"Good. I've had the Circle mages preparing; with the blood you've retrieved, we can begin the Joining immediately," Duncan stated approvingly.

Eldred began to relay what Morrigan's mother had told them, but, thinking better of it, as Duncan would have more than enough reason to doubt their credibility given their source, held his tongue on the matter. Instead, he stated simply, "I am ready."

"Excellent," commented Duncan, his tone approving once more. "You will need that courage to face what comes next."

"Courage?" interrupted Daveth. "How much danger are we in?"

"I will not lie," replied Duncan, seemingly unperturbed by the interruption. "We Grey Wardens pay a heavy price to become what we are. Fate may decree that you pay your price now rather than later," he warned.

"It is of no consequence," Eldred spoke up. "Everything dies someday; I have no problem facing what is to come."

"I agree," added Jory. "Let's have it done." The mage could barely contain a snigger; he betted that Jory's courage would last exactly three minutes, or until he actually came face-to-face with what was being asked of him–whichever came first. Once a craven, always a craven, thought the elf.

"Then let us begin," replied Duncan. He turned to regard his protégé. "Alistair, take them to the old temple."

A short while later, Eldred entered what he presumed to have once been a tower; the circular section where he met the junior Warden was too ruined to say for sure. The others had gone on ahead; he could see Daveth and Alistair standing there, waiting, in stark contrast to Jory who was pacing back and forth nervously before a medium-sized marble table. Small wonder, thought the elf.

"The more I hear about this 'Joining,' the less I like it," said the cowardly knight from Redcliffe; Two minutes and thirty seconds; truly, it is a new record, the mage observed privately, taking into consideration the large man's return to his normal responses.

"Are you blubbering? Again?" commented Daveth incredulously.

"Why all these damn tests?" Jory asked, seemingly oblivious to Daveth's–and Eldred's–steadily rising levels of irritation. "Have I not earned my place?"

The mage wanted nothing right then more than the ability to present to his face a fireball; perhaps then he might grow a backbone, the lily-livered twit. The rogue's response, however, was much better. "Maybe it's tradition; maybe they're just trying to annoy you."

"Oh, Maker, would you STOP YAMMERING, Jory?!"yelled the elf. "Your cowardly prattle is giving me a headache! And besides, it's not like there's anything we can do about it now!"

"I only know that my wife is in Highever with a child on the way," countered Jory. "If they had warned me… it just doesn't seem fair!"

Fair? FAIR?! Eldred's temper reached its peak right then; he quieted Daveth with a gesture before letting loose on the knight. "'It's not fair?'" he mocked. "You know, you say that so often, one couldn't help but wonder what your basis for comparison is–you really ought to take a vacation and visit Lake Calenhad sometime, gain yourself some bloody sodding perspective! Let me put it in terms you may understand, ser knight," he spat. "They don't tell you that the Joining might be fatal because of simpering, spineless lily-livered worms like you! Honestly, I know that the Grey Wardens are strapped for members, but one cannot help but think you to be a detraction! Man up and–if you'll kindly pardon the human colloquialism–grow a pair! You may be stupid, but I know you're not blind; you saw those darkspawn! I know I'd be willing to dedicate my life to the cause of eradicating them, and I'm a sodding mage! I have no family to protect!Wouldn't you sacrifice just as much to keep your precious, pretty little wife and brat safe from those… things?! Maybe you will die–though the Maker knows it wouldn't be much of a loss–Hell, maybe we'll all die. But we'll all die for sure if nobody stops the darkspawn!"

"Please understand! I… I've never faced a foe before that I couldn't face with my blade!" Jory pleaded, holding his hands up as if they would protect him from the mage's wrath, hoping his words would allay that fury. They did not, though; the elf's ire rose until his compatriots could almost see the magic rising off of him in waves.

"Yes, well, in case you haven't noticed, you don't do so well against the enemies that you can slice to bits with that great big honking sword there, either!" The mage bent over suddenly, pulling out his kerchief just in time to retch a new load of blood into it; this was why he had to control his emotions–should he get too excited, he would lose control of his magic, which in turn would cause him to sick up blood.

"At last, we come to the Joining," Duncan intoned, crossing the threshold as Eldred righted himself. "The Grey Wardens were founded during the First Blight, when humanity stood on the verge on annihilation. So it was that the first Grey Wardens drank of darkspawn blood and mastered their taint."

"We're… we're going to drink the blood of those…" Jory trailed off, petrified with terror at the murderous glare with which the elf affixed upon him.

"As the first Grey Wardens did before us, as we did before you," continued Duncan. "This is the source of our power… and our victory."

"Those who survive the Joining become immune to the taint," Alistair explained. "We can… sense it… in the darkspawn, and use it to… slay the Archdemon," he communicated, with some difficulty.

"Let's get on with it, then; the night's battle shall be upon us shortly, in any case," remarked Eldred.

"We speak only a few words prior to the Joining," began Duncan. "But these words have been said since the first. Alistair," he said, regarding the other Warden once again, "if you would?"

Nodding, the former Templar bowed his head. "Join us, brothers and sisters," he intoned. "Join us in the shadows where we stand, vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn…"–from under the lid of his partially closed eyes, Eldred spied Jory glancing at the goblet apprehensively–"…And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten and that one day, we will join you," finished Alistair. Duncan walked over to the table, lifting up the cup.

"Daveth," he called, turning towards the assembled recruits with the sanguine goblet in hand, offering it to the rogue. "Step forward." Daveth did as he was told, accepting the proffered chalice and downing its contents reverently, but without hesitation. Duncan took back the cup, retreating from the recruit slowly.

The rogue doubled over in pain, staggering with his face cradled in his hands, yelling in undisguised anguish. He reared his head up, prompting a shocked reaction from the mage and the knight; Duncan and Alistair remained unfazed.

"Maker's Breath!" Jory exclaimed.

Daveth clutched his throat, dropping to all fours, and then down to the ground, dead. The stress, evidently, had been too much; and so the Joining had killed him.

"I am sorry, Daveth," said Duncan, his tone heavy with regret, but not overly so; it was clear that he was entirely too familiar with recruits not surviving the rigors of the Joining. "Step forward, Jory."

"But… I have a wife! A child! Had I known…" objected the craven knight, drawing his sword and backing away, hyperventilating.

"There is no turning back," reminded Duncan simply, advancing on the knight.

Like a cornered animal, Jory backed away and into the wall behind him, bringing his sword to bear and objecting profusely. "No! You ask too much! There is no glory in this!"

Duncan drew from his belt a curved elven dagger–a dar'misu, Eldred observed–and continued his advance. The knight clumsily tried to knock the blade away; instead, the old Warden parried, knocked Jory's sword away, and then stepped close, impaling him on the dagger, blood gushing out of the knight's corpulent jowls as his jaw hung open in shock at the sudden pain.

"I am sorry," said Duncan simply, pulling his dagger free; Jory dropped to the ground, on all fours, then finally onto the ground, dead. Both the elf and Alistair looked on, Eldred unfazed–the craven wretch deserved to die for his childishness–and Alistair in nothing short of abject horror. "But the Joining is not yet complete," stated Duncan. He took the chalice back up from the table where he'd put it down, turning to the black-robed, black-cloaked mage with it, his armor gored with Jory's blood. "You are called upon to submit yourself to the taint for the greater good," he reminded, passing the goblet to Eldred. The elf took it graciously, staring into its eddying depths for a moment before downing a swig of it. He gave it back to Duncan; "From this moment forth, you are a Grey Warden," stated the old man, backing away.

Eldred swallowed it all down with a single gulp, the acrid vitae burning like acid all the way down his throat. Whispers started in his head; they brought with them pain, and within his soul, he felt rather than heard a scream of agony. He brought his fingers to bear upon his forehead, grasping and leaning upon his staff. Then within his mind formed an image–a gargantuan dragon, defiled and ripped through with spikes and corruption, a mockery of its formerly majestic beauty–and from within those same depths of his soul, a single name was uttered, distraught and in horror, like the tone one seeing a close friend or loved one tortured and debased and torn down to an animalistic madness might use, calling out to ascertain whether any remnant of the one they knew still existed therein. The name consisted of one word, spoken only once before all turned red with pain:

Urthemiel…

"It is finished," he heard, his senses returning to him such that he could, with increasing clarity, ascertain the faces of both Alistair and Duncan, though it was the latter that spoke. "Welcome."

"Two more deaths," remarked Alistair, standing up from his kneeling position as Eldred reached for his staff, wrapping his fingers around it and pulling it to him. "In my Joining, only one of us died, but it was… horrible," he remembered, as the mage planted the butt of his staff firmly in the ground and, leaning on it to support his frail frame, he stood. "I'm glad at least one of you made it through."

"Aww," Eldred commented drily. "Just realized you're stuck with me, didn't you? Oh, woe is Alistair, woe is Alistair!" All three of them shared a chuckle at that.

"How do you feel?" asked Duncan, deathly serious once again.

"It's over. I'm fine," the mage replied. Though it was more painful than the Harrowing, he thought.

"Did you have dreams?" asked Alistair. "I had terrible dreams after my Joining."

"Such things come when you begin to sense the darkspawn, as we all do," added Duncan. "That and many other things can be explained in the months to come."

"Before I forget," interjected the former Templar, "there is one last part to your Joining. We take some of that blood and put it into a pendant. Something to remind us… of those who didn't make it this far." With that, Alistair reached into his belt and pulled out a simple amulet, handing it to Eldred.

Duncan, having observed the completion of the Joining in silence, spoke again. "Take some time," he said. "When you are ready, I'd like you to accompany me to a meeting with the king; your knack for tactics might well come in handy."

"Oh, very well," said Eldred with an air of resignation.

"Good. The meeting is to the west, down the stairs. Please attend as soon as you are able." With that, Duncan and Alistair both walked away from the dais; Duncan over to the meeting place, Alistair back to the bonfire. Deciding not to take another dose of magebane–given how close the battle was–he instead took stock and inventory of himself. Once he was satisfied as to his relatively good condition, he brushed dust and a small bit of dirt off of his sable cloak and robes of the same color. Then, pulling up his hood once again over his head so as to obscure his face, he thumped his staff upon the ground in confirmation, following Duncan's route.

"Loghain, my decision is final," Eldred overheard. He rolled his eyes; more petulance from the Brat King disguised as bravado. Lovely. "I will stand by the Grey Wardens in this assault." Eldred cocked an eyebrow as he walked around the cherry table set up at the rear of the temple. He's 'standing with us'that would take some getting used to–only figuratively, right? Even as he thought this, the elf knew it to be a wish in vain. His suspicions were confirmed in short order.

"You risk too much, Cailan!" Teyrn Loghain pleaded, growing irritated with his son-in-law. I cannot say I am able to fault him on that count, Eldred thought. "The darkspawn horde is too dangerous for you to be playing hero on the front lines!" The mage winced slightly; the sentiment is without fault, he nonverbally commented. However, it remains an extremely poor choice of words. He was barely able to suppress a snort at the idea that Loghain was actually trying to reason with the self-entitled, whiny little prat.

Children such as Cailan are not to be reasoned with; one would have a better chance of convincing a tree stump to move out of the way of your bedroll.

Where did that come from?

"If that's the case, perhaps we should wait for the Orlesian forces to join us, after all!" Cailan exclaimed. The elf–who had quite stealthily slipped into an appropriate place at the map table whilst the king continued to whinge–found his opinion of this particular monarch (which was by no means stellar to begin with) dropping by the second.

Are you shagging Empress Celene or what?! he wanted to shout. Because evidence to the contrary notwithstanding, I find it difficult to believe that a human monarch would be so thick! The Grand Cathedral is in blighted Val Royeaux! If the Orlesians come, the empress will be certain as the rising sun to bring Templars! Orlesian Templars! Not to mention that minor little detail that most of Orlais still thinks of Ferelden as their territory! But of course, the sanest one in the room is often the one who cannot say anything, and so Eldred shrewdly elected to remain silent.

"I must protest to your fool notion that we need the Orlesians to defend ourselves!" Loghain responded angrily. Well, Eldred considered, p'r'aps I'm not the only sane one among this court of fools and highborn prats…Duncan excluded, of course.

"It is not a fool notion!" Cailan argued vehemently. Eldred shook his head, hood down, slight shoulders heaving with silent laughter. Only a naïve idiot believes the Orlesians don't want Ferelden right back under their thumbs…with interest! "Our arguments with the Orlesians are a thing of the past! And you will remember who is king!"

"How fortunate Maric did not live to see his son ready to hand Ferelden over to those who had enslaved us for a century!" Loghain exclaimed, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. Aside from the massive armor he wore, Eldred mimicked the expression flawlessly, safe beyond the king's field of vision.

"Then our current forces will have to suffice, won't they?" Cailan concluded, the smug satisfaction in his tone severely tempting Eldred to introduce the Brat King to the business end of a lightning bolt. "Duncan! Are your men ready for battle?" he asked, turning to the aged Warden Commander.

"They are, Your Majesty," Duncan replied, nodding gravely.

"And this is the recruit I met earlier on the road?" Cailan asked, turning to the elf. "I understand congratulations are in order." Despite the thousand myriad responses running through the mage's head right then–ranging from telling the prat off to simply igniting his smallclothes and doing Queen Anora a favor–he opted for a diplomatic response.

"Thank you, your Majesty," Eldred replied. Cailan didn't notice the hidden edge of mockery and sarcasm in the elf's pronunciation of the king's title, but judging by the widened eyes and small grin of Teyrn Mac Tir, obviously someone did.

"Every Grey Warden is needed now," Cailan went on, the idiotic bravado in his voice setting Eldred's teeth on edge. "You should be honored to join their ranks."

That was it. Whilst Loghain, possibly encouraged by the fact that he was not alone in his less-than-complementary view of his son-in-law, proceeded to chew Cailan out on his 'fascination with glory and legends'–which was a very good point, Eldred had to admit–the elf, using the auditory distraction, muttered an incantation under his breath and made a slight sweeping gesture with his left hand, the top of his staff gripped in his right lighting up imperceptibly to all but Duncan's enhanced senses, instantly, magically and incurably rendered Cailan sterile. Once he finished, he was able to conceal a satisfied smirk beneath the shadow of his sable hood; sometimes, he thought, sneaking into the restricted section of the Circle Library in the dead of night is bloody useful. You might learn something. Like, for instance, a spell of the entropy tree of magic to render all sorts of unnoticeable debilitating…corporeal malfunctions, shall we say?

"Fine. Speak your strategy," Cailan huffed. Let's try for impotence as well, shall we, Cailan? Eldred fumed as he muttered another incantation. The king himself leaned over the map. "The Grey Wardens and I draw the darkspawn into charging our lines, and then?"

"You will alert the tower to light the beacon…" Loghain began, joining Cailan in leaning over the map for the purposes of illustration. "…signaling my men to charge from cover…"

"…to flank the darkspawn, I remember," Cailan interrupted. Eldred wished right then for nothing more than to smack this bloody idiot upside the head. However, thinking that any more spellcasting would not go over well, the mage fought hard to curtail his impulses and succeeded in the attempt. "This is the Tower of Ishal in the ruins, yes?" the king asked, pointing to a location on the map. "Who shall light this beacon?"

Patience, gone, the irate elf thought. "Do you mean…to tell me…" the mage began, speaking in an ominously soft tone. "…that you have been so busy playing 'king'…that you have yet to select…a suitable regular…to be the unlucky bloke…with the extremely dubious honor of going up this…undoubtedly very tall tower…" He pointed directly at the tower itself on the map, and not the tower courtyard as Cailan had done, for the purposes of illustration. "…to play a part in this ridiculous 'Final Battle'–a deed which is so unprecedented to the point of being statistically impossible when being attempted by greater men than you, ignoring the fact that the Archdemon behind this has yet to even reveal himself on the field of battle–that is absolutely CRUCIAL?!"

"We need not worry about these mindless darkspawn!" Cailan asserted indignantly. "We have…"

"SILENCE!" Eldred commanded, thumping his staff on the ground and paralyzing Cailan's lips. "The darkspawn are mindless only until directed by an Archdemon, 'your Majesty'. And don't feed me that line of all that half-baked, uneducated shite that you're getting ready to spew! When the darkspawn do not have an Archdemon driving them, they're in the Deep Roads, continually digging for another Old God of the ancient Imperium to corrupt with the taint and turn into an Archdemon! Their whole existence is based around Archdemons! That is the only reason the darkspawn would emerge in such numbers! These are no mindless animals! These are fearless, resilient perversions led by an exceptionally cunning, ancient, ageless, deathless dragon that has been driven mad–and is, therefore, extremely dangerous–by the taint with which these perversions infect it as a person covered in buboes infects a healthy person with the plague." Seeing Cailan's astonished expression and quickly reddening face, Eldred sighed. "Here. A small team of two Grey Wardens–namely, myself and Alistair,"–the elf noted the wince the mention of that name elicited from the king–"can make their way to the blighted top of the sodding Tower of bloody Ishal unnoticed as you, your Majesty, have your force engage the vanguard of the darkspawn horde in the gorge below…here." The elf pointed to a clearing beneath the bridge. "Make sure to station plenty of archers up here on this bridge and this ledge." Point, counterpoint. "This is to provide the ground forces with the fire support they'll need. Keyword: fire. Every flame-enchanted arrow you have in your arsenal, give to the archers on high. Remember–by the blood of Andraste, remember–to set up as many ballistae as you can in the short window you have." He brought his finger back over to the icon that marked the tower. "Meanwhile, I can use my magic to light the beacon; Alistair will have the task of guarding my back. Sound good?" He looked around. "Any questions? Comments? Concerns?"

"I already have some of my men stationed there, so it shouldn't be too much trouble; though, it is a vital task, as you so graciously put it," Loghain stated, struggling to keep his taciturn mask firmly in place.

"It…makes sense," Cailan begrudgingly admitted.

"I object!" came a shrill, unpleasant voice. In another setting, she might have sounded rather like a grandmother. As it stood, however, Eldred, recognizing the voice, stiffened imperceptibly. "We will not trust any lives to your spells, mage!" the Revered Mother spat imperiously, uttering the last word as if it were a curse. "Save them for the darkspawn!"

"Oh, for the love of…" Eldred grumbled. Saying a single word out loud and making a pushing motion to the Chantry official, he encased her in a force field. "Shut up," he said politely. "Anyone else?" He turned back to the king, Loghain and Duncan, the last of which wearing an inscrutable expression upon his face.

"No. This plan will suffice. The Grey Wardens will light the beacon," Loghain decided after a few moments, standing up from the table.

"My lord! The tower and its beacon are completely unnecessary! The Circle…" babbled a bald mage in what looked to be a variation on an apprentice's robe. Narrowing his eyes, Eldred decided to intercede.

"Ho, Uldred!" the elf interrupted. "What are you doing in this proverbial neck of the woods, you ingrate weasel?!"

Uldred stiffened, turning around to face the elf, his visage ashen. "It's you… Surana…" he muttered in shock and some degree of fear. The elf mage decided to flare his aura just a bit, exciting Uldred's perception of the ambient magicks.

"Yes, it is I," he confirmed with a quick nod. "However, one might have thought that you were demoted to scullery maid after that absolute debacle eight years ago." He flicked his eyes over to the still-suspended Revered Mother; Uldred, acknowledging the threat, turned a new shade of white before excusing himself and retreating quickly. Eldred shook his head, laughing, before chanting an entirely different incantation and declining the glowing head of his staff to rest upon Uldred's fleeing form. With a squeak of surprise, the uncouth mage was polymorphed into a ferret. Nevertheless, he continued scurrying off, fearing the consequences of demanding to be turned back.

"What happened eight years ago?" Duncan asked after several uncomfortable seconds of silence.

"Long story," Eldred sighed. "Suffice it to say that whilst what happened at the Tower was my first experience using a Rod of Fire, the converse is untrue. Also, Uldred used to have quite the thick head of hair." The elf shook his head. "It never grew back after that incident."

"Well, I for one wish to thank you, Loghain. I cannot wait for that glorious moment! The Grey Wardens battle besides the King of Ferelden to stem the tide of evil!" Cailan fantasized.

"Yes, Cailan; a glorious moment for us all…" Loghain trailed off as he walked away.

"You'd best go rouse Alistair," Duncan instructed. "Doubtless, if he's not sleeping right now, he's close to it. Then the both of you get ready for the battle. I'll make my way back to the bonfire soon."

Eldred nodded, rapping his staff upon the stone floor and walking out of the ruins, his magic levels running high. He paused next to the Revered Mother's paralyzed form, shrugged, then rapped his staff against the ground next to her, dispelling his force field. She fell to the ground on all fours, before getting up and glaring balefully at him–save for the fact that he was not there. She got up, dusted herself off, and walked back to her section of the camp with as much dignity as she could manage. Once he was safely out of earshot, Duncan addressed the general and the king.

"Your estimation of the young Warden's affinity for stratagems was not entirely inaccurate," Loghain conceded. "Clearly, he was not satisfied with the current plan; nevertheless, unlike one who has no true talent with and has only read about the subject of tactics, he realized that we had not the time to deviate from our current course, and as such did what he could to shore up the weak points."

"Though, he does have quite the mouth on him," Cailan sulked. "Maker, Duncan, were he not a Warden and said those same things…"

"Your Majesty, with all due respect," Duncan interrupted, arms clasped behind his back. "Eldred Surana is a…special case. He is, in fact, Dalish; as a babe, however, his clan's caravan of aravels was beset upon by a rogue Templar officer and his men. He is an orphan in truth; no living relative has he. As a result, the only fatal authority he has known his entire life has been the Templar garrison at Kinloch Hold. As you can imagine, over time he developed quite an…antagonistic attitude towards those Templars; so much so that when I went to procure him, I saw in his eyes the same rebellion that burned in your father Maric's when first I met him, before the Orlesians had been driven from Ferelden. It would not be inaccurate to say, then, your Majesty, that he has gone his entire life without knowing he lived under a king's rule–your rule. Certainly, he KNEW that you were king; however, when it comes to a lifestyle with which one is unfamiliar, seeing and reading are two entirely disparate things. Give him time. As he grows older, he shall master tact and the deference due a monarch." Cailan nodded his head in satisfaction, turning away to return to his tent; summarily, Loghain did the same. With a sigh, Duncan lingered a moment before returning to the bonfire.

Thirty Minutes Later…

"You heard the plan," Duncan stated, his back to the bonfire. I thought of the plan, you mean, Eldred thought. "You and Alistair shall go to the Tower of Ishal and ensure the beacon is lit."

"What?! I won't be in the battle?!" Alistair cried, disappointed.

"It is a vital task, Alistair; someone's got to do it," Eldred responded reassuringly but firmly. "If the beacon isn't lit, Teyrn Loghain's men won't know when to deliver the hammer-blow."

"So the king needs two Grey Wardens up there holding the torch–just in case, right?" Alistair responded, his sarcasm making his disapproval abundantly clear.

"Alistair," Eldred began. He held his arms out wide. "I'm a mage. It's my job to light the fire–magically–and I need someone with a great big shield to keep the wee beasties off o' me back," he said jovially. Alistair smiled at his comrade's attempt to cheer him up, Duncan at the camaraderie already developing between the mage and the would-be Templar. The irony of the situation did not escape him.

"We will signal you when the time is right. Alistair will know what to look for," Duncan informed the pair.

"I wonder if we could join the sortie after the proverbial beacon of Amon Dîn is lit, Duncan? I mean, there's sure to be plenty of darkspawn for both the Teyrn's men and the two of us," the elf asked, slugging Alistair's arm.

"Stay with the men and guard the Tower, first and foremost," Duncan emphasized. "However, if you are needed, I shall send word." The pair inclined their heads, signifying their satisfaction with the arrangement. Then, like a thunderbolt, a thought struck the mage.

"What, then, of the Archdemon? If he emerges, what are we to do? Besides soiling our drawers," he said, looking pointedly at Alistair. He simply responded with a look of 'totally un-suspicious' innocence.

"If he does, I want you to leave him to us. No heroics…from either of you," Duncan said firmly. "The battle is about to begin. Once I leave, move quickly. You'll have less than an hour."

"We know what to do," Eldred assured the old Warden.

"Then I must join the others," he replied. "From here, you two are on your own. Remember, you are both Grey Wardens. I expect you to be worthy of that title."

"Duncan," said Alistair. "May the Maker watch over you."

Duncan nodded sagely. "May He watch over us all." He slid his sword and dagger from their sheaths upon his back, twirling them around to do a last-minute check on their balance and speed before in the same motion returning them to their sheaths. With that, he turned on his heel and disappeared into the haphazard maze of tents to meet up with the other, senior Wardens.

When several seconds had passed, Alistair turned to his comrade. "So…all that about never before having faced darkspawn, I suppose, was a lie?"

Eldred turned back with an exasperated expression upon his face. "Yes, because I totally would have had the opportunity to face off against legions of Hurlocks within the confines of Kinloch Hold."

"Then…how did you know all that you did about the darkspawn and the Archdemon?" Alistair questioned, his brow furrowing in confusion.

"Garahel's journals make for…interesting reading," Eldred said, smirking despite himself. He turned and searched through his belt, pulling out the amulet that Alistair had given him. "Granted, they were in the restricted section of the Circle's library, meaning that I had to sneak in under the cover of night to…procure them…for my perusal."

"How did you manage to sneak past the Templars on guard duty?" Alistair questioned, cocking his head as he took his sword out of its sheath in preparation to test its balance for the third time.

"I had a friend," Eldred replied absently, slipping the amulet under his hood and over his head, dropping it down so that the pendant rested atop his robes. "Two of them, in fact. We were…comrades," he said, a small smile creeping onto his face. "We even had a group name…called ourselves the 'Societas Draconistrarum'…It was my friend Anders who took care of the Templars, and our friend Jowan turned me invisible so that I could sneak in, take a book and sneak back out; elves are, after all, uniquely suited to that kind of thing. We read them in turn, though Anders and I far more vehemently than Jowan. Probably because Jowan was always the cautious one; got us out of quite a lot of trouble on more than one occasion."

Alistair nodded, listening as he checked the balance of his longsword, swirling it around in intricate figure eights before slipping it back into its sheath. "So that's how you knew how to defeat them!" he exclaimed in realization. "But I thought that the Circle's curriculum is strenuous enough that you don't really have that much spare time…"

"Remember what I said in the Wilds, Alistair?" the mage reminded. "That I had known the counterspell to polymorph effects since I was seven?" The junior Warden nodded. "That was pure truth. I had completed the curriculum by my seventh birthday, spending that long under First Enchanter Irving's private tutelage. I'd spent the last thirteen years in private study by the time my Harrowing came and Duncan popped by to witness the…misadventure…that ended in him recruiting me."

"Why?" Alistair questioned.

"Ah," Eldred said, touching his finger to the side of his nose mischievously. "Now that is another story. And one which I cannot tell; we have not the time." Alistair looked a touch more confused than the elf expected. He huffed. "I'll tell you later, but right now we need to get our arses over to the Tower of Ishal." He turned on his heel and walked towards the bridge, not needing to turn to make sure Alistair was following; the clinking of splintmail supplied him with his answer.

Eldred ducked behind a pillar as a flaming rock from a catapult careened past the place where he was about to emerge, killing two archers and reducing a ballista to splinters. Muttering a curse, he popped out to cast a quick spell at the catapult before ducking back into safety. Thankfully, that was all the time Alistair needed to catch up; they were standing next to each other, behind the same pillar.

A loud, explosive bang sounded as the pitch and magazine of the catapult combusted. Eldred looked at his fellow. "NOW!" The mage took off running, cloak billowing out behind him and obscuring his shape as Alistair kept pace.

They made it to the other side of the gorge relatively unharmed, for which Eldred thanked whichever deity was looking after his wellbeing. Luck, however, by its nature changes quickly.

"You…you're Grey Wardens, aren't you?!" an armored guard asked, running up to the mage breathless and ashen-faced.

"Aye," Eldred responded, breathing deeply and trying desperately to ignore the sinking feeling growing in the pit of his stomach. "We are. What's the situation?"

"The tower…it's been taken!" he cried.

"Vashedan," Eldred swore.

"What are you talking about, man?" Alistair asked. "Taken how?"

"By rabbits, Alistair," Eldred spat sarcastically. "White-furred, vicious rabbits. Rip your head clean off if you come near 'em."

"Oh, right. The darkspawn…" Alistair muttered sheepishly.

"They came up through the lower chambers!" the guard explained. "They're everywhere! Most of our men are dead!"

"Then let's waste no more time in getting to the beacon. Each second we waste discussing it is another second lost, and with the Tower of Ishal infested, time has suddenly become a very precious commodity," Eldred resolved, taking up his staff and running into the tower's courtyard, noting the other soldier who had joined the group. The Tower Guard readied the crossbow on his back, Alistair and the soldier both readying their armaments. From afar, the elf watched in silence, evaluating the situation as the last of Loghain's guards were slaughtered by Hurlocks. Finally, he came to a decision on how to proceed.

"Guard, swing up to that perch over there," he commanded, indicating a ledge formed of wooden scaffolding. "Alistair will cover your back as you ascend–it's the most likely place for an emissary to be stationed, and his Templar training should come in handy. Soldier, run up and get those Hurlocks' attention. I'll back you up with some fire support. Go!"

The soldier ran up and taunted the blooded darkspawn, drawing them to him. He hid behind his shield as best he could, but it was clear that it was only a temporary solution. Thankfully, Alistair was successfully cleaving through the Genlocks and Hurlocks guarding the archer's roost, the crossbow-wielding guard firing at the things when he could. Seeing everything going according to his battle-plan, the mage stepped out and started chanting furiously. Levelling his staff, he cast a cone of concentrated cold vapor, causing a line of darkspawn closing on the soldier to freeze solid. Taking his cue, the man hysterically smashed his mace against the frozen forms, shattering them. The elf followed with a cone of lightning thrown from his offhand into another band attempting to flank, the stench of singeing, corrupted flesh permeating the air. He turned to cast another spell…

…only to come face to face with a Hurlock Alpha.

Just in time, the Alpha went down in a spray of black blood that splashed against the astonished mage's face. Sparing a glance, the curious elf realized that it had taken a crossbow bolt to the weak point at the base of its neck. Getting a grip on his elation, Eldred turned ninety degrees at an emerging band of darkspawn led by a Hurlock emissary. Quickly and with a sense of finality, he encased the commander in a force field before using another spell to crush down on it, generating a sort of explosive, concussive effect. Its subordinates were thrown against walls or Alistair's shield, wherein their heads were promptly crushed by the impact. Of the emissary only pulverized organs and its twisted staff remained. Of the other darkspawn, some were strewn with crossbow bolts, many with their skulls crushed, others run through. They were finished, and no more were coming.

Exhaling, the humans–save Alistair–began to holster their weapons until a sharp look from their elven leader stopped them dead. "Keep your weapons ready, you fools!" he whispered sharply. "There's no telling how soon you're going to need them! Put them away at your peril, but do not expect me to heal you if you take a darkspawn arrow in the chest as soon as you walk in!" Sufficiently chastised, the men readied their weapons again, faces flushing with shame. "Here!" he exclaimed in a sharp whisper. "Take this! An Ogre's skull wouldn't crack from a blow of your mace even if you could reach it, but a thousand cuts bring down the greatest dragon!" He picked a longsword out of the stiffening hand of a guard, wiped off the pungent, viscous Genlock blood on its blade with a spare white handkerchief–which, once finished, he promptly incinerated–and handed the weapon and its sheath to the soldier. In turn, he took the mace and threw it into the air, following it with a concussive wave of conjured sonic energy, causing it to fly through the air and probably crush the skull of a Hurlock in the battle below. The soldier meekly expressed his gratitude, swinging the weapon back and forth to test its balance before wielding it properly.

"Ready?" Eldred asked, in a tone of some degree of exasperation. At the men's gestures of affirmation, the elf nodded before, staff prepared, he opened the door of the tower of ancient Tevinter and slipped in after the armed and armored warriors.

The party came into the tower, a hallway leading into a large open room ahead of them. Walking through the corridor and into the chamber, it was evident that it was empty…but everything in Eldred cried that it was not so. Uneasy, he moved up to Alistair.

"Halt," he called softly, gesturing vigorously for them to hide and feeling a measure of satisfaction as they all crouched on his command. He sidled up to the former Templar's crouching figure, whispering to him. "What do you think?" he asked.

Alistair considered, cocking his head. "It's quiet…" he said at last.

"Yes; too quiet. If there were enough darkspawn to clear out a whole four-level tower of Teyrn Loghain's men, where are they? The force we just dispatched outside would have been far too small for the task, even counting the dead ones. And what of those barricades? They look like fences used to herd lambs to the slaughterhouse near Lake Calenhad," he whispered furtively. "This room stinks of an ambush." Cocking his head, Eldred came upon an idea. His new senses were not good enough; too much of a darkspawn presence in the tower muddled the already limited precision of the gift of their blood. However, 'twas an old practice to drive sheep through a trapped battlefield…

"Alistair, go around that barricade and into the open area of the room," he said. He cast out his seventh sense, feeling about with tentacles woven of ethereal, intangible ribbons of his own will. A grin he suppressed successfully, turning his attention instead back to his fellow Grey Warden. "There's a magic-user on the other side; when you're through, engage him and hold him off so that we can deal with the others."

The warrior nodded his acquiescence, moving quickly around the barricade and then running, leaping over the tripwire that spanned the choke-point quickly and with a great deal of luck. He ducked down behind his shield, however, as he spotted a fireball flying directly into him.

Eldred nodded to himself. "Follow me," he commanded, sneaking forth and around the trap, walking into the center of the room. Thankfully, his allies followed close behind him, breaking and attacking as the Hurlock archers came into their field of view. Quickly, the elf reacted. He chanted rapidly, casting spells to snap frozen some archers and incinerating others with a massive gout of flame when the others tried to take him down. Pleased and reassured that Alistair was holding his own against the Genlock emissary, he redoubled his efforts, firing off bolts of lightning and fists of stone, holding off on the fireballs for the dual reasons that the enemy unit was not in sufficient proximity to each other to do any real damage and that he would in all probability do as much damage to his allies as he did to the darkspawn.

Finally, the archers dealt with, the party fell upon the emissary like a pack of feral mabari. Eldred himself dealt the finishing blow, however, encasing it in a crushing prison of spirit magic and quickly ending its miserable life.

They charged further into the tower, cleaning out both the rooms and the corridors on the first level in a rather short amount of time, due in no small part to Eldred's command of combat magic. Going past the gaping chasm from which the darkspawn obviously emerged, they finished with their task, moving onwards and upwards. Ascending to the second level, they entered a rotunda that the men (or the enemy) had obviously been using as a place to camp. It was then that Alistair spoke.

"Maker's Breath!" he swore at last. "What are these darkspawn doing ahead of the rest of the horde? There wasn't supposed to be any resistance here!"

"You could try telling them that they're in the wrong place," was the glib reply.

"Right, because this is all just a big misunderstanding," he remarked bitterly. "We'll laugh about this later. At any rate, we need to hurry! We need to get to the top of the tower and light the signal fire in time! Teyrn Loghain's waiting to charge!" No matter how much Eldred wanted to agree with the sentiment, however, something in him increasingly doubted its veracity.

The band likewise crossed the second and third floors, clearing out every one of the rooms, corridors and sub-corridors on their route. He showed only resolve, but internally Eldred's consternation at Alistair's apparent growing fatigue began to force him to move more quickly than he otherwise would have done in an attempt to be done with the whole business. As such, he was unusually unprepared when they climbed the stair up to the third floor, coming face-to-face with an Ogre.

A monstrous, violet-skinned, ape-like giant with horrifically distended muscles and crowned with massive, gnarled horns, clad in pauldron and bracers and loincloth, their rushed entry's lack of stealth alerting it to their presence, the massive beast turned about and, seeing them, discarded the corpse upon which he was in the process of feasting before letting out a baleful roar.

Thankfully, a wealth of experience with close calls had honed the mage's cunning into a razor-blade, and it was this he employed at this moment. Thinking swiftly, he pulled from his eidetic memory all that he had read of this variety of darkspawn in Garahel's journals, cross-referencing the sections and compiling them into a singular account of all this beast could do, all it was likely to do and its weaknesses. A grim look of satisfaction creeping onto the elf's face, he realized exactly what they had to do.

"Soldier!" he ordered. "Get that thing's attention. Guard, can you get a pinning shot?" he asked, mind racing.

"Aye, messere Warden," the guard replied.

"Nock the arrow and save it; I want it ready on my mark. Alistair, you break and attack! And for fuck's sake, keep it off of me! I need to be ready to cast if we are to have any hope of survival!" he yelled, readying his staff and nodding in approval as his fellows rushed to follow his orders. As expected, the savage brute charged the soldier as the man hit his sword against his shield and shouted. The concussive force of the Ogre's ramming charge blasted the man from his feet and into one of the room's circular walls, but it was no matter; it was exactly where it needed to be.

"MARK!" the elf shouted. Immediately, the guard fired the shot he had prepared from his scavenged darkspawn longbow, the six-foot-long arrow that its previous owner had used with it finding its target, pinning the thing's foot to the stone and then driving a full four hands into the stone floor. Eldred followed by trapping the thing in a crushing prison of spirit energy, immobilizing it as its skeleton did its utmost to resist the immense force the magical cage was exerting upon it. Seeing his opening, Alistair ran up and, with his shield readied, thrust his blade over the rim of his "shield-wall" and into the rear of its leg, hamstringing it. The thing threw its massive head back, roaring in agony and, in an adrenaline-fueled frenzy, leaped up using the heels of its feet and crashed back down into the floor, generating a shockwave that threw the four onto their backs. Fearful of losing his advantage, Eldred was the first to regain his footing–a feat facilitated by the fact that his was the lightest of all their raiments. Re-assessing rapidly, he saw that the concussion had loosened the darkspawn arrow that had lodged its foot to the ground, and further that the incensed beast was loping towards him in what would have been a charge if not for the fact that Alistair's blade had cut so deep–not to mention the frost enchantment the elf was sustaining upon their weapons, which obviously was making the Ogre's injured leg numb. Taking a second to thank his foresight that he had not engaged a flame enchantment–which would have cauterized the wound and staunched the bleeding instead of inflicting a magically-assisted case of frostbite upon the limb–Eldred brought his staff to bear and cast a conjured stone-fist at it, blasting the brute off its feet, following by casting a cone of winter-wind at the darkspawn that froze it solid. In a reflexive, frenzied state–not helped by the fact that all of his back-up and Alistair were still unconscious–the elf took up Alistair's sword and, shouting a fearsome battle-cry that had not been heard in Thedas for nearly eight and a half millennia, leaped onto the giant and slashed at its throat wildly, viciously, before readying the blade as though guided by an unseen hand and plunged the blade into the thing's thick skull and through its brain, shattering its face and killing it.

Regaining control of his faculties, Eldred yanked the longsword from its thick, ice-encrusted skull quickly and tossed it at Alistair's feet, whilst the Templar–having regained consciousness in time enough to see the mage deliver the killing blow with his weapon–stood aghast, jaw slackened slightly. The elf stepped down from the beast, summoning his staff to him as he went limp from his physical exertion, grinning at the warrior and shrugging, as if to say 'your guess is as good as mine'.

Alistair shook his head, trying to refocus on the task at hand. "The beacon is over here," he said, indicating a large, wood-stocked chimney. "We've surely missed the signal. Best light it quickly."

Eldred grinned anew. "Certainly," he said. He picked up a large wooden shield without a sigul and tossed it at Alistair, who caught it deftly. "Hold that for me," he jested. As soon as the aegis landed in the human's grip, however, the jovial expression was replaced with one of resolute determination. Walking over to the chimney, supported by his staff, the elf executed a series of exaggerated gestures whilst chanting rapidly. The logs began to glow with auric runes, shining brighter and brighter as he continued onwards, never stopping once to take a breath–for surely if he did, he would have to begin the spell anew–and as it reached its ultimate peak, the mage brought the head of his staff down slowly and, with the last word of the chanted spell, touched it to the wood. A sudden, blinding flash seared itself onto Alistair's retina–Eldred's elven-eyes adapting instantaneously–before a gigantic column of multicolored light shot up into the sky for a moment before dimming, a raging fire left in its wake. "There," he said at last, stepping back towards the window to admire his handiwork. "That should do it…" he trailed off. Just now, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that the Teyrn's men weren't charging…they were retreating.

"Alistair!" he called, waving his fellow Warden over sharply. Feeling his comrade's presence directly behind him, he simply stepped a bit to the side, allowing the warrior to take a look, before turning to look out at the field of battle with him. "Do you see it?" the elf asked hurriedly.

"Yes, I'm afraid I do…" Alistair replied, utterly astonished and horrified at the sight of Loghain's men leaving the king's forces to die. Eldred, however, was instead scanning the field desperately, searching for his mentor, his friend…

…Duncan…

At last, he spotted him amidst the screams and blood and chaos of dying men and women alike, cut down where they stood by the very beasts they were supposed to be annihilating. Saw him just as he was tossed out of the way by another Ogre, one that grasped Cailan in his palm, roaring at the Boy King before crushing him, shattering his ribcage and driving the broken fragments into his lungs, pulverizing his internal organs and affording him an instantaneous death. Once sure that its quarry was dead, the gigantic thing tossed the body over to Duncan before it roared in triumph. The clearly injured Warden-Commander caught his second wind then, sprinting across the field and leaping onto the creature, driving both his sword and dagger into its lungs, once, twice, thrice, before it fell. Victorious though he was, Eldred bit back a horrified gasp as it became clear from the old Warden's movements that he had ruptured several crucial organs in his abdomen, bleeding out rapidly. Crawling with one hand exerting pressure on his side, Duncan looked up at the top of the tower, locking eyes with the elf. 'Go,' he mouthed. Paralyzed, the mage was powerless to do anything but watch as a hammer-wielding Hurlock Alpha delivered the killing blow upon his back.

Eldred and Alistair turned to make their escape, but they had tarried overlong; from the door behind them emerged a band of mixed Hurlock and Genlock archers, taking them by surprise and punching through their torsos with a multitude of arrows. Taken off of his feet and landing onto his back, the elf's heartbeat sounded in his ears as he looked at Alistair, his blood seeping onto the stone floor below. He tried to lift his hand to cast a healing spell so that he could at least staunch the bleeding, but it had for some reason become so incredibly heavy… No, he thought hazily. I am a mage of the Circle; I am a descendant of Arlathan, a member of the elven race; I am a Grey Warden, and I. Shall. Not. Break. He lifted his hand through pure force of will even as his heartbeat became fainter and fainter in his own ears, bringing it into his field of vision. It was stained red with his own blood. Cold stole into his limbs, tempting him to give into the tender embrace of Death…if he only closed his eyes…an offer that something in him detested and as such refused. Fighting against his own death and willing his heart to continue to beat, forcing his eyelids to remain open, a field of white faded o'er his vision as his battle with consciousness was lost at last.

…In the distance, he could almost make out a dragon's roar…