Flemeth's Hut, Korcari Wilds–9:30 Dragon Age

Wake…

Eldred Surana–no, he corrected himself, Galcaladon–blinked several times, gradually regaining consciousness and taking stock of his surroundings. He breathed in and out regularly, reminding his body that he was still alive. Not that he felt like it; he was so stiff that he could see why a passing healer might say that rigor mortis was beginning to set in, and upon his back was a strange sensation, burning almost, but otherwise quite…euphoric.

Speaking of which…

The elf slowly rose from his stiffened, prone position on the surprisingly soft bed, bending his head down to work the inelasticity out of his neck and rubbing sleep from his eyes. His mind was a whirling torrent of new knowledge, as if a psychological barrier had just been shattered and this was simply the flood it held at bay. He…wait, where is my hair-tie?! he thought, breaking his reverie as he felt his black hair on the back of his hands in separated locks.

"Ah," came a beautiful voice from close by. "Your eyes finally open. Mother shall be pleased." Eldred turned his head sharply in recognition–I know that voice, he thought–and gazed upon the sensual, alluring and prepossessing form of Morrigan, the captivating young sorceress from before–a strange thought, he admitted; in purely chronological terms, she was most likely three or four years older than he.

"You…I remember you," he said, his voice a great deal weaker than he would have liked–but, as the Blighted Orlesians say, c'est la vie. "The woman from the Wilds…Morrigan!" he exclaimed, her sublime name reaching his speech centers at last. "What happened to the Tower of Ishal? The darkspawn?"

"I am indeed Morrigan," she replied, an edge of mirth in her tone. "And we are in the Wilds, where I am tending to you so that you do not re-open your wounds. How does your memory fare?" she asked instead. "Do…you remember Mother's rescue?"

He scoffed, a sound much akin to a barked laugh. "I remember being overwhelmed by darkspawn," he offered. "But after that? Nothing." Well, strictly speaking, that was not true; he could remember in perfect detail what occurred in the Fade between himself and Asha'bellanar–though the part of his mind that had just been unleashed insisted that she had another, far older name, perhaps even her original one–and he could remember bits and pieces of being in this hut, close to her, at the point in the dream-world when the Fade and Thedas had begun to converge as though the Veil did not exist. But beyond that, concerning the conscious world, he told the truth.

"Mother…managed to save you and your friend," she began delicately, "though 'twas a close call. What is important, however, is that you both live." Clearly uncomfortable with considering the possible veracity of what she had just said, she changed the subject rather quickly. "The man who was to respond to your signal quit the field. The darkspawn won your battle."

"I remember that…" he muttered, cradling his temples. "Were there any other survivors, Morr…my lady, any at all?" He very nearly avoided his slip of the tongue; he did not trust the condition of his vocal chords enough to entrust them with the task of doing justice in the utterance of the name to the woman it represented.

"Nay," she replied, shaking her head and seeming mercifully unaware of how he had just addressed her. "To the best of my knowledge, and according to what I was able to find in the aftermath, those he abandoned were massacred. Your friend…" She paused, unsure of how to proceed. "…he is not taking it well."

He chuckled humorlessly. "Of course not…" Quickly, he sobered and looked up at her. "And this is a foolish question, I know, but I must clarify. By 'friend,' you do, of course, mean Alistair?"

"The suspicious, dim-witted one who was with you before?" she asked.

"That's the one," I replied, chuckling anew, though for another reason entirely.

"Yes. He is outside by the fire. Mother asked to see you when you awoke," she said, barely holding back a smirk of her own–or at least, judging from how she pressed her lips together.

"Well then," Eldred said at last. "I will go. But, um…"

"What is it?" she huffed impatiently.

"I seem to have acquired a sudden paucity of garments," he said seriously, pointedly not emphasizing the affected region for the purpose of illustration.

"Oh, yes," she realized, hiding her embarrassment well. "Mother wished for me to give you these, should you ask," she said, picking up a bundle from atop the chest at the foot of the bed and handing it to him. Unfolding it with satisfaction, he donned the fine black shirt, leggings, trousers, gloves, leather belt, leather boots and surcoat the bundle included, tucking the trousers into his boots and noting especially the unusual gilded runes that graced the lining of the surcoat itself, as well as the outlandish structure of it; in truth, the surcoat had much in common with a doublet, such as the fact that, like a doublet, it fastened along the side of his abdomen so that, instead of having to take the entirety of the garment off of his head when he disrobed, like a vest he could undo the fastenings and remove his arms from it. In short, the garment's design was both quite curious and fortuitous in Eldred's eyes, and he was grateful that they were readily available. Standing tall–something that now seemed far more appropriate than the frail slouch he had adopted before, for indeed, he was somehow no longer frail–he nodded graciously to Morrigan and took the bundled, hooded cloak she offered to him. It was sable, as he preferred, and both far finer and more voluminous than its predecessor, without the threadbare material that was all that was allowed to the mages of the Circle Tower of Kinloch Hold.

Finally, feeling the presence of an article that he knew was soon to be unnecessary–after all, Creators did not make it a habit of using Tevinter magicks, and though he was the only of his brethren able to influence the world and not trapped in the Black City, he was loathe to break tradition–he summoned his magic staff to him, though as it flew through the air and landed in his hand, he looked upon it with reflexive distaste. Again, it was a Tevinter artifact, a symbol of the power of the Forgotten Ones only, and once he sought out the phylactery that would impart unto him the knowledge of how to use his native power, it would be quickly and summarily discarded. Oh, he could feel it now–if he chose to acknowledge the call–a lost soul, one of the last of the original Sentinels of Arlathan begging to be set free from the eternal life to which he had been consigned, for unlike Uthenra, the phylactery was so lonely, so cold…

And suddenly, he stiffened.

He knew at once what was on his back, from whence it came, who had put it there and the effects thereof, all in the space of an instant as he unthinkingly extended his magical perception. And the information–particularly the last two tenets–made his lips quirk up in a sort of knowing half-smile. He turned to regard the young woman who was to be, like Asha'bellanar, a Witch of the Wilds, and to her he imparted his gratitude. "Thank you for helping me, my lady," he said, inclining his head in an unmistakably true gesture of respect.

"I…" she hesitated, clearly taken both off guard and by surprise. "Y…you are welcome, though 'twas Mother who did most of the work; I am no healer," she said, shaking her head as she said it as if she was trying to convince herself.

"As you wish, my lady," Eldred said, this time slipping gracefully into a full, sinuous bow before her. Standing up and smiling still in the face of the woman who saved his life, his sanity, his very being, he stretched his hand to the door. "By your leave, then…Morrigan," he uttered reverently. Feeling very pleased that at last he had gained back enough strength and consciousness to render her name with all the deference both it and she with it deserved–nay, demanded–the elf mage opened the door of Flemeth's dwelling and stepped out into the light of the sun.

The first thing Eldred saw was Alistair gazing off across the lake, then the old woman from before–who, despite the evidence and testimony of the seven elven senses, his eighth sense insisted was Flemeth–by his side, turned away from him and facing the door the mage emerged from. "See?" she said, exasperation evident in her tone. "Here is your fellow Grey Warden. You worry too much, young man." Alistair turned to face the elf, and the newly re-awakened Creator noted with satisfaction that aside from signs of sleep deprivation, the would-be Templar was none the worse for wear.

"You…" the human whispered in astonishment. "You're alive…"

"What gave it away?" the mage asked, spreading his arms wide and speaking in a tone of mock-amazement. "The fact that I'm ambulatory or that I don't stink? Well," he considered, wrinkling his nose at the smell of his own flesh beneath all the enchanted rich but unadorned clothes. "Not as corpses do, at least."

"…ha…HA! I thought you were dead for sure!" Alistair exclaimed.

"Yes, that does tend to be the prerequisite assumption for feeling surprise that someone lives still," the elf replied, sarcasm still leaking into his tone. "What? Afraid you were going to be left alone, or were you expecting someone else? Preferably a bonny red-headed innocent Chantry lass to warm your bedroll on the road and tell you stories of battles that never happened and genocidal louts who were hailed as heroes?"

"Well…" Alistair trailed off. In truth, while he wasn't expecting someone else, per se, he was pretty sure that that was who had just stepped out of Flemeth's hut. Eldred had always been exceedingly tall for an elf–taller, even, than Alistair–but had he before possessed such an intimidating, foreboding presence? Had his face always been comprised of such sharp, uncompromising, harsh, austere angles that somehow left him appearing still a sight more attractive than most statues? Had the color of his eyes before seemed to be so nebulous, changing with what seemed to be his mood, his brow so sharp, cynical, strong? The Eldred he knew possessed a frail form, but the being before him instead had the over-lean, mean look of a starving wolf, his stature having changed from a monument to a life dedicated to scholarly pursuits to a skeleton that promised a more imposing and impressive form, his bearing having changed from unassuming and sickly to regal and predatory. Had his mouth before seemed to house fangs within its set, his teeth seemed razor-sharp when he spoke? Even the effect generated by letting his hair down made him look much more…dangerous than before, though Alistair was beginning to think that there was no way to make him look roguish. "Sorry…I'm sorry. It just…it doesn't seem real… I mean, if it wasn't for Morrigan's mother, we'd be dead on top of that tower."

"Do not talk about me as if I were not present, lad," Flemeth warned.

"I…I didn't mean…" he stuttered. "…bu…but what do we call you? You ne…you never told us your name…"

"Names are pretty, but useless," she said dismissively. "The Chasind folk call me Flemeth. I suppose it will do."

"The Flemeth?" Alistair asked with trepidation. "From the legends?"

"'Flemeth' is not exactly a common name, Alistair," Eldred interjected. "And do try not to put too much stock in legends, my dear comrade-in-arms. Half of the legends the shemlen keep are outright false, and the other half are manipulated beyond recognition so that good, Maker-fearing idiots of their kind can sleep at night despite the atrocities–literally beyond counting–committed by members of their race for no good reason."

"But…this means that Daveth was right! You're the Witch of the Wilds, aren't you?" the man persisted, unchecked by the advice tendered unto him.

"And what does that mean?" Flemeth replied. "I know a bit of magic, and it has served you both well, has it not?"

"This would then be the product of legends that fall into the latter category," the mage continued as if Alistair's little aside had never occurred. "She is indeed Flemeth, who some call the Witch of the Wilds. But that says less than nothing about the truth of her and her power–which, might I add, is considerable." He let the silence follow his words unbroken, as a sort of punctuating buffer. "However," he said. "The legends of shemlen and Fereldans do not change the fact of the matter, and the fact of the matter is that we are officially and effectively screwed. We have a Blight that must be defeated, but the army with which we had planned to do it has slipped from our grasp, and now lays as little more than a feast for carrion-fowl, the victims of incompetence and betrayal. What are we to do to remedy that sad state of affairs which I have just described and through which we are now living?"

"Wait, what about Duncan? He's our leader, and you just…it's like you weren't at my side as we watched him die, as if to you he's never existed!" Alistair objected.

"Duncan was a brave man, a great mentor and even better soldier. His death, and the deaths of all his compatriots, should be remembered. But great soldiers die the same as cravens and the same as dogs. Yes, his death is a great loss, but if we do not progress onwards–which, by the way, is what he would have wanted–he will have died in vain," Galedreon chastised the young Templar. "What you do not understand, Alistair, is that every true soldier knows the risks, and as such learns to embrace death–not seek it, mind you, but accept its possibility with grace and dignity. And so when a soldier dies, the only true way to honor them is to make sure that they did not give their lives in vain. Which means we need to move on and ensure that his death meant something."

"Of course, you're right," Alistair replied, sighing in emotional exhaustion. "I just…it doesn't seem real…" He took a deep breath. "But…you're right. We're Grey Wardens, and it's our duty to see the Blight defeated. We'll need an army, though… Wait! The treaties!" he exclaimed, snapping his fingers in euphoric realization.

Eldred cocked his eyebrow quizzically. "The treaties?"

"Yes!" the Templar hissed in excitement. "The Grey Warden treaties! Written promises of aid, centuries old, from the elves, the dwarves and the mages! It's not much, I know," he admitted a bit sheepishly. "But it's the best we have at the moment. And who knows," he laughed, "a force of dwarves, elves and mages together might be able to at last help us defeat the Blight!" With that, Alistair reached into his pack and pulled from it a bundle of old scrolls–the same one that Flemeth had given to them the previous day… Wait, was it yesterday? Galedreon wondered. From the stiffness and weakness of my limbs upon waking, I would have said at least a few weeks!

"What about Loghain?" Eldred asked. "The teyrn will most probably do all in his power to make sure we do not let the world know the truth of his treachery. And if he is still himself, he will have installed himself as Anora's regent in the interregnum, meaning that he has more than enough resources to make sure that mercenaries and assassins dog our every step. If we want to truly have a chance against this Blight, we need to destroy his power base, defeat him decisively in his own territory."

"If Arl Eamon knew what he did, he'd never stand for it…the Landsmeet would never stand for it! There would be civil war!" Alistair said with equal parts vitriol and inspiration. "He's well-liked and widely respected among the court. We could go to him for support, maybe even be able to use his standing among the nobility to dethrone Loghain!"

"And after that's done, use his men as auxiliaries to bolster the main force," Eldred finished, a wide grin making its way unabated onto his face at Alistair's dawning comprehension of the situation at hand. "After all, since he never made it to Ostagar, his forces should be ready to fight."

"So can we do this?" Alistair asked hopefully. "Go to Redcliffe and these other places and…build an army?"

"Why not?" Galedreon countered, the grin growing impossibly wider. "Isn't that what Grey Wardens do?"

"So you are set, then? Ready to be Grey Wardens?" Flemeth asked.

"Yes," the elf said, regarding Flemeth with a short bow of gratitude. "Thank you for everything, Asha'bellanar. Especially this new raiment…I've never seen a surcoat of this make before…"

"That's because it's not a surcoat. It's Nevarran in origin, simply called a coat. And pay it no heed; your garments were yours to begin with, a part of your inheritance that is now to be passed to you upon your coming of age…which, I suppose, in a sense, is now. Which reminds me…" she remarked, snapping her fingers and lifting a bundle from the seemingly stagnant lake upon the banks of which they stood. "This, too, goes to you," she said, handing the bundle to him–and surprisingly, though it was covered in burlap, was entirely dry. "This was the blade that pierced the scaled hide of the Fourth Archdemon, Andoral. As the first trueborn scion of House Galcaladon, it belongs rightfully to you and you alone."

Eldred peeled the burlap back from the hardness inside, revealing a fine blade–a longsword–that vibrated gently in his grasp. It was curved and elegant, and somewhere in him a spark of recognition flickered. This is truly a blade worthy of me, he thought. He said as much immediately thereafter, to which the old sorceress threw her head back in assenting laughter.

"That, my dear Ga…Grey Warden," she said, correcting herself in Alistair's presence, "is an elven-blade. I know of only one other of its kind still to be found in Thedas, and it is far away in the Frostback Mountains in the grasp of cultists who know little of its true significance–but it is no matter, as Spellweaver is an inferior blade anyways. This," she said, indicating the sword, "goes by the name 'Cristoniaur', the Sword of the Morning. And now, it is yours."

"You have my most sincere thanks, Asha'bellanar," Eldred almost swore in jubilation. "You have done much for us, excluding this great service!"

"No, no. Thank you. You are the Grey Wardens here, not I. I simply did that which I was obligated to do…by oaths older than the both of you." She looked back to the hut pensively before she said, "now, before you go, there is yet one more thing I can offer you."

As if on cue, Morrigan made her way to her mother's side, and it disconcerted Galedreon that with both his hearing and the blood-bond her approach went still unnoticed. "The stew is bubbling, Mother dear. Shall we have two guests for the eve," she swooped her head over to regard the two Grey Wardens, "or none?" she asked.

"The Grey Wardens are leaving shortly, girl," Flemeth told her plainly. "And you will be joining them."

"Such a shame… what?!" Morrigan exclaimed as she realized what her mother had just said in full.

"You heard me, girl," Flemeth replied wryly. "The last time I looked, you had ears." She laughed.

"Ma serannas, Asha'bellanar, but the Road ahead is long and dangerous, arduous and full of hardship ere yet. If Morrigan does not wish to join us…" Eldred trailed off. He wondered what had possessed him to intercede, but then remembered the sharp pain of the dual-edged blade of concern and worry.

"Her magic will be useful," Flemeth reassured. "Even better, she knows the Wilds and how to get past the Horde."

"Have I no say in this?!" Morrigan objected indignantly.

"You have been itching to get out of the Wilds for years," her mother said dismissively. "Here is your chance. And as for you, Grey Wardens," she addressed, turning to regard the two men, though it became clear that what she said next was for Alistair's benefit. "Consider this…repayment for your lives."

"Well, I for one shall be more than happy to have her along," Eldred vouched.

"Not to…look a gift horse in the mouth, but," began Alistair. "Won't this add to our problems? Outside the Wilds, she's an apostate." It took every last ounce of Galedreon's self-control to restrain himself from slapping him upside the head, before trouncing him thoroughly.

Evidently, Flemeth grappled with the same issue in that instant. "If you do not wish help from us illegal mages, young man," she hissed dangerously, "perhaps I should have left you on that tower."

"Point…taken," the Templar conceded reluctantly.

"Mother," Morrigan began in a carefully subordinate and reasonable tone. "This is not how I wanted this! I…I'm not even ready!"

"You must be ready," the old woman advised severely. "Alone, these two must unite Ferelden 'gainst the darkspawn. They need you, Morrigan. Without you, they will surely fail, and all will perish under the Blight. Even I."

"I…" the beautiful young Witch struggled before conceding, "…understand."

"And you, Wardens," Asha'bellanar regarded them again with the same severity. "Do you understand? I give that which I value above all in this world. I do this because you must succeed."

"I promise you, hahren, that I shall do all in my power to ensure she comes to no harm with us," Galedreon swore with an equal level of gravity.

"Allow me to get my things, if you please," she huffed, walking back into the hut.

"Flemeth," began Eldred once Morrigan was out of earshot. "As I said, the road promises to be long and hard. Have you any mounts? Or is this area of the Korcari Wilds bereft of horse-flesh?"

"There is for you, Galedreon, one who would give you aid and bear you aloft should you need him. His name is yours to know. But beyond that, no; the latter presumption was, in fact, the correct one. The equine population of the Wilds is negligible at best. Should you need them, I suggest you procure them for the others as you travel," she replied in whispered tones. "Simply call him to you and he shall respond with all the swiftness due one not of this plane. Now hush, and let us speak no more of these secret matters; my daughter approaches."

As she said, Morrigan strode out of the hut with a bag slung across her shoulder, the pouch at her hip. "I am at your disposal, Grey Wardens," she breathed with an air of resignation as Eldred secured Cristoniaur in its scabbard to his hip. "I suggest a village north of the Wilds as our first destination. 'Tis not far, and you will find much you need there. Or, if you prefer, I shall simply be your silent…guide…" she hissed at the end. "The choice is yours."

"Nay; I would much prefer if you spoke freely," the elf replied perhaps a bit too quickly, attempting desperately to hide the horror the idea of undertaking their quest without her being able to speak elicited.

"Ha, ha," chuckled Flemeth. "You will regret saying that."

"Dear, sweet Mother," Morrigan replied with a nigh-incalculable amount of venom, not even turning around to regard her parent. "You are so kind to cast me out like this. How fondly I shall remember this moment." She bit off practically every sentence, so great was her sarcasm and vitriol and anger.

"Well, I always said, 'If you want something done, do it yourself. Or hear about it for a decade or two afterwards.'" Eldred knew her slightly jesting tone belied her understanding of the import of what she had just said.

"I just…" Alistair sputtered. "Do you really want to take her along just because her mother says so?"

"Oh, get over yourself, Alistair," the elf spat, now severely angered by Alistair's thoughtlessness, obstinacy and bullheadedness. "We need all the help we can get."

"I guess you're right…" he replied timidly.

"Oh, bollocks, of course I'm right!" the Creator exclaimed, Alistair taking a step back in shock as he noticed that the elf's eyes had changed from a steely grey color to a furious, quasi-demonic reddish-orange. "Now, if you're through being a moon-touched Templar imbecile, I would advise you to hold your tongue!"

"I am so pleased to have your approval," Morrigan said to Alistair, voice sickeningly sweet and laced with promises of vengeance and instinctive hatred.

"Morrigan," Eldred requested. "Might we please get underway?"

"Yes, we may at that," she replied. She turned, then, to regard Flemeth. "Farewell, Mother," she bade. "Do not forget the stew on the fire. I would hate to return to a burned down hut."

"Bah! 'Tis far more likely you will return to see this entire area–along with my hut–swallowed up by the Blight!" the old woman spat bitterly.

"I…" Morrigan struggled. "A…All I meant was…"

"Yes, I know," Flemeth soothed in an uncharacteristically maternal tone of voice. "Do try to have fun, dear," she said in fare-well.

"Morrigan," called Eldred, sweeping his hand out and indicating the road ahead. "If you please?"

"Fine then," she sighed. "I suppose that if I must, I must." With that, she brushed past the two and led the way through the swampy Wilds. Eldred noted that their route this time was far less direct than their previous one, punctuated by Morrigan's urgent hand motions for them to duck and conceal themselves. He presumed that this was to avoid the darkspawn horde, which was surely still at Ostagar gorging upon the dead. He said as much to Alistair when he complained at how many times they had to duck and wait–and then immediately regretted it, as he then had to restrain a seething Templar, hissing into his ear how incredibly foolish giving away their position only to join the ranks of those numberless dead to force him to see sense. When he did eventually, Eldred said nothing more to him as they edged their way around the old Tevinter fortress, then onwards through side-roads and deer-trails, pointedly avoiding the Imperial Highway.

It was whilst walking down one such road as the morning gave way to afternoon that they came upon their next companion.

Eldred stiffened at the feeling of several foul, corrupted auras coming towards them quickly, seemingly chasing a spark of Silver Fire within an aura that was otherwise almost perfectly normal–save for the fact that there was an…acrid note that entirely did not belong. Unconsciously, he moved into a defensive stance, readying his staff as if it were a normal quarterstaff, not even bothering to look in Alistair's direction at the sound of steel being slid from its sheath, followed by that of a shield being hefted.

Around the bend in the road came charging a large hound–the source of both the Silver Fire and the unusually acrid normal aura–and several Hurlocks, an Alpha at their head. The dog stopped before the elf, turning to face the tainted creatures; in turn, the Hurlock Alpha followed the mabari's progress, raising its gaze to regard the tall, cloaked Grey Warden bearing a feral grin that planted a seed of instinctive fear in the heart of the Alpha. Dimly, it remembered the deed that began the entire cycle of Blights, but not cohesively and rather in glimpses of images and accompanying emotions. Obviously shutting down that overwhelmed portion of its bestial mind, it drew a thumb across its neck in challenge, hefting its crude blade and thrusting it forth in an order to its subordinates to engage the enemy.

"Ar tu na'lin emma mi," the elf hissed reverently. The dog, sensing what was to come, ran to hide behind him. "Ma emma harel; halam sahlin." With that, he widened his grin and bared his teeth for an instant, growling; two Hurlocks broke and ran.

They were the lucky ones.

Eldred took his staff in both hands and rammed it into the dirt, and where it impacted there began a split of the earth, which lengthened and widened into a gaping maw of a chasm. The gap swallowed the charging but wavering Hurlocks, leaving only the Alpha standing there and unable to process what had just happened. The chasm snapped seamlessly shut as swiftly as it had opened, and Galedreon strode forth with a lupine gait and a purposeful step, discarding his staff and peeling off his gloves as he did so. Coming to face the last of the darkspawn stragglers, he flicked a wrist and sent the thing's helmet sailing before, with a single finger pointed at it, the helm spontaneously exploded. The Alpha's face now bared, Galedreon slapped his bare hands on either side of the darkspawn's face, the sickening smell of sizzling, decomposed flesh pervading the air as the elf's hand made contact with the flesh of the darkspawn.

"Banalhan'len, na elgar'lin dar'alas. Ma halam–ar tu na'din," he said with a combination of great pity and disgust. "Emma Galedreon, len'elgar; ma'dirth dar'nadas. Veni Bellanaris. Veni na'revas." The smell grew, and smoke rose from the skull of the beast as its limbs jerked; Morrigan had hunted and killed more than enough animals to know that this was most probably its death throes. True to what she thought, the thing's head blossomed into pyrrhic flames shortly thereafter. The elf stepped back gingerly as the vacant corpse pooled upon the ground, engulfing itself in seemingly all-consuming gouts of fire, turning his attention to the dog and reaching to put his gloves back on his hands as he approached the mabari. Slipping on one of the gloves and coming at last to the animal, he squatted down in front of the creature and reached his uncovered hand out. The war-hound sniffed the Warden's palm before nuzzling his nose into it in recognition, surprising the Creator to no end. "What are you, da'falon, that bears both the Silver Fire and…the Grey Warden curse?" he asked, identifying the acrid aura at last. Then, he realized what must have happened to the dog, and thus deduced exactly which dog it was. "You're the hound from Ostagar, aren't you?" he asked in a quasi-accusatory fashion. "The one who got a mouthful of darkspawn flesh…the one I saved…" He moved his hand from the mabari's muzzle to its head, rubbing the flesh there vigorously. "Have you anything to say?"

Yes, Master, came a thought into Eldred's head. Your healing gifted me with a spark of the Silver Fire, and so I am bound to you, in addition to the life-debt I owe. He bowed submissively on his front legs.

"Well then, I accept you into my service, da'falon. As it appears, I need to begin building up my retinue–and whilst Dirthamen won't much care, I know for a fact that Andruil would never let me live it down if I denied such a fine and noble animal the ability to enter into my company of his own free will," he whispered to the animal in Elvish. "Henceforth, I name you Fen'lin. You may rise."

Fen'lin stood and wagged his tail happily, his tongue lolling out of his maw. Eldred smiled at him, feeling now in his mind the presence of his hound, the first being to be granted the fullest favor of a god in years beyond counting, and even though Galedreon still was of the Len'lin, he was fully acknowledged and so too now was the mabari. The elf stood himself, noticing for the first time the astonished face of Alistair and the impatient displeasure evident on Morrigan's beautiful face.

"Does this mean we're going to have this…mangy beast following us about now?" Morrigan complained. "Wonderful."

"With all due respect, Morrigan," Eldred responded, rubbing the hound's head again. "Fen'lin may turn out to be many, many things, but never 'mangy.' As it turns out, I helped cure him at Ostagar, and in the process, I might have…accidentally…made him my familiar. So no, he's not a 'mangy beast'; simply magically bound to me."

"Okay, hold on a moment," Alistair objected at last. "I demand to know what's going on! What happened to your tattoos? Your face? Your eyes? Your hands? What just happened between you and the dog? What did you do to that darkspawn? What did you do to eliminate his subordinates?"

"To the last, the answer is 'magic.' To the rest, well…we all have our secrets, I suspect," the elf said mischievously. "And I do believe, Alistair, that Theirin lies your answer. To all your questions." He tapped the side of his nose playfully, leaving Alistair dumbstruck. "Morrigan, el'shiral?"

"Gladly," she responded. "How odd… Now we have a dog…and Alistair is still the dumbest one in the party," she remarked to herself before walking ahead, Eldred following close behind her, Fen'lin loping along, easily keeping pace at his side. The sound of clanking metal let the elf know that Alistair had still enough of a functioning brain to be ambulatory, by which he was greatly amused. Thankfully, their route led finally onto the Imperial Highway.

It was late afternoon when finally they came upon the northern village of Lothering, for Eldred had long since asked Morrigan a few questions concerning the village and listened to her reluctantly give answers to Alistair's far more numerous ones. The Templar was sweating from the exertion, though it was only late summer, beneath his armor, whilst for their parts, the two mages and the hound showed no signs of fatigue. Though, between Alistair's badgering and Eldred's enigmatic humming as well as the private conversations he had in Elvish more complicated than what Flemeth had taught her of the language, the same could not be said of her mental state.

"For the last time, what, pray tell, is the name of that damnable ditty you keep humming under your breath?!" she asked in desperate exasperation.

"You certain you wish to know?" the elf asked in amusement, cocking one fine yet dark eyebrow.

"YES!" she exclaimed. "The inanity of it is becoming overwhelming!"

"It's The Ballad of Tom Bombadil," he told her, his face and tone both entirely serious. "Surprisingly good at keeping the Wights away, would you not agree?" he asked, his grave demeanor suddenly becoming a jovial grin.

She shook her head. "You…are impossible."

Eldred's expression changed in an instant from jovial to a grave hostility, eyes that previously had been bright green with mirth shifting to an icy blue as his pupils contracted. At the same time, Fen'lin's lips peeled back from his maw as he gave a low growl in warning. "Get behind me," the elf instructed, his tone terse and brooking no argument. "Now."

She obeyed almost reflexively, which irritated her slightly for an instant before she realized what he had seen, for now she saw it as well. A band of highwaymen stood guard before a blockade comprised of a aravel turned on its side.

"Seth'linen," Galedreon swore. "Ar tu shemlen'alas'din!" Silencing himself shortly thereafter, he approached the brigands, Alistair and Morrigan following as back-up–though it appeared that Fen'lin was more than ready to serve in that capacity alone.

"Wake up, gentlemen!" one bandit said–Eldred surmised that he was their leader. "More travellers to attend to! Led by an elf, oddly enough."

"Err…" pondered a large, brutish, obviously slow member of the company of vagabonds. "They don't look like them others, you know. Uh…maybe we should just let these ones pass…"

"Nonsense," the leader said dismissively. "Greetings, travellers!"

"Highwaymen," Alistair spat. "Preying on those fleeing from the darkspawn, I suppose…"

"They are fools to get in our way," Morrigan asserted in a languid tone. "I say teach them a lesson."

"Now is that any way to treat someone?" the leader asked mockingly. "A simple ten silvers and you're free to move on."

"Releasing Control Art Restriction Level One," Galedreon said, head downcast, as if he had not acknowledged the existence of the brigands.

"Wait…what's he doing?" the oaf asked. "I told you! No wagons, and this one's doing something…I don't like it…"

"The toll applies to everyone, Hanric. That's why it's a toll and not, say, a refugee tax," the leader explained.

"Oh, right," Hanric said, comprehension dawning at last. "Even if you're no refugee, you still gotta pay!"

"Approval of Command A recognized. The Primary Invocation is now in effect. First Level of power released until all recalcitrants have been silenced," the elf finished. His head snapped up, and from within his hood his eyes began to glow, a wispy, smoke-like aura rising from them, the skin around them cracking to reveal an even greater glow. It was a murderous scarlet that regarded the brigands, causing even the leader to instinctively retreat. He tilted his head, and Hanric quailed, the disgusting stench of urine pervading the air. "Fen'lin! Tui'halam!" At that command, the mabari's eyes glowed with a feral orange gleam, the hound bounding forth and leaping, ripping Hanric's throat out. His master, too, sallied forth, sprinting as though gliding to the enforcer on the leader's other side and, after grabbing him by the hair, sinking his fangs into the vagabond's jugular as he shrieked in terror and agony. Not wanting to taste a drop of the human's blood, Eldred pulled his fangs out, but at a different angle, rending the blood vessel entirely and leaving him to bleed out as his life gushed out of the wound with immense pressure. Not bothering to look as Alistair and Morrigan took care of the rest, he removed one of his gloves again and grabbed the bandit by the head, slamming him against the overturned aravel. "Yours is a sorry fate," he spat in two voices–one speaking Fereldan, the other speaking his words in Elvish with a deeper tenor. "And yet I do not pity you one whit. Pray, little shemlen. Pray that my mother, Mythal, might show favor and convince Father to be merciful, for I surely shall not." He looked the bandit squarely in the eye, and in so doing, plunged deep into his mind like a dagger, forcing him to re-live every crime he'd committed from the perspective of those whose lives he'd destroyed. The elf took great pleasure from watching as his mind burned from the sheer vicarious anguish he was forced to experience. Finally, as the brigand's head physically began to immolate, Galedreon released his grip and allowed the dead body to fall to the ground. "I would instruct you to ask Falon'Din to show you the way, but I do not wish for my brother to think ill of me," he finished in fare-well, stomping upon his ribcage and in so doing shredding his lungs, kidneys, stomach and liver with bits and pieces of rib and sternum for good measure.

The elf looked about at the carnage, and satisfied that his task was complete, nodded to himself. "All recalcitrants have been vanquished. Objective of Level One release has been achieved." With that, the glowing ceased and his eyes returned to normal, the split flesh sealing closed seamlessly. When the adrenaline of releasing part of his true nature wore off, he collapsed against the aravel, leaning into it simply to remain standing. His head was pounding and his vision had split into triplicate, and simply trying to summon his staff to him sent a bolt of white-hot, searing, throbbing pain through his skull. Sensing his master's discomfort, Fen'lin trotted up to him and cocked his canine head in consternation. Master, he sent cautiously. Are you unwell?

Eldred mentally scoffed. No, da'falon. I believe the problem is simply that I don't…have enough… He hissed at the pain ripping through his telepathic conversation. …control...over my powers…just yet… He wanted to laugh madly, so barely could he believe the newest setback. If this was the pain associated with the aftermath of a Level One release, then Level Three would probably kill him. And he did not want to imagine the centuries of ribbing he'd get from Falon'Din if he ended up trapped with his brethren because he burned out.

"Are you injured?" Morrigan asked, her brow furrowed.

He let himself laugh this time. "No, my lady, simply a side effect of…what I just did," he said, suddenly reminded of Alistair's presence. "OW! Vashedan!"

"May I?" she asked, reaching a hand to his head.

"When we set camp for the night. Right now, we have a job to do," he determined, gently brushing her hand away. With that, he procured a substantial amount of gold from the vagabonds' bodies and boxes, as well as a medallion and a note from a nearby Templar corpse and, after reading the note, placed it into his coat pocket, finally waiting and willing for the pain to pass before the group walked down the ramp from the Highway into the town.

"Well, there it is," Alistair remarked. "Lothering. Pretty as a painting."

"Ah, so you have finally decided to rejoin us, have you?" Morrigan prodded. "Falling on your blade in grief seemed like too much trouble, I take it."

"Is my being upset so hard to understand? Have you never lost someone important to you?" Alistair objected. "Just what would you do if your mother died?"

"Before or after I stopped laughing?" the Witch countered wryly.

"Right," the Templar responded, stretching the vowel. "Very creepy. Forget I asked."

"No, I'm with Morrigan. If you had the slightest inkling of what she is…and then for her to just…die? That would be incredibly hilarious. And ironic; Asha'bellanar dead of old age," Galedreon interceded. "But in all seriousness, you have been quite…quiet, as of late."

"Yes, I know," the human Warden acknowledged. "I was just…thinking."

"No wonder it took so long, then," she mocked.

"Oh, I get it," Alistair retaliated. "This is the part where we're shocked to discover how you've never had a friend your entire life."

"I can be friendly when I desire to," she retorted. "Alas, desiring to be more intelligent does not make it so."

"Anyway," the human said. "I thought we should talk about where we intend to go, first."

"And I assume you have some thoughts on the matter, Alistair?" the elf sighed smugly.

"This should be good," Morrigan commented. Eldred scoffed and cocked an eyebrow as if to say, 'I know, right?'

"I think what you suggested is the best idea," he asserted. "These treaties…have you looked at them?"

"At some length," the mage answered. "I even got so far as reading them, once or twice. But anyways, there seem to be three main groups."

"Yes; the dwarves of Orzammar, the Dalish elves and the Circle of Magi," Alistair continued, blatantly ignoring his companion's veiled but harmless barb. "I also think that Arl Eamon is our best bet for help. We might even want to go to him first."

"And what do you think we should do, Morrigan?" the elf asked, turning his attention to the woman.

"Go after your enemy directly," she replied. "Find this man, Loghain, and kill him. The rest of this business with the treaties can then be done in safety."

"Yes, he certainly wouldn't see that coming!" the Templar commented sarcastically. "And it's not like he has the advantage of an army and experience and…"

"I was asked for my opinion and I gave it!" the Witch interrupted sharply. "If your wish is to come up with reasons why something cannot be done, we will stand here until the darkspawn are upon us!"

"Alistair, do not be so quick to dismiss Morrigan's idea," Galedreon chastised. "In theory, it is tactically sound. Being the most obvious route of attack–and us being so few–it would,in fact, be the last thing he expects (which reminds me of an old anecdote; I'll share it later). However, such a guerilla attack would require all participants to be at optimum efficiency. I am…not. So, with that in mind, we shall seek out these potential allies and secure their aid. Specifically the Dalish; there is something in the Brecilian Forest that I require most desperately."

"I can give you directions, if you like," the Templar offered.

"No, thank you. No offense, Alistair, but I'd wager a self-professed bookworm such as I could read a map far better than you. We shall supply ourselves and then be on the road again," the elf said.

"You have a plan, then?" the human asked.

"Of course I have a plan!" Eldred scoffed, rolling his eyes.

"Fair enough," the other Warden conceded, sufficiently chastised. "Let's head into the village–uh, whenever you're ready, of course."

"Thank you, Alistair," the mage said. He brushed past the armored warrior and down to the spongy ground of the town, looking around at the haphazardly slapped-together refugee camps. It did not give him pity, but rather disgust that shemlen should bemoan their fate so when the fate inflicted upon the elves was worse by a hundredfold–a fate inflicted by them–and the Dalish stood yet, proud and strong. Needless to say, the sad state of affairs did little to engender compassion for the human race from the Creator's heart, and did more to stoke further the pyre of hatred and derision.

The elf was walking past at the head of the party when he saw them gathered about the merchant's wagon. Templars and a cleric bearing the robes of the Chantry were engaged in a full-scale shouting match with a travelling merchant, and from what his elf-ears were able to hear, the Chantry was trying to get the man to lower his prices. 'For the sake of the refugees,' they said. 'You should be ashamed,' they said. And after a little while, his incredulous fury at the hubris of these charlatans boiled over at last.

"What is the matter?" he demanded impatiently, striding quickly over to the scene, staff in hand; he noticed the Templars' gaze upon it.

"This…this…" the cleric sputtered in inarticulate frustration.

"Abelas, but I don't remember asking you, Chantry wench," he said in the same tone one would use against a rebellious child. "Are these self-righteous idiots bothering you, sir?"

"You've got that right," the merchant vented. "She's trying to force me to lower my prices just because there's been a sudden boom in this town's population, and thus there's not enough food to go around. Now, I've got food, and those who can pay it do. Those who can't have to go without. But the point is that I'm trying to make a living here, and they're trying to rob me."

Eldred had heard enough. "Okay, out with all of you."

"You would let this petty little man make people starve for his own gain?" the cleric asked incredulously.

"Let me think about that…yes," he spat rhetorically.

"You…you ought to be ashamed of yourself," she whispered, getting ready to signal her Templars.

"Just…try…it," the elf threatened through clenched teeth with enough viciousness and ferocity for them to realize that fighting him would probably be a very bad idea. The entourage then got up and left, the cleric no doubt cursing him under her breath. He cared not; the Chantry had done more than enough to attract his brethren's ire, and were they free at this very moment, Elgar'nan would most definitely impart unto Galedreon permission to gather their people and wage war on their petty religious institution, razing Val Royeaux in the process just to make sure they killed the Most Prideful and Insipid Divine that resided therein.

"Thank you for that, stranger," the merchant said, giving him a pained and exhausted smile. "I was sure that if it had gone on much longer, she would have followed through on her threat to confiscate my goods and give them out to the refugees."

"It is no trouble, falon'atisha," the elf responded. "The Chantry have a chronic inability to recognize what is and is not their prerogative, not to mention their business. They overstep their bounds far too often–mark me, their hubris shall one day be their downfall. Besides, believe it or not, you do these shemlen a great service by your actions."

"I do?" the merchant asked quizzically.

"Sulevin," Eldred nodded. "By adhering to the rules of supply and demand, you allow some semblance of order to continue; had she given out those foodstuffs you keep in your wagon, anarchy would quickly ensue. In the absence of authority, the structure that is shemlen society collapses into disorder, which ends inevitably in bloodshed. Moreover, you cull those who are weak and stupid from the population, leaving the rest to become hardened by the experience and tougher for having passed through it, thus drastically improving the chances for some of the population to survive the Blight. I honor you, ser, for this thing you do, for in truth it benefits the refugees as well as yourself in the long run."

"Yes, I suppose you're right," he considered.

"Anyways, my companions and I are leaving," the elf explained. "We only stopped here to supply ourselves for the journey ahead. The highwaymen blockading the road have been dealt with–their corpses are not yet cold–and as such, the Imperial Highway has been made relatively safe. I'll have to see what I can do about any other bandits in the area, but for now I would like to conduct business with you, messere, and prepare for what promises to be a hard and long road ahead."

"Most certainly," the merchant said, a genuinely friendly smile on his face. "I'll even give you a discount; it's the least I can do for the one who saved my business."

"Ma serannas, falon'atisha," the mage, astonished, managed to say. Quickly, however, he regained his wits and proceeded to purchase what they would need on their journey–a whetstone, provisions, water-skins, packs for himself and Alistair, skinning daggers, canvas and rope, bedrolls and a cauldron upon which Eldred inscribed a charm in Elvish upon the cast iron with a naked hand. He proved even more helpful than he was asked, pointing the band to a stable to whose master he was a cousin. The Hawkes, according to him, had an uncommonly good eye for horseflesh. Taking this advice into account, Eldred nodded in a show of his attentiveness, until out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed Morrigan staring at a golden necklace in the merchant's cart with a gleam in her eye that wasn't avaricious, but more…wonderment. The elf interrupted the merchant's stream of speech briefly to buy this necklace when she had her head turned, and then, paying for all they needed with some of the sovereigns 'liberated' from now-dead brigands.

After stocking up on what the merchant could provide, Eldred led the party deeper into Lothering and turned to enter the Chantry briefly–he could feel the presence of one of his effects locked therein–but stopped suddenly when he noticed a hysterical Chasind man clad in armor screaming defamations and proclamations of doom in the courtyard of the large religious institution.

"The legions of evil are on your doorstep!" he screamed breathlessly. "They will feast upon our hearts! There is nowhere to run! This evil will cover the world like a plague of locusts!"

"Please!" pleaded a farmer. "You're scaring the children!"

"Better to slit their throats now than let them suffer at darkspawn hands!" the irate Chasind shouted in response. He turned and noticed Eldred standing there, listening to his rant with an immensely amused half-smile on his face, and paled. "THERE!" he yelled. "ONE OF THEIR MINIONS IS ALREADY AMONGST US! THIS ELF BEARS THEIR EVIL STENCH! Can you not see the vile blackness that fills him?!"

Galedreon's smile vanished in an instant, his eyes turning a murderous, venomous icy-blue with contracted pupils in cold outrage at the Chasind's thoughtless, foul insult. "Watch where you throw your accusations, fool!" he hissed in warning.

"Please, stop!" another farmer pleaded more urgently, noticing and being terrified by the promise of retribution and arctic fury in the Grey Warden's eyes. "Somebody shut his mouth!"

"But isn't he right?" one who appeared to be a farmhand asked fearfully. "The bann left us. We're going to die!"

"THIS MINION IS BUT THE FIRST OF THOSE WHO WILL DESTROY US!" the man who Eldred realized had to have been an Ash Warrior exclaimed.

The elf had had enough. "Don't be an idiot," he spat, walking forth and swiftly pulling the man towards him by the neck-rim of his leather breastplate so that his face was almost brushing the nose of the elf's, the man now being exposed to the full intensity of his frosty glare. "Darkspawn are mortal; they can be defeated. My ire, however, is far more difficult to defend against. So I would advise you, for your own sake, to shut up."

"No!" he responded, shaking his head violently. "I have seen them! You cannot run! You cannot fight!"

"Then grovel in the dirt and die as less than a worm," Eldred hissed in disgust, shoving him back so that he tumbled to the ground. "For the very moment you cease to fight, it is better for you to be dead and rid the living of your tiresome cowardice! But standing around and shouting proclamations of doom will not save you!"

"There is nothing to do! No hope is left!" he cried, hysterical even when prone on the dirt, supported by his forearms.

"Could you cluck like a chicken when you do that?" the elf asked sardonically. "The durgen'len have held the darkspawn back for centuries! They are nothing special; simply another enemy to fight. And though they are more tenacious than most others, a stalwart defense can stave off even the tides!"

"Are you calling me a coward?!" the man asked, narrowing his eyes and scrambling to regain his footing.

"Well look who decided to grow some ears," Galedreon spat sarcastically, planting his boot on the man's back and pushing his face back into the mud. "I know dogs made of sterner stuff than you." At his mabari's indignant chuff, the elf regarded his hound. "Not you, Fen'lin. Dirthamen knows you're probably of a stouter heart than most of these farmers and peasants." The war-hound barked once in satisfaction.

"I…" the man stammered, struggling to speak with his face in the mud. "I am…shamed. But the monsters will take you all! The blackness will come!"

"Oh, shut up," the elf ordered in exasperation. "Fen'lin! Tui'halam!" Gladly, the mabari trotted up and ripped the man's jugular from his throat with his teeth, blood spurting out with immense pressure like a perverse, sanguine fountain to a savage god.

"He was right, wasn't he?!" one of the men bearing the robes of the Chantry cried. "There's no hope for us!"

Eldred glanced around, surveying the shemlen standing and shivering, quaking in fear at the words of a madman–now a dead madman–and struggled to hold down the bile that raised in his throat at the mere sight of them. "There's no hope for any of you craven fools who refuse to fight," he spat before he could stop himself. "Only those who have the will and courage to survive, do. They who allow their fear to make them below the maggots consuming the flesh of the dead do not, and should not. If you wish to live," he said, "grow a pair. And that goes for all of you."

"You're right," the robed man realized. "We can't give up!"

"But we can't fight!" the farmhand objected. "What are we supposed to do?!"

"We can't lie down and die, either," the farmer chastised. "We must go north, to Denerim!" With that, the three men, following the advice of the one of their number who seemed to have some backbone and sense walked away, probably to make preparations, not even glancing at the dead body face-down in the muck.

"You're so nice," Alistair commented caustically. "I bet you make friends everywhere you go!"

"One cannot argue with results, dear Alistair," the elf chastised. "Nor should he."

"Oh?" he said. "And what about the merchant who was preying on these innocent people? I kept quiet because I wanted to save it for when we made camp, but people were starving because of him!"

"Oh, come off it, Alistair," Eldred exclaimed, rolling his eyes in exhaustion and further exasperation. "Did you not hear what I told him? He could leave; had he been forced to give away his wares, however, he too would have been stuck here and probably fallen prey to the darkspawn, dying along with the rest of these sedentary so-called 'innocents'. It is better for one man to survive and the rest to die of starvation than for the whole group to be slaughtered outright."

"I suppose you're right," the Templar considered. "But why do you say 'innocents' so sarcastically?"

"Because if one tried to tell me that they and their precious Chantry haven't done far, far worse to my people, I'd strike him dead where he stood for insulting my intelligence in so grievous a fashion," the mage replied. He sighed ruefully, preparing himself mentally for what he was going to do next. "Now, to give this token and the accompanying note to someone in this accursed building." With that, he walked up to the wooden double-doors of the Chantry, dreading every step, with every foot in which he drew closer regretting his decision more and more, yet holding fast in his resolve. He opened one of the doors, letting Fen'lin and Morrigan enter before him, then slipping in with enough time for Alistair to make it through, and stood in an attempt to not allow himself to be horrified at the fact that every beam and nail of the building screamed of hubris and sanctimony. Ignoring with great difficulty the Templars who assumed that they could hold against the darkspawn, the refugees moaning and crying, the Chantry clerics praying to their god and the reliefs of Andraste's war against the Tevinter which all conveniently forgot the contributions the elf Shartan made that were pivotal in that rebellion, Eldred looked about and spotted the Templar who looked to be the commander of the town's garrison, and thus approached him once his subordinates to whom he was speaking left to return to their posts. With a start, he realized that he knew this man. Buoyed up by this familiarity, he went to speak to the Templar.

"Bryant?" Eldred called in wonderment

"Yes?" Bryant acknowledged. "And who might you be?"

"Do not tell me that you don't recognize me, Bryant!" the elf joked. "You wound me! And was it not you who said that he would find it impossible to forget the time he spent contending with the will of the Dragon?"

"Eldred!" the Templar's tired face lit up, an astonished smile breaking out upon his face. "It's you!"

"Had you expected someone else?"

"No, I suppose not," Bryant laughed. "But what are you doing here, so far away from the Circle? Have you turned apostate?"

"Well, I always swore I would, didn't I? Or was that Anders?" he responded, matching the Templar's joking tone; it was, in fact, an inside jest.

"It was the both of you!" the man corrected. "I swear, sometimes I was convinced that Jowan was the only one with a whit of sense!"

"And yet ironically enough, as far as I know, he was the only one of us to become a maleficar," the elf remarked with a sudden seriousness.

"Oh…" the Templar said. "Oh dear…"

"So Bryant," Eldred interjected, pressing his advantage and producing the amulet he had found on the dead Templar's body. "I found this token on one of the Templars on the Imperial Highway. And no, I didn't kill him; he had been beset upon by a band of vagabonds, who we did kill."

"I don't recognize this amulet, but…wait, you killed whom?"

"The bandits. On the road. All gone." Eldred cocked an eyebrow quizzically.

"That's twenty silvers to you, then," he said, handing the coins to the elf. "Though I should probably put out word that the bounty for those men has been filled…"

"Well, what would help us more is if you could render some further aid," Galedreon informed the man, feeling the presence of an artifact that rightfully belonged to him in the room. "In answer to one of your earlier queries, no, I have not become an apostate. I–and my companion over there," he said, pointing to Alistair, "–are Grey Wardens. Now, I'm sure you've heard tell of the massacre that was Ostagar, and I can tell you–Scout's Honor–that half of what you've heard isn't true, and the other half was made up. Nevertheless, we find ourselves in the precarious position of having little to no resources for the journey ahead–and mark me, I mean to end this Blight if it costs me my life–so anything you could spare would be helpful."

"Well," Bryant considered. "Fine. I cannot openly help you, I fear, but…here, take this key. It opens the large cabinet on the far wall. There is more there than we can carry when we evacuate, so take what you need." He handed the key to Eldred. "It also has a false bottom, within which lies an item that you would most probably find…interesting. I set it aside when it came into the Chantry in case you ever came to Lothering. A stupid idea, I know, but something in me assured me it would pay off." He paused, smiling to himself in memory. "And so it has."

"Ma serannas, Ser Bryant. May Mythal watch over you, falon. Dareth shiral," he replied in thanks, pressing two fingers into Bryant's forehead and leaving an ornate, distinctive glowing golden mark there that faded almost instantly when he removed his fingers. With that, Eldred mimed a Templar bow and walked off, leaving the Templar standing there in bewilderment.

Internally, the Creator was jubilant. He was certain that this was the artifact he had detected, and from the Templar's words he gleaned that one of his sisters must have had a hand in this; his mother believed very firmly that the affairs of her children were, quite literally, their affair, which narrowed down the list of possible benefactors to either Andruil or Sylaise–for Ghilan'nain would most probably have had no interest in the plot–and of the two, Sylaise was the more likely. Quickly, he walked over to the cabinet and unlocked it, his new ninth sense drawing his hand and his notice to a pair of fine armored boots, definitely of Elvish-make. Putting them gingerly into his pack, he made a mental note to thank Sylaise when they made camp, for having seen what the artifact was, he was now certain it was her work; Andruil, for all her sisterly affection, would never have granted so magnanimous a boon so easily–she was, after all, the goddess of the Hunt.

Rising from his kneeling position, he looked about and spotted the only warrior not wearing the uniform of the Templars kneeling in prayer. Curious, the Creator walked swiftly over to the prone devotee and bade his attention.

"Who?" he asked in slight disorientation. "I beg your pardon; I did not see you approach."

"Ser Donall? Is that you?" the other Grey Warden asked in a tone suggesting recognition.

"Alistair?" asked the man in response. "By the Maker! How are you? I…I was certain you were dead!"

"Not yet," Alistair remarked bitterly. "No thanks to Teyrn Loghain."

"If Arl Eamon were well, he'd set Loghain straight soon enough," swore Donall.

"'If he were well?'" Alistair quoted in confusion. "W…what do you mean?"

"The Arl is stricken with an illness that threatens his life," the elder knight explained gravely. "We have found no cure, either natural or magical."

"When did this happen?" the younger knight asked in consternation.

"Only a few weeks ago, but he has declined quickly," responded the elder man. "No one knows the nature of the illness, and even magic has done little to slow its progress. Our only hope now is a miracle. Every knight in Redcliffe has gone in search of the Urn of Sacred Ashes. Andraste's ashes are said to cure any illness, but I fear we are chasing a fable; with each day, my hope dims."

"Ser Henric is dead," said Galedreon, producing the token and holding it up for the sake of scrutiny. "I presume he was a friend of yours, since Ser Bryant seems to have no familiarity with him. Now, I have known Ser Bryant for many years, and he never forgets a face, so it stands to reason that he wasn't part of the Lothering garrison; since you are the only knight here who is not wearing the Templar armor, by process of elimination that means that he came here with you. Part of the Redcliffe Chantry's detachment, I take it?"

"Yes, he is–was. You have his locket? And a note?" he asked. "Maker's mercy…thank you for giving me these. I would never have known otherwise."

"I dealt with the bandits that killed him," the Creator stated.

"Thank you," he said, bowing his head in gratitude. "I wonder how many of us have met similar fates on this mad quest."

"Well, we should be off," the elf remarked.

"I as well; with Henric dead, I must be off to Redcliffe. Maybe then I may find the scholar his note mentions."

"Yes…this 'Brother Genitivi seems to be a promising lead…"

"Well, I must go. Thank you, friend; you have been most helpful," the man said, beginning to walk away.

"And to you, Ser Donall," Eldred called. "Dareth shiral, and may Falon'Din guide you." He watched Donall leave before leaving the Chantry himself, companions in tow, of course. They proceeded on through the town, the elf remembering clearly the merchant's recommendation; being ignorant, however, of where the Hawke homestead and stables were located, he led the party into the tavern to make the rounds, asking any local who might know–and tell–where the family lived. "'Dane's Refuge', eh?" he read. "Well, I suppose we'll just have to go see how much of a refuge it really is…don't you agree, Fen'lin?"

Indeed, Master, the hound responded telepathically.

"Well then, we'd best not tarry," the Creator resolved. He opened the door and entered the tavern with his companions at his sides, coming face-to-face with a room full of farmers and men whose garb marked them to be soldiers of the Teyrnir of Gwaren.

"Well, look what we have here, men," a dark-skinned man wearing scale armor who was obviously their commander remarked. "I think we've just been blessed."

"Uh-oh," Alistair proclaimed warily. "Loghain's men. This can't be good"

"Speak for yourself," the elf commented quietly. "I think it is most certainly a good thing to practice with some convenient moving targets."

"Didn't we spend all morning asking about an elf by this very description, and everyone said they hadn't seen one?" one of the man's subordinates asked.

"It seems we were lied to," the commander determined.

"Well, seeing as we didn't arrive until this afternoon, I'd say everyone told you the truth; truly, they hadn't seen us until then," said Eldred in a conversational manner.

"Gentlemen," a red-headed woman in Chantry garb interjected. "Surely there's no need for trouble. These are no doubt simply more poor souls seeking refuge!"

'Simply more poor souls?' Eldred scoffed indignantly.

"They're more than that!" the commander exclaimed. "Now stay out of our way, sister. You protect these traitors, you get the same as them!"
"'You protect these traitors, you get the same as them,' hmm?" the elf quoted, considering. "Well, as they say, turnabout is fair play. What do you think, Fen'lin?"

The hound barked accordingly.

"Yes, I thought as much myself," he remarked. "Well, gentlemen, if traitors get a warning, far be it for me to breach the Rules of Engagement. Run back to your master, tails between your legs, and report to him that we strongly suggest he stop siccing his mutts on us, or enjoy the singular feeling of having your flesh melted from your bones."

"I am not protecting a traitor!" the commander objected. "I served at Ostagar, where the Teyrn saved us from the Grey Wardens' treachery! I serve him gladly!" He turned to the subordinate who had spoken previously, now at his side. "Enough talk!"

"I agree," Eldred interrupted before the man could finish giving his orders. "Enough talk. Fen'lin! Tui'halam!"

The hound sprung swiftly from his standing position, shredding the subordinate's throat and spitting his rent esophagus across the room. Alistair unsheathed his blade and brought his shield–Havard's Aegis–to bear, bashing the nearest man twice before bashing him to the ground and driving his longsword into the man's face with a splash of blood and grey matter. Morrigan, however, readied her staff, and with a single word shoved it into the air, blasting a pulse of energy in a wide radius and stunning all of the soldiers in her general vicinity. The Chantry woman brought out her dagger and began using it, twirling it and throwing it in a way flamboyant enough such that it became immediately obvious that she was familiar with the weapon, but by no means a master thereof.

Eldred, however, was giving his brother a busy day.

Eschewing the staff entirely–for when he tried to use it, the implement shattered–he removed his gloves, and with his bare hands he brought down scourging gouts of lightning and fire, biting blasts of winter winds so cold that men froze where they stood, casting fists of rock at some, crushing others within cages of spirit energy, and still others he sliced to ribbons with those hands, which Alistair noticed for the first time had grown long, sharp claws that were apparently strong enough to be used as natural weapons.

It did not take long for the fight to be over; the mage's savagery in battle had seen to that. Many a man lie now as naught more than a smoking corpse, frozen bits or fleshy masses whose bones had been pounded or crushed into dust, or alternatively with long gashes upon vital arteries, still spurting out weakly whatever sanguine bile that was left in their mutilated bodies, and others still with sword or dagger wounds, or dead of an undeterminable injury, expressions of immense agony evident on their dead faces, courtesy of Morrigan's spell that siphoned life-force from its target. The only man left alive was the commander himself, and from what he saw of the remains of the men who had been under his command, the man thought that by the look on the fearsome elf's face as the Grey Warden walked over to him, prone on the ground as he was, the mage was going to soon correct that oversight.

"Now then," said Galedreon conversationally. "What to do with you? 'Tis the cardinal question, is it not? Morrigan? Fen'lin? Alistair? Suggestions are welcome."

"Alright, alright, you've won! We surrender!" the commander pleaded.

"Oh, how adorable," mocked the elf. "He actually believes that I'm going to let him get away scot-free if he surrenders. Oh, that is just too precious."

"But this man has surrendered! Killing him would be murder!" the Chantry woman objected.

"I'm not going to kill him," Eldred spat as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I don't kill mongrels. Besides, you of all people should know that war entails killing, Orlesian. Or need I remind you of the infamous Genocide on the Dales, one of the greatest atrocities of the Glory Age, hmm? But enough reminiscing; my business right now is with you, dearest commander. Since my companions seem to have no opinions on the matter, I guess I'll just have to make my own determination." He paused for a moment, holding his chin in pensive thought. "Ah! I have just the thing!" he exclaimed, reaching down and seizing the man by the throat, lifting him into the air and slamming him into the wall below the railing that guarded the balcony of the second level. With his other hand, he stripped the pauldron off the man's left shoulder and, with a single finger, drew a scarlet line upon the circumference of the joint as the man screamed in great pain. That done, he considered for a second before taking his hand and driving the four longest fingers of that hand slowly into the incision, slicing through muscles and veins to get to the man's skeleton. Once there, he altered the position of the hand inside the wound, wrapping his fingers around the humerus and pulling the bone sharply out of the entry cut, taking the rest of the bones in the arm and the hand out with it. The agony the commander knew then was indescribable, but not for lack of trying; had his voice not become hoarse by that point, he would have deafened everyone still standing therein. "Oh, stop whining, you big infant!" the elf spat. "It's not fatal! Here, if it makes you feel any better." Quickly, he healed the shoulder entirely, veins, muscles and flesh knitting back together, even capillaries repairing seamlessly. "Now, I've made my decision, and it is thus." He changed his grip and pulled the man into his face by the gorget of his armor, his voice turning low and dangerous to match the bone-chilling color of his eyes. "You will run back to your master, Teyrn Loghain, and to him you deliver a message. The message is: 'The Grey Wardens know the truth of what happened at Ostagar. Know, then, that we are coming for you, Loghain, and no hand may stay our advance.' Think you can remember that, mongrel?" Through his tears of pain, the man nodded eagerly. A smirk appeared then on Eldred's face that made him soil himself. "Good. Then run along," he said, setting the man on his feet and watching as he made it out of the tavern as quickly as his legs could carry him, irrespective of the fog of pain and terror that clouded over much of his rational thought and ordinarily would have paralyzed him.

Galedreon looked about and saw the Chantry woman and Alistair staring at him in horror, Morrigan leaning against the side of the fireplace with a pleased smile on her face, though judging by how she bit her lower lip, that emotion went quite a bit further than satisfaction at this point. "What?" he asked. "An example had to be made. Besides, a man can still live a life and beget progeny without this!" He held up the man's bones for emphasis. "It's better than killing him, when you think about it." The elf discarded the skeletal arm into the fireplace, letting the fat and ligament that still adhered to it aid in turning it into little more than dust and ash.

"I apologize for interfering, but I couldn't just sit by and not help," the Chantry woman began, proving herself the first of the two to recover from the grisly display–a fact which Eldred made a note of.

"And you are?" asked he in an entirely businesslike tone.

"Let me introduce myself; I am Leliana, one of the lay sisters of the Chantry here in Lothering. Or I was," the Orlesian responded.

"And is there something you wanted from me?" asked the elf, not biting her hook and thus avoiding the trap he saw coming clear as daylight.

"I know that after what happened you're going to need all the help you can get," explained Leliana. "That's why I'm coming along."

"I…I…" Eldred sputtered, speechless and taken entirely aback. "I'm sorry? I'm afraid I misheard you; I thought I heard you just say you were coming along."

"Oh, no, you have not misheard; I did say that," she replied.

"W…why?" he managed.

"Because the Maker wants me to go with you," answered Leliana.

"Right…" he drawled warily. "I believe this is where I back away slowly…"

"I know that sounds absolutely insane, but it's true!" she insisted. "I had a dream!"

"Really! As did I," Eldred exclaimed.

"Oh? And what was your dream?" she asked.

"That dreamers often lie," answered he.

"But I do not lie!" she cried. "It was a vision!"

"More crazy?" asked Alistair, recovering at last. "I thought we were all full up."

"Look at the people here," she pleaded. "They are lost in their despair, and this darkness, this chaos, will spread! The Maker doesn't want this. What you do–what you are meant to do–is the Maker's work. Let me help."

The elf sank to the floor, clutching his sides and rolling on the ground in laughter. He had been able to hold it in until the last comment she made, which was so absurd that no measure of self-control could stem the tide. Finally, after several seconds, he slowly regained his footing and stood. "My apologies, Miss Leliana, but while I'm certain that it would be a most…amusing time with you aboard, I do not think it would be wise for one such as you, in all seriousness, to join our number. You feel pity for these people? Help them here."

"Then what? What happens when the horde comes?" she pleaded. "It will follow anywhere we flee until all we know is destroyed."

"Get this through your thick skull," hissed Galedreon, his patience spent. "I will stop the Blight, but I don't…need…you."

"But I…" The elf cocked an eyebrow, and she knew he would brook no argument. She sighed. "I will go, for now. It's not important that you believe what I say, only that you serve the Maker in the end. Think about it, please? That is all I ask." And with that, she left, obviously despairing.

Putting the incident from his mind, he asked around until he found that the Hawke farmstead was across the field, nearer to the other entrance to the Imperial Highway than it was to the tavern. Thanking the bartender–him being the man that offered the information–with a few silvers, the elf led the party out of the building and into the waning afternoon sunlight. Turning for the Imperial Highway, they passed a dispute between a farmer and a Chasind–quite a funny dispute, truth be told–but the elf stopped before a bizarre cage. The cage was not what caught his notice, however; no, what drew his attention was the large man sitting cross-legged upon the floor of the cage, chanting in what he recognized as none other than Qunlat.

Coming to stand before the cage, the elf crossed his arms and spoke. "Given that you ended up this far from Par Vollen–for, in fact, that is where your accent says you are from–coupled with both what you are chanting and your hornlessness, you are either Ben-Hassrath or Sten. Which is it, pray tell?"

The chanting stopped abruptly, the large figure rising to an immense height. "You are not one of my captors. I have nothing to say that would amuse you, elf," he said bitterly. "Leave me in peace."

"Sten, then," Galedreon determined. "A Sten of the Beresaad, to be specific, given the fact that you are too far inland to be among the main force of the Antaam. You are a prisoner; who put you here?"

"I have been placed here by the Chantry," he responded. "I am, in fact, Sten of the Beresaad, as you say, the vanguard of the Qunari peoples."

"Meravas, Sten. I am Eldred Galcaladon. You may call me 'Warden' or 'Hissra', if you prefer complete and total adherence to the Qun, even in this foreign land," he said, bowing in greeting and waiting expectantly. When Sten remained silent, the elf swore. "Parshaara! Can we please have a conversation, or are you going to continue to remain silent like a common qalaba?!"

"Kost, kabethari! I mean no offense," said the Qunari. "You speak Qunlat as though you were raised in Seheron by the Ariqun himself, and for that it would be improper to call you 'bas.' Though it matters not; I will die soon enough."

"This is a proud and powerful creature, trapped as prey for the darkspawn!" cried Morrigan. "If you cannot see a use for him, I suggest releasing him for mercy's sake alone!"

"'Mercy'?!" Alistair quoted. "I wouldn't have expected that from you."

"I would also suggest that Alistair take his place in the cage," she snapped.

"Yes," remarked the Templar. "That's what I would have expected."

"I suggest you leave me to my fate," said Sten simply.

"Well, that would hardly be proper, now would it?" the elf remarked. "For I find myself in desperate need of skilled help. What have you done to be put here?"

"I have been convicted of murder," he said. "Have the villagers not spoken of this?"

"Who did you murder?" the Warden asked, avoiding the question in such a way that it would be made abundantly obvious to the warrior in the cage that the answer to his question was a resounding 'no'.

"The people of a farm-hold," responded Sten. "Eight humans, in addition to the children."

The elf's eyes went wide. "Wow, children too, huh? How long have you been here?" he asked.

"Twenty days now," the giant stated. "I shouldn't last much longer; another week at most."

"Are you not interested in seeking atonement?" asked Eldred.

"Death will be my atonement," he said simply.

"So you would prefer to die? How every wasteful of you," the Warden remarked.

"What would you have me do?" he asked. "What does your wisdom say is equal to my crime?"

"Help me," Galedreon shrugged. "As simple as that. I am, as I have said, a Grey Warden. If you would join me, you would be aiding me in my quest to end the Blight."

"The Blight? You say you are a Grey Warden?" The Creator nodded. "Surprising. My people have heard legends of the Grey Wardens' strength and skill, though I suppose not every legend is true."

"Perhaps not, at that," Eldred allowed. "But in all the lands that do not follow the Qun, I alone have taken the time to learn Qunlat and read the complete Tome of Koslun–or, more properly, a reproduction thereof; in truth, I learned the tongue solely because I wished to read Koslun's words as they were intended. I would have you consider the import of that, if you would. It is of no consequence, however; would the human known as the Revered Mother hold the key to your cage?"

"She would," he replied. "Perhaps if you told her the Grey Wardens need my assistance; it seems as likely to bring my death as waiting here."

"Then I'll be going. Panahedan, Sten," Eldred bade.

"And to you, then." He sat back down upon the cage's floor.

It was a simple matter for the party to make their way back to the Chantry, slipping in and finding the Revered Mother's study. To get her to yield the key, however, was a far more difficult task.

"Greetings," she said. "Would you be making a donation to the Chantry? Our need has never been greater."

"Tithe? To the Chantry? Are you joking?" the elf balked. "Here I am, getting castigated by clerics for defending a man trying to survive, and here you are, doing the same as what your subordinate accused him of doing–worse, even! For whilst the merchant would honor the bargain and give you what you bought with the money you paid, what the Chantry offers is incorporeal and intangible, the stock and trade of common charlatans. You are the ones preying on the weak and the gullible, not he, and most certainly not I; you who have the gall to solicit money for nothing like a common highwayman. But it matters not at this juncture; I wish to speak of Sten, the Qunari you have imprisoned as a rabid animal. I want him released. Immediately. More specifically, I want the key."

"I…see…" she said, obviously trying to maintain a diplomatic stance despite herself. "It might have been kinder to execute him, but I leave his fate to the Maker. Why does he interest you?" She spat the last sentence, visibly losing her grip.

"Your zeal and venom do you no credit," the elf chastised. "As I said, I want him freed. I might have a use for him."

"Then their next victims might count you and me as their murderers!" she objected.

"Just because you in your hubris think your foolish, false religion is better than any other and as such is a valid casus belli does not give you leave to learn nothing of others," he spoke. "An outburst like the one that caused him to murder an entire family will not happen twice, and certainly not after a period of twenty days wherein he has done nothing but sit and contemplate his misdeed; the Qun would not allow it! He would be Tal-Vashoth, and to the Salasari that governs Par Vollen and Seheron, that is a fate worse than death. Parshaara! I will not argue this further, wench. Give me the keys to Sten's cage," Eldred said, his voice lowering to a hiss, his eyes narrowing. "Or die."

"Now we threaten priests!" exclaimed Morrigan. "How fun!"

"Whoa! Whoa! Let's not get out of hand, here!" objected Alistair.

"What is the meaning of this? You would threaten me with violence?!" she spat indignantly.

"Your Reverence, please," the Templar pleaded. "We are on an important mission. Let us take the Qunari off of your hands, I beg you!"

"I see. And if not, I am to be assaulted?" she asked. "Is this what we have come to?"

"Correction–if not, you are to be killed. Though by rights you and your ilk deserve far, far worse for your hubris and your heresy," the Creator said with a calm he did not quite feel.

"No, your Reverence. I will not allow that to happen," the warrior stated firmly.

"You will 'allow' nothing, Alistair. This woman has been offered terms better than she deserves. I suggest she adhere to them," Galedreon castigated.

"I have more important matters to concern me. Here! Take the key to the creature's cage and begone! Do not return!" she spat, pulling a key from her desk and throwing it violently at the elf, who caught it expertly.

"A wise decision. I am impressed; I would not have thought it possible from one such as you," the Warden mocked.

"Did I not tell you to leave?! Get out before I have the Templars remove you!"

"I would like to see them try," he laughed, casting his cloak back just enough to let her see the sword at his belt. "And I would learn to watch that sharp tongue of yours in the future, shrew. It will get you into trouble." With that, he left the Chantry in high spirits, his companions following, walking back across the town to the cage.

"You wish something more of me?" asked Sten when at last they reached the edge of the town, the elf standing before his immense enclosure.

"I have the key to your cage," replied he, producing the key.

"I confess, I did not think the priestess would part with it," the Qunari said.

"Methinks you'll find that travelling with us is…an experience laden with such surprises, Sten," Eldred replied, slipping the key into the lock and opening the cage.

"So be it. You said I could atone for my crimes by helping you? You have set me free, and so I shall follow you against the Blight."

"Good to know, Sten. And good to have you aboard. This is Alistair, Morrigan and Fen'lin," he said, pointing to each of them in succession.

"May we proceed? I am eager to be elsewhere," said the giant.

"Certainly. You are both unarmored and unarmed, so you should wait for us by the entrance to the Imperial Highway. Morrigan, Alistair and I have some further business to attend to, but it should not take long," the elf replied.

"Thank you; I shall, at that," he said, and with that he left.

The road to the Hawkes, however, had a few final obstacles. Around the corner from Sten's cage was a gathering of refugees, armed and waiting. "We done heard what was said. You're a Warden," the leader of them stated. "I don't know if you killed King Cailan, and Maker forgive me, I don't care. But that bounty on your head could fill a lot of hungry bellies. Attack!"

Galedreon rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Alistair, shield wall. Morrigan, kill them. Fen'lin, tui'halam. I tire of this." True to this, he almost lethargically casted crushing prisons and fireballs and lightning bolts, combining the prisons with force-fields to create shockwaves that, combined with a spell to freeze a single target solid, would shred the men around him with frozen shards of flesh and bone. It was over quickly, and they proceeded, dealing with a second group of bandits and the giant spiders that had at last gotten the best of Teyrn Fergus Cousland–making sure to retrieve the sword, Oathkeeper, from his corpse–before finally ending up at the Hawke farmstead.

"Ho, Malcolm! Malcolm Hawke!" the elf called, walking onto the property.

"My father is dead, messere elf," a gangly lad of seventeen said from nearby. "Three years gone. What can I do for you?"

"I hear your family has a fine eye for horseflesh," the elf said. "I would like to buy three, including one big enough for a Qunari, if it's not too much trouble."

"It's fine," he replied, waving it off and going quickly into the stables, bringing out a fine mare and a chestnut stallion, together with a massive bay. "That'll be thirty silver, ten for each."

"Thank you…what's your name?"

"Adrien," the boy replied. "Adrien Hawke."

"Adrien…" the elf considered. "A fine name for a fine boy." He pressed fifty into his hand, the leftovers from what the bandits had had on their corpses and in their loot-boxes. Eldred drew close and whispered urgently to him, for he glimpsed within the human someone who he could use, the potential to be the first of his mortal agents. "Now I want you to listen, and listen well, Adrien. You are mageborn, and you are powerful–no denying it, it's plain as day to me, as is your sister! But worry not; I shall not tell the Templars. I give you fifty silver pieces–thirty for the horses, the rest for tack and cloaks for my armored friend over there and the Qunari who travels with me, and for you to be able to take my advice. Get out of here, lad. As soon as you can, take your sister and the rest of your family and run. Never return to Ferelden; it is about to undergo a change that I cannot say for sure will not be detrimental to the mageborn. Take my advice, lad, and don't ever forget that the most important thing is freedom." The boy nodded and, getting for the horses saddles and saddle-bags, he saw them off.

Dealing with the darkspawn in the same way as the bandits and the spiders, the Warden and his band found two dwarves and a cart. Exhausted and feeling like he was in the middle of a bad joke, he addressed them as the darkspawn lie either dead or husks, their evil purged from them. "What are two of the durgen'len doing here above ground?" he asked.

"Mighty fine timing there, friend. I'm much obliged," the elder dwarf said, dodging the question.

"You are welcome, but do not change the subject."

"The name's Bodahn Feddic, merchant and entrepreneur. This here is my son, Sandal. Say hello, my boy."

"Hello," said the younger one.

"Road's been mighty dangerous these days. Might I ask what brings you out here? Perhaps we're going the same way," Bodahn said.

"I doubt you want to travel with a Grey Warden, durgen'len, but you're welcome to come along," replied Eldred.

"Grey Warden?" he asked. "I think not. Thank you for the offer, but there may be more excitement on your path than is good for my boy and me. Allow me to bid you farewell and good fortune."

"Goodbye!" said Sandal

"And to you, durgen'lenen. Dareth shiral, and may Falon'Din guide you both." The elf turned back to the road and stepped forth, only to hear a familiar voice nearby.

"Oh, hello again," said Leliana. "So will you let me help you? Will you let me come?" she asked as she picked her way around the dwarves' wagon, guiding a grey spotted mare and clad in leather armor, carrying a longbow upon her back.

"Ugh, you again," Eldred groaned. "Father must be punishing me for something."

"I'll be honest," she said, coming before the party. "When I heard about the darkspawn, I felt something urging me to leave my sheltered life in the cloister and do something. Anything. And then the vision… It cannot be a coincidence, that you are brought here so soon after I was called by the Maker."

"Her plea seems wholehearted, and though she seems a little…strange, she does have skill. I vote to let her come along," said Alistair.

"Alistair, she's one Archdemon short of a Blight!" the elf objected.

"Yes, but she seems more, 'ooh, pretty colors' than 'muhahaha! I am Princess Stabbity! Stab, kill, kill…" the Templar mimed.

"Oh, fine. Ha-ha, Alistair. Very well, if you insist."

"Thank you! I won't let you down, I promise!"

"Yes, yes, well, we'll just have to wait and see, shan't we? Meanwhile, I'm exhausted, so we'd best be off–we have about two hours before full dark. Sten?" the elf called.

"I am here," the Qunari said, coming out of the boxes and scaring Sandal.

"This horse is for you," Eldred said, handing the giant the reigns of the specially-bred bay. "Morrigan, I trust Flemeth taught you how to ride?"

"Of course."

"Take the mare. Alistair, you get the chestnut. Leliana, you brought your own, so everyone mount up. We have ground to cover."

"What about you?" Leliana asked.

The elf grinned, having figured out what Flemeth meant by way of conversing with Fen'lin. "Watch and see," he responded. "Tai'daishar! Dovie'andi se tovya sagain!" Out of the forests and up to the highway with the utmost swiftness came a majestic black unicorn, stopping before him and rearing in acknowledgment. Taking off his gloves and putting them in his pack, he mounted the steed with what seemed a practiced grace, settling onto the unicorn's back before regarding Leliana. "You were saying?" he lightly patronized. "Come now, companions; onward! Fell deeds await!" With that, Eldred bade the unicorn to begin walking–telepathically, for no such creature would abide spurs–and, taking the point position of his mounted compatriots, goaded his mount into a swift canter, and as the others followed, Fen'lin keeping pace, they went off into the dusk.