They are at the Circle Tower, or what is left of it. The troupe is here to fulfill the last Grey Warden treaty as well as to get the aid of the mages for the abomination problem in Redcliffe.
If it were up to Sten, the saarebas in Redcliffe would die. Swiftly.
But the bas in their troupe have outvoted him. And instead of beheading the little abomination, the elf Warden decides to have the swamp witch put him in even more spells, supposedly "to contain him until we could get help."
Sten hates the Circle tower. It is the embodiment of everything that can go wrong when saarebas go unleashed, without arvaraad to guide them. Without the certainty of the Qun.
And the Wardens still think that obtaining mages for their cause is remotely a good idea?
"That's Moira the Rebel Queen!" the human warden exclaims, as they find a framed painting over a charred corpse in this desolate place.
"Such family resemblance!" the elf says, punching her companion in the shoulder. "Wait till Leliana sees this. She'll sing endlessly about the uncanny resemblance between ancestor and descendant, fighting a hopeless but noble cause!"
"Oh please, don't make fun of me again," the human warden foolishly mumbles.
"It is a rare gift to see this still unharmed," the old bas saarebas says serenely, breaking the joking mood of the two wardens. As it should be. The Blight is no joking matter. Bas Saarebas running around summoning demons is no joking matter. But he is not sure that the old bas saarebas's serenity is the same as his. If she is even truly serene, or even thoughtful.
"Paarshara!" Sten exclaims. "We have no time to dabble on this."
Sten takes the painting, and moves to throw it back to the pile of rubbish on which the elf found it. But his eyes glance on the canvas, how the painter delicately wielded his brush as Sten would his sword.
And the red-haired woman in the painting. She holds her sword and her standard in triumph over a ruined fancy chariot. A barbarian queen celebrating victory over her painted foes; if even half of what he has read and heard about her is true, she should be Basvaraad. Someone worthy of following.
It is beautiful. More than that, it has certainty.
Sten should not have been hasty, he should have seen the beauty of this thing. It contained more beauty than anything he has ever seen in this cold, blighted country.
"Woah, big guy, if you want it, you could have said something," the elf chides him. Small thing that she is, she looks up to meet his eyes. "Just don't burn it or throw it with the rubbish."
She is unwavering. Her voice may be playful, but her eyes are not joking. She, too, does not want this beautiful thing to be thrown back into the rubbish pile.
Perhaps she is not as callow as she appears. And as his eyes travel again to the red-haired queen, he is forced to reexamine his opinion of her, bas women warriors, and this strange, uncertain country of contradictions.