A/N: Hello everyone. I cry your collective pardons at the inordinate amount of time that has passed between updates. The harsh reality is that my previous updates were done when I was on holiday and so I had all the time in the world to do whatever I wanted. Now that I'm back at school studying for my A2's must take priority above all else.

I'd also like some input from you guys as to whether this fic should remain T or be rated as M. I'm not sure whether my descriptions of combat have gone over the T boundary and into M and I don't plan on skimping on the details. War is hell. I'm not going to sugar coat it and tie a pink ribbon around it... so advice would be helpful.

If you guys and girls have any ideas that you would like me to implement feel free to drop me a line; I promise nothing though; this is my baby! Any tips on how I can improve my prose would also be gratefully received.

I'm going on the assumption that 'Ferelden' is the country and 'Fereldan' is the countryman as it is spelt a number of different ways from what I've seen.

By the way, I don't think this is necessary but I'll put this here anyway:

"Warden" – Bold text is usually A/N's.

"Warden"- Italics are usually thoughts or flashbacks.

"Warden"- Normal speech and description.

I'd like to thank Ryka Spar, Freizer, sweetlilsunshine, Reader000x151, Lethum, Musicalrain, Delfin Jonte, , NIX'S WARDEN, Wyolake , dj081704, So you want to be an Author, Jedi Master Albus, Charlie019, Stillgettintheheadshots11, unbroken wing and In caverns dark for their reviews.

To answer your questions:

Wyolake: My thinking was that Duncan really can't afford to regularly go around pissing people off by conscripting people and that all of his wardens would have strict instructions to be discreet in their recruiting. While busting Anders out of solitary confinement would be great fun it would create a political shit-storm for Duncan. Think about it. Greagoir is enough of a hard-ass about giving help when there's an actual Blight on that is acknowledged by everyone (Loghain excluded) so what would he be like when there hasn't been a Blight in 400 years and Wardens are largely regarded as an antiquated order which serves no purpose? After the end of the Fourth Blight when Garahel slew Andoral the majority of the wardens had been killed during the 12 year long Blight. Such a large number of darkspawn were killed during that Blight that many people believed that there couldn't be any left and this was compounded by various monarchs saying that there would never be another Blight as a way to restore order.

NIX'S WARDEN: What makes you think the city elf and magi origins are out? The alienage is a large place and there are hundreds of mages in the Circle Tower. Why would Morcar be introduced to a lowly novice? I have some preliminary ideas on pairings but that might change as the story progresses. Remember; as far as can be gleamed from the game all the origins co-exist at the same time but it is only when Duncan is involved that one can live and all the others die.

Apollo Wings: You liked that, did you? Yes, it is rather convenient that nothing disastrous happens whilst The Warden is traipsing across Ferelden gathering allies. I think it's safe to say that things in reality would not be quite so easy.

Reaer000x151: To be honest with you I hadn't actually thought that far ahead yet. Assuming all the other wardens bar the origin warden and Alistair die there would be other repercussions of Morcar being senior.

Charlie019: Don't worry! From Alistair's conversation in the game about his Joining he makes it sound like there were at least two other recruits who lived.

Unbroken wing: Soldier's Peak is a location that will have an active role in this story and that will be discussed with Duncan before the events of the game take place. Howe's betrayal of the Couslands will still take place but whether or not any of them survive remains to be seen.

Sorry for the massive A/N. To the story!

Chapter 6

14th of Solace, 9:29 Dragon

Warden-Compound, Denerim

I dipped the cloth back into the bowl, gathering some vinegar soaked sand onto the end of it. Lifting it up out of the bowl I moved the cloth back to the breastplate that I had been scrubbing rid of mud and grime. On the way back from collecting funds from the few Bann's who supported the Wardens the bay rouncey I had been ridding had been spooked by the loud crack of nearby thunder. He had reared, and having been taken by surprise, I was thrown from the saddle into the muddy road. I didn't normally wear my armour when travelling but the local Bann had warned me of a particularly nasty highwayman with a crossbow who prowled the stretch of road that I would be forced to travel; I had decided to wear most of my armour just in case, leaving my lower body free to better steer my horse. I thus found myself back in the compound scrubbing away furiously at my steel plate.

I tried not to think about how I'd come to this world and my past life. Enough time had passed that I'd gotten used to most of the culture shocks. Things like having no running water and no electricity were relatively straightforward to adjust to. Everything was slower here. If I wanted a hot bath then water would have to be heated in great vats over a fire by the elven servants that we employed and then dumped into the bath. I couldn't just turn a knob in the wall and have instant hot water. You couldn't just hop onto a plane and find yourself in Gwaren. It took weeks of travel by horse to get anywhere. Gone also was being able to email someone and communicate instantaneously with a person halfway across the world. Everything was done by hand. If I wanted to send a report to Duncan whilst out in the Bannorn then I would have to write a draft letter using quill and ink ,and then pay a messenger to deliver it to him and wait for a reply, if I was especially lucky I could even use a local Bann's carrier pigeon to send a message that would be sent to the palace before being passed on to Duncan. Further complicating matters, if I deemed the information to be sensitive in nature then I would also have to spend time encrypting the message using our cipher.

With these communication constraints Warden's on detached duty were granted a great deal of autonomy in completing their missions. Following my dubiously successful trip to the Circle (which I presumed to be a test given the unsuccessful outcome Duncan expected) I was entrusted with more independent missions. Not all Wardens were. By necessity, being fully literate was required. A certain amount of tact was also essential given the Order's prior history in Ferelden and our precarious position. On the other hand, I was expected to have the initiative to act without explicit instructions, or even against previous orders, using my discretion to weigh up consequences and decide if the outcome was worthwhile. A considerable burden. One which some Wardens avoided as they preferred the less stressful life of simply following orders - my friend, Carac, was one such individual.

I was glad for the extra trust and responsibility, which I took as a mark of recognition of my efforts to be a good Warden. With how unfamiliar I was with this world I took pains to throw myself into everything in order to catch up to my contemporaries, whether it be sparring, devouring Warden lore or histories from our library, or attempting to wheedle a donation for the Order out of wealthy merchants. I tried my best.

Still, travelling was tremendously tedious. It was a welcome reprieve from being in the Deep Roads, though. I'd been on about a dozen expeditions to the Roads and though I'd gotten used to them to some extent I was always on edge down there. It was impossible to be at ease in crumbling tunnels teeming with vile darkspawn.

Then there was the fact there were aliens in this world. Aliens might have been a harsh thing to call dwarves and elves but it was hard to see them as completely normal when one came from a world where the only sentient life around was humans. That said, that didn't mean that I disliked dwarves and elves or stereotyped them as others in this world did. I treated everyone I came across as an individual and responded to them based on how they behaved. I forced myself to disregard the pointed ears and the dwarves who came up only halfway up my chest. Speaking of height, that myth that medieval people were midgets is bullshit. Those tiny doors you see in old buildings? The smaller the door, the less heat escapes. Big surprise, these people hardly have fibreglass insulation and double glazing. That said there was still a marginal height difference. It wasn't really noticeable with warriors or nobles. They had a good diet. They exercised. They were roughly the same height as me, although I tended to have a slight height advantage; doubtless due to the benefits of having grown up with plentiful food and modern medicine. Your average lower-class Fereldan was certainly slightly shorter than the average height of a man in the 21st century. Elves were even shorter. I hadn't seen a single one that I would have said to be above six foot. A lot of elves looked like children from a distance. Children with pointed ears.

I was nineteen and a half years old. I would be twenty by the time the events of the game took place. My body and mind had changed during the short amount of time that I'd been in this world that had previously been fantasy. For one, I'd bulked up, hour after hour of weapons practice with the other Wardens having strengthened my body. It was a good thing that Wade's men had anticipated my growth and made the armour slightly bigger than necessary. It fit me like a glove now. I'd gained new scars, too. In addition to the shallow vertical furrow across my face and the scar on my wrist I'd acquired a few others in scattered areas across my body. Most of them I got when I sparred against some of the more enthusiastic Wardens but some of them were earned in clashes against the darkspawn when the creatures managed to force their way through the minute gaps in my armour.

"You have been chosen to become a part of this world." Fuck you. In the first few weeks after my arrival in Thedas I constantly thought back to that line. I have been chosen. Who chose me? "This world." Implies there are others. What others? Parallel universes? Why me? "Help The Warden." Why? The Warden does fine in the game. The Archdemon dies. The Wardens win. Why do I need to help? What can I possibly do to help? I'll die at Ostagar, If not before. Why me?

I miss my family.

I miss my mum.

I miss my dad.

I miss my sister.

I miss my brother.

How I was wracked with self-pity and fury at whoever brought me here during those first few weeks! I found catharsis in battle. There's a release when you fight for your life. You're at your most primal. Fight or flight. I didn't want to flee. I wanted to unleash my anger and resentment on someone or something. I was unsettled the first time I killed - the bandits. Their hacked flesh revolted me. I was responsible for their deaths. In the blink of an eye I exterminated their lives. That wasn't what bothered me. The arseholes wanted to kill me for money and they murdered three teamsters. What bothered me was that I… enjoyed their deaths.

No.

Enjoyed was too strong a word. I felt... satisfaction?

I was guilty that I didn't feel guilty about killing - I had no compunction against killing darkspawn, the vile creatures deserved a much worse end than I could give them on the occasions where I encountered them - what disturbed me was the excitement I'd felt when killing those Bandits on the way to Denerim. I put it down to relief at not dying and adrenaline. Still, there's a joy in battle. It's simple. There are no existential questions coursing through your mind about whether you'll see your family again, about the Blight, or Ostagar. It's just you and the person or thing trying to kill you. It's the ultimate competition. Survival of the fittest.

For the first few months that I'd been in Denerim I'd felt helplessly outraged by the way the elves were treated. The squalor that was the Denerim Alienage was morally repugnant. Penned within its crumbling walls in cramped tenements offering conditions reminiscent of those experienced by countless Jews during World War II were two thousand elves. A few months after my Joining I'd gone to the Alienage knowing that I would never be able to make a big difference but wanting to help in any way I could despite it.

As I hesitantly walked the filthy street stepping over piles of refuse I was taken aback by the utter loathing and fear blazing in the eyes of the elves as they stared at me. They were a sorry lot. Many of them were emaciated with fleshless bony limbs and sunken faces, and yet they still went about their daily lives determined to eke out a living in a world set against them. A group of elven children so thin I could see their ribcages were digging through a pile of rubbish, looking for something worthwhile to salvage no doubt. I approached them in the hopes of asking to be led to Valendrian. They scurried away as soon as they saw me. I stopped. A flicker of movement drew my eye. Four adult elves were warily making their way over. They eyed the belted sword I wore over a surcoat with the Grey Warden heraldry. Other elves were huddled in groups watching me from their ramshackle houses. The elves stopped five paces from me. One of them, the oldest, took another step forward. We examined each other silently. The elf's hair had been turned completely white with age, creases wrinkled his ancient face and there were dark circles underneath his eyes. He gazed at me with a look that exuded serene patience.

"To what do we owe the visit, Warden? Has Duncan sent you?"

"No. My name is Morcar. I came here of my own volition. I mean you no harm. Is there somewhere we could speak in private?" I said, uncomfortably conscious of the scores of pairs of eyes burning a hole in my back.

He looked at me a few moments longer, pondering something, before nodding.

"Yes, forgive me. I am Hahren Valendrian, or as your kind would have it; Elder."

"It is an honour to meet you. Duncan speaks highly of you."

His lips quirked upward in amusement. "Very well, Warden. I must confess I am curious as to what brings you here."

Once in his house – a modest cottage by human standards but well-to-do for the Alienage – the conversation continued.

"You may struggle to believe this but I am vehemently against the forcible confinement of your people in Alienages and I came here today to lend what little assistance I can." I paused, watching a startled expression flicker across his face before he composed himself.

He smiled, "Sadly, many humans do not think as you do."

"I know," I replied awkwardly "I'm just one person but when I'm on duty in Denerim I'll do all I can to help you. Would you prefer monetary aid or is there anything that you need that you wouldn't be able to acquire as an elf?"

"You trust me not to hoard whatever you give me?" he said, raising a bushy eyebrow.

"I trust Duncan's faith in you and that you'll give to those who have the greatest need."

He nodded, "I will. Basic necessities and food can be paid for but the merchants are forbidden to sell us anything that could be used as a weapon. That deprives us of the tools we need to build any proper housing for my people; I'm sure you've noticed the sorry state of the buildings in the Alienage."

He spoke passionately, looking me in the eye the whole time, perhaps afraid that I would withdraw my offer if he didn't plead his case well enough. I placed eight coins on the table. The heavy gold sovereigns gleamed dully on the table. The portraits of King Cailan beamed up at us.

Valendrian stared at the coins.

"These… these are for… us?" he spoke haltingly, voice low.

"Yes. What tools do you need?"

"Tools?" He seemed surprised that I was offering more. "Erm… hammers, saws, planes, axes, chisels and nails."

"I'll do what I can. It'll take a quite a few trips to get you all you need. I'll have to spread them out. I don't want to draw the eye of the guard. I'd be fine as a Warden if they found those tools but it would go… poorly for you." I explained.

"You've already done much." He said gesturing to the coins. "This will save the lives of many that would otherwise die of hunger or disease. You're a good person." He told me feelingly.

"I'm just doing what's right. I wish I could do more." I was embarrassed.

"Things could be worse, Warden Morcar. The Alienage may not have the best living conditions but at least we aren't still slaves to the Tevinters. The walls of the Alienage also keep those that would do us harm out."

I glanced at the darkening sky through the open window next to me.

"I must take my leave now; they will be expecting me at the compound. I will be back in a few days with the first of the tools."

He thanked me again and then I left.

Since then whenever I was in Denerim I went to the Alienage every week or so wearing my old hauberk and a cloak. The jingling sound of the mail helped to mask the muffled clanking of the tools wrapped in cloth I smuggled in. I sewed various loops, straps, and pockets on the inside of my cloak to securely hold and conceal my cargo from the guards. Over time I'd managed to transport scores of tools and bags of nails and other needed items into the Alienage. Some things I didn't have to smuggle and I could just walk in or have delivered to Valendrian. I had a dozen hens, two cocks and four goats delivered to Valendrian by a local man who had a farm a few miles from Denerim. Initially I'd been able to fund all this and my donations to Valendrian by using my few remaining sovereigns, part of my wages and the loot I gained in battle. However, the funds that I'd managed to squirrel away quickly disappeared. As the elves learned of their benefactor some of them had wanted to thank me by giving me various crafted gifts or small amounts of money. Initially I'd politely declined them all, self-conscious about not wanting to seem an opportunist, but when I mentioned this to Valendrian he persuaded me to take them, stating that if the elves wished to thank me who was I to decline? The few crafted gifts I was given I kept, and I re-invested the coin given to me into helping the Alienage.

I had also learnt that some people would pay decent money for trophies taken from the darkspawn in battle. Of course I had to cleanse said items of the taint - I advise having a magically inclined friend conjure fire. The short of it was that I'd stopped losing coins and I started accumulating them in a slow trickle. I put them to good use. One third of the coin I gathered I saved as funds to go towards the war against the darkspawn, another third I kept for when I needed things for myself. The last part went towards helping the elves. I'd told Duncan what I'd been doing. He'd given me a searching look that I felt searing my soul, nodded and then grunted "Don't get caught; it would create difficulties for me."

I persuaded Valendrian to accept more martial offerings in light of what I knew would befall the Alienage. I'd given him twenty axes, ten bows and sheaves of arrows to safely hide somewhere. It wasn't enough weapons if the elves planned to revolt. That wasn't my intention, though. I just wanted them to have a handful of weapons they could fall back upon to use in self-defence. The axes had been surprisingly cheap. Of course, I had looked for the best I could find that I still deemed to be made of decent iron. They had been chipped and rusty but a few days work on my part had smoothed out all the imperfections and put on a wicked edge. The bows and arrows had been much more expensive. It had irked me so much that I'd asked around the compound until I received a satisfactory answer: the axes whilst composed of valuable metal and labour intensive to make were likely several decades old years old. Their value had thus been greatly decreased. The arrows and bows on the other would last nowhere near as long and were in much higher demand. I'd bought the axes from a group of lumberjacks who'd been ridding themselves of old tools. It provided a certain deal of deniability for the elves, there was no way Valendrian would have accepted a war-axe or a sword from me. To do so would be to invite a purge. An axe could be used to chop down a tree, or split wood for a stove. A sword was a weapon of war with only one purpose. The bows had been more difficult to foist upon Valendrian. By law, wild game was associated with the land upon which it roamed. Whether that land was held by a freeholder, Bann, or the King, the game ultimately belonged to the landholder. Thus, to hunt such game would be poaching unless one owned the land. So, an elf with a bow, especially in a city, would draw suspicion.

After a few months the elves had gradually thawed and while they weren't exactly friendly, they were polite and at least they didn't want to kill the filthy shem anymore.

Finally, I scrubbed the last speck of mud from my backplate.

There. That's the last of my armour cleaned. I hate mud. Damn horse.

Gathering the various pieces of armour into my arms, I made my way to the room I shared with my magi friend Carac. He was one of the few Fereldan volunteers, having Joined a little over seven years ago. He'd come from the Jainen Circle of Magi in the Waking Sea Bannorn. It had been quite the surprise to learn that Ferelden had two Circles. I didn't see him often as he was regularly on patrol when I was at the Compound and vice versa.

Magic.

It fascinated me. The slightest levitation or fireball intrigued me and I was viciously jealous of my mage comrades - notwithstanding being locked in a tower and treated as a subhuman. Such supernatural things as the magic that I witnessed almost every day and could not deny had other implications. The ashes of Andraste, for example. They worked in the game; they saved Eamon's life. There was the gauntlet full of ghosts. Did that also mean there actually was a God? A Maker? These questions troubled me. Before I came here I'd been a stalwart atheist who delighted in throwing difficult questions and arguments at my believer friends. Now? Now I found myself a bit more open to the idea.

I placed my burden on the armour stand in my corner of the room. Francis had imposed a strict order on me. Horse, weapons, armour, me. That was the order in which things were to be tended to. It made enough sense. After all, the rouncey I usually rode, Tonnerre - thunder in Orlesian - was a living creature and deserved to be looked after for dutifully carrying me around Ferelden. Also, what use would be my equipment if I neglected it and let it rust? It also made more sense to do things in that order, have a bath, and then not have to get dirty again. Another one of Francis' mantras was "Train hard; fight easy." Common sense perhaps in theory but extremely unpleasant for me in practice. I cleaned myself in the warm bath that had been drawn up while I was tending to my armour and once I had towelled myself off I pulled on the formal Warden clothes that I'd been given.

I wore a dark grey doublet trimmed in marine blue faced with small silver buttons and embroidered with a griffon on the breast. My lower body was covered by a grey hose and polished black boots. My hands were clad in tight black leather gloves and my sword and dagger were freshly oiled, polished and belted around my waist. Lastly, I snatched up my helm and carried it in the crook of my arm. I'd burnished it to a mirror shine and attached the ceremonial griffon wings.

I was ready to go to a tourney.

A/N: I'm sorry this chapter is so short after such a long time between updates! I have A2 exams in a couple of weeks and I've been focusing on revision for them! After that I'll be done with school - Freedom! - and I'll have more time to post more chapters. I appreciate there's no action to speak of in this chapter but I wanted to spend time on character development and to share a few thoughts I've had. I promise the next chapter will be extra long!