A/N: Eep, a chapter! Special thanks to my former colleague who suggested the best way to break my writer's drought was just 'write'. So, apologies this chapter has taken so long to arrive, folks. I hope you're still out there. Thank you for being so patient :)

Chapter 4

Dagna had returned to her little perch of crumbled ruin, observing the collection of mages before her with amusement, yet with no small amount of trepidation either. Three Amells and all of them had a Templar each. Well, the smallest mage – Merran Amell – had a spouse that was formerly a Templar. Technically Alyce's Ser Ryan was also ex-Chantry…what would the Captain have done if he were here now, Dagna wondered? Or would he have been turned into a frog too? Hm…Why Templars though? Because somehow, no matter where they were in time or place, an Amell with magic was attracted to a Templar; something familiar that reminded them of their former Tower life (if they had ever been trained in the Circle)?

Or was it because they just liked to live dangerously?

"Look," the blonde mage that wasn't Alyce was arguing – and trying not to look at the reddish frog perched on the toe of her boot. "As much as the concept of a portable husband appeals, I really would prefer it if he was human. Some time."

"Yes," Alyce added thoughtfully. "Think of their children."

The blonde mage blinked in confusion. "We don't have any children," she explained.

"Tadpoles?" Alyce offered helpfully.

"Oh, that's so sweet!" the mage called Merran clasped her hands and exclaimed. "Congratulations!"

"You're both insane, aren't you?" The blonde mage clapped her hand to her forehead. "If not, I would very much like to wake up from this nightmare as soon as is practicable!"

Dagna giggled. She couldn't help it. Three Amells. Three. One tall, one small and one sort of in the middle of the two. Amells. Three of them! It was either some horrible coincidence or else whatever – or whomever – had brought them here had truly poor comedic timing. Unfortunately her chuckle, soft as it was, brought three pairs of curious eyes turning towards her.

"And who might you be?" the blonde haired mage demanded.

Dagna grinned. She pointed to Alyce. "I'm her dwarf."

The blonde mage gave Alyce a look that was slightly less approving of a father meeting his teenaged daughter's boyfriend for the first time. Except with slightly more shotgun.

"More comments like that," Alyce snorted at Dagna, "and I'm selling you to the lowest bidder."

"You can come live with us," Merran suggested. "We have cake!"

"Insane!" the blonde mage threw her hands up into the air.

"Ooh!" Dagna waggled her feet enthusiastically. "I know this game! We all take turns to come up with a clever word and the one that can't in time, loses."

"Niggle!" Merran grinned, dimpling in a way that made Dagna think of baked apples and the scent of vanilla for some reason.

"Is that a word?" Alyce asked.

"Uh-uh Alyce," Dagna waggled her finger at her mage. "That's four words. It's cheating."

"I didn't say I was going to play," Alyce grumped, folding her arms across her chest and shooting her a glare.

"Insane!" the blond mage exclaimed again, throwing up her hands in despair.

"That doesn't count," Merran shook her head. "She's repeating herself."

"I have one," Dagna smiled smugly.

"That was three," Alyce pointed out with a sniff.

Dagna rolled her eyes. She pointed at the two frogs; one brownish, the other a bit gingerish around the breathing holes.

"Templar," she stated, hoping that between three Amells, the odd-shaped pieces might fall together somewhere between them and they would work it out. Because if no one did…

"I don't get it," Merran said frowning.

"Alchemists!" Alyce said, as though that might explain everything.

Dagna stared. First at Alyce, then at Merran. "I am so disappointed right now," she told them both. "You have no idea."

"So they're Templars, are they?" Diana sighed, pinching at the bridge of her nose, in case it might help her brain from swelling and her head in turn from exploding. There was certainly a headache on the horizon, fast approaching.

"Yes," smiled Dagna. "Templars."

"Who are also frogs right now," Alyce reminded everyone unnecessarily.

"Well actually, I think Alistair might be a toad," Merran thought she might mention, to renewed, protesting croaks from the webbed individual sitting on her shoulder. "Well, I can't help it," Merran rolled her eyes at it. "You're all bumpy so of course it means…unless they're your boy bits." She attempted to peer more closely at the brown frog. "Which reminds me, where are your boy bits…?" It was a question that had the brown frog attempting to dive into the collar of Merran's dun-coloured shirt.

It was also the first time Dagna realised, that frogs could actually blush.

Before the conversation spiralled out of control again however, Dagna cleared her throat for attention. "Yes, yes," she began, "but what are Templars good for, hm?"

"Frowning," Merran said immediately.

"Standing very still," Alyce added.

"Making purple curtains look good on men," the blond mage joined in, without thinking. She of course, immediately regretted what she had just said as the frog on her boot began to make choking noises. Colouring slightly, she redirected her gaze upwards. "Well, it had to be said."

"I'm sorry, I can't agree," Merran said. "Alistair looked awful in purple. Like an embarrassed, armoured beetroot."

"Not Ryan," Alyce smirked. "The man could make orange spotted under drawers look…uh…" Swinging her arms, she gestured vaguely at Dagna. "Never mind about that." She tried to look serious but the attempt was far too obvious for anyone to believe her. "What is your point, Dagna?"

"My point…" Dagna rolled her eyes again. "Unspell – which I know perfectly well isn't a word, before any of you can argue with me – that's what Templars do right?" The three Amells looked at each other, then back at Dagna. "Oh, come on ladies," she prompted. "Join the dots, I know you can do it. You've all lived in some way with Templars. Surely-"

"It's not that we're completely stupid," the blond mage interrupted before Dagna could continue. "But. We are mages. And Templars are a bit funny about passing on their Templar skills to others. Especially mages. Dispelling magic. That's what you mean, yes? If the Chantry bled their secret techniques to mages, well then there would be…no point to having Templars in the first place. Because mages are quite capable of self-regulation what the Fade am I saying? Would you trust a bloody mage, because I certainly wouldn't!"

"Mages," Alyce snorted derisively. "Wouldn't trust 'em as far as I could throw 'em."

"And it's not like something like that could be easily learned by a mage," Merran sighed. "Otherwise, all we'd have to do is – I don't know – say the spell backwards or something like…" To demonstrate, Merran wiggled her fingers and muttered, "Paz".

There was a double puff of smoke followed by a loud clanging of something large and metallic falling onto the ground, accompanied by a gasp of pain and a; "Argh, you're standing on my foot!"

The smoke cleared. In place of the brown frog was the Warden Commander, picking himself off the floor where he had fallen and checking surreptitiously to make sure everything had been returned to its rightful place. Where the reddish frog had been perched on the blonde mage's boot was a gentleman in the heavy armour of a Knight Commander, looking stern and slightly shiny of complexion…also quietly taking inventory of limbs and things.

"Oh, would you look at that," Merran giggled, staring at the tips of her still-wiggling fingers in surprise. "It was as easy as we didn't think!"

-oo-

The First Enchanter had lived a long time. Indeed, there were some times, especially in the last few years, when he had felt he'd lived perhaps a bit too long and it was time for him to move on, pass on the mantle to someone else and retire to a quiet place in the country where all he had to worry about was the odd, misplaced cow pat and running out of soft leaves whilst occupied communing with nature in the Outhouse.

Of course, finding someone to replace him was the problem. It wasn't as if qualified individuals were lacking. The mage population in Ferelden may have undergone a bit of a thinning during the Blight; the Circle had lost good mages fighting against Darkspawn as well as that messy business with Senior Enchanter Uldred, but many mages out in the field had been quite happy to return. Their numbers bolstered by others from the Free Marches, Orlais and beyond, the Circle in Ferelden was almost what it was before the Blight. It wasn't the same of course. The First Enchanter had among those lost men and women he had called friends. Folk he'd known from even his time as an Apprentice. Those could never be replaced.

Still. Plenty of candidates.

It was just…the position of First Enchanter of the Ferelden Circle of Mages was an unenviable one. He'd hoped to be able to convince young Diana Amell to someday take up the charge, but she preferred to be offsite and not Tower-bound as the position required. Currently she was somewhere at the foothills of the Frostback Mountains with her Templar husband and that Chantry scholar, Brother Ferdinand Genitivi. Tomb raiding was a far more exciting occupation than the serious business of learning how to First Enchant.

And now this.

Clasping his hands behind his back, First Enchanter Irving stood at the casement overlooking Lake Calenhad. He grunted disapprovingly at the horizon; the sky purple-mottled and writhing as though in agony.

Well, no one's going to want the job for certain now.

It appeared the job description had just become more…complicated.

Intermittent flashes of lurid bile yellow jagged across the sky, revealing in sharp relief the shapes of things moving.

"Thirteen."

With an involuntary shudder, the First Enchanter turned. The Tower's Stockroom Chief Keeper, Owain had the kind of voice that was like an ice cube sliding down the back of one's robes when one least expected it.

"Pardon?" Irving murmured.

"I counted thirteen," Owain explained in his calm, unmodulated voice.

The First Enchanter frowned. He'd always wondered why Tranquil lost their ability to talk like everyone else when they had their connection severed with the Fade. Owain would have been in his teens when he'd undergone the process; at an age where he'd already learned which tone of voice went with which situation. It led the First Enchanter to think Owain and others used that emotionless voice because they knew it unnerved people.

"Thirteen?" Irving repeated.

"Legs," Owain nodded towards the flickering horizon. "Appendages," he added. "Whichever you prefer."

"I would prefer no appendages whatsoever," Irving responded sourly.

Owain's eyebrows twitched; a remembered response for surprise perhaps. "You suggest a slug-like demon is preferable, First Enchanter? I suppose it may make the appendage-less demon less…quick."

No. It wasn't what he'd meant, but the overwhelming feeling Owain was pulling his leg – a Tranquil making fun of him – made Irving quash his first retort and shrug a shoulder instead.

"I doubt," Irving rumbled, "that it would make a difference. Either way."

"True," Owain agreed coolly. "As the number of appendages thus observed appears to have no discernible relationship to the number of mouths."

Irving reached up, knuckling at a sudden ache in his temple. He took a breath. Deep. Long. "I expected the Knight Commander's visit some time ago."

"The Templars appear to be occupied at present, First Enchanter," Owain said, cocking his head to the side as a brilliant flash of lurid green lit up the landscape.

"Busy?" Irving frowned. "Doing what?"

"Running about very fast, it appears."

"Ah…" Irving nodded. "In that case, we should expect Greagoir in five…four…three…two…"

The door to the First Enchanter's office burst open with a loud clang of metal on wood. Framed in the golden lamplight, Knight Commander Greagoir stood for a bare moment on the threshold, assessing the occupants in the room with an aggressive eye before lurching into the room.

"Irving!" he bellowed.

"Ah, Greagoir," Irving smiled humourlessly. "Your punctuality never fails to impress me."

Checked by this unexpected greeting, the Knight Commander paused. Rapidly recovering, he continued towards his target.

"What have you and your mages done this time?" he demanded angrily.

"I?" the First Enchanter blinked innocently. "Nothing so far."

"What?" Greagoir barked.

"But if you ask nicely, I'm sure I and my colleagues will be able to work out some kind of…" his eyes flickered dubiously towards the horizon, "…strategy."

"A strategy?" Greagoir's teeth ground around the words. "Have you seen the size of the tear in the Veil? How is this even possible? I ask again; what have your mages done to cause such a calamity?"

Clasping his hands behind his back, the First Enchanter returned his gaze to the sky outside his window. "Believe me, Greagoir," he told the bristling Knight Commander, "a tear in the Veil that large could only be caused by the combined efforts of more mages than are currently in Ferelden right now. That," he jerked his chin towards yet another flash of yellow-green, "is an anomaly."

"Is that your answer Irving?" Greagoir clenched his fists with an ear-wrenching squeal of grinding metal. "An anomaly?"

"Have you a suggestion for another name, Knight Commander?" Irving raised his eyebrows.

"Yes!" Greagoir almost shouted. "Our doom!"

A long silence ensured, punctuated by the soft shuffling of Owain's feet on the rug. The First Enchanter's eyes slid sideways to the Tranquil.

"Shall I make tea, First Enchanter?" Owain suggested.

Irving smiled grimly. "A most excellent idea, Owain. And the special tea biscuits, I think," he added after slight, thoughtful pause.

-oo-