Andruil, goddess of the hunt, would grant him patience. Rastaban ground his teeth. Fly straight, and do not waver, he told himself. In the distance, the dog relieved himself on a knotted tree stump.

The Dalish man began to question his judgment in leaving Orzammar.

His keeper, Marethari, had stressed patience. She had told him that he would be exposed to a variety of peoples as a Grey Warden and that different did not always mean the same as wrong. She knew him. She knew it was easier to judge, and compartmentalize people instead of trying to form relationships.

Still, Marethari's gentle, prodding words could have never prepared him for this. Rastaban had sought reprieve from Orzammar, not for the lack of trees and singing of birds, but to escape the poisoned mind of the elven mage. He could forgive the humans for their callous and ignorant mannerisms, they were only acting out the roles of victors. But his own people- what had happened to his people? The malice and entitlement exhibited by the Surana woman was disturbing.

Then there was the Tabris girl. To see such a broken and dilapidated husk of a person filled him with an insatiable rage. How was she a Warden? How was she an elf? Even now, she shadowed the qunari with a quiet, invisible grace that would put many of the hunters he knew to shame. Yet Rastaban knew that if she noticed his gaze was on her, she would immediately crumple. It made him want to march to Denerim and raze the alienage himself.

He never should have left his clan. Duncan had claimed that Rastaban had been tainted and the only cure was the joining process, but in truth, he had only felt sicker since participating in the joining. Nights were a cruel nuisance where he could inevitably feel the Archdemon attempt to snake its fingers into his mind. Its words were a painful, grinding gibberish with the occasional identifiable phrase. "Gather," "overcome," "blood." The dread wolf now had the face of a dragon. He did not like it.

"How much longer?" The qunari's voice was a welcome distraction.

"Not long, now," the human, Edgar, promised. "I have many fond memories of Redcliffe."

That wasn't the most soothing assertion. Rastaban was fairly confident that they weren't traveling in the right direction, but he was sick of arguing. The dog seemed to be far more successful at redirecting his master than Rastaban. A bark and a tail wag and Edgar would trot down the beaten dirt path after the mabari hound.

"I do hope Bann Teagan is there," Edgar continued. He pulled his sword out and swung at an overhanging tree branch. "Silfee will be ever so jealous if I see him and she doesn't."

The air in the forest tasted off, like disease and rot. The dog's stump of a tail was held stiff and low. Rastaban couldn't quite place it yet, but something felt wrong, unnatural. The trees were not the right color for the season.

"Your sword," Adele said suddenly. She had a voice like a wraith, airy and unused. It caught the attention of the qunari, however, perhaps because she spoke in such sparse bursts. "Was it a gift?"

"That sword was made for my hand alone," the qunari said. "I have carried it from the day I was set into the Beresaad. I was to die wielding it for my people."

So there was honor left in the world, yet. Rastaban picked up a yellowed leaf and it came apart in his fingers.

The qunari's pale eyes stared out across the expanse of forest along the trail they were on. "Even if I could cross Ferelden and Tevinter unarmed and alone to bring my report to the arishok, I would be slain on sight by the antaam."

The girl didn't understand. "It's just an object, Sten."

"Do your people have no souls?" he asked. "That sword is as much part of me as my arm, my heart, my life. The antaam would view me as soulless, a deserter. No soldier would cast aside his blade while he drew breath."

"So that's why you caged yourself," she murmured.

"A weak mind is a deadly foe, as you are no doubt aware." The qunari stared at Edgar as he said that. Farther up the trail, the nobleman was laughing and wrestling with his dog.

Adele offered a thin lipped smile as she nodded her head. "We'll find your sword, Sten."

That made the qunari soften. Rastaban snorted. Well, as soft as the giants would ever deem acceptable in public. "Perhaps those words are empty," the qunari said. "But thank you all the same."

The dog had clamped his jaws down on his master's gauntleted wrist and had taken to directing Edgar towards the correct path to Redcliffe that way. Aside from the occasional inane prattling from Edgar, the group traveled in silence. A thought occurred to Rastaban.

"The qunari explained why he caged himself, but you," he looked at Adele, "I don't understand why you've chosen to do the same."

"I beg your pardon?" Her hair was a mass of tangled gold.

"Why have you caged yourself?" Rastaban asked.

"I don't understand." The tips of her ears were barely visible beneath that mess of hair. With her shoulders hunched forward and her head bowed, Adele had mastered the art of appearing unimportant. A corrupted bow that bent too much. "I haven't caged myself."

"You carry the alienage with you and it hinders your every movement," he said. "From the way you cower in shadows to the shackle on your finger."

"My shackle?" She glanced down at the wedding band on her finger before she thrust her hand out in front of him. "This was a gift. It's a reminder."

He snorted. "Of your weakness?"

"Yes."

That stopped him. When she stared at him, her lip trembled, but her gaze did not waver. He'd expected rationalizations, denials, excuses. Anything but the truth.

"A man died because of me," Adele said after a long inhale. "He didn't know me, if I was worthy or if he even liked me, but he was still willing to lay down his life for me. I don't know why he thought I was that special, I couldn't even save my cousin before the arl and his men... they hurt her." She brought her other hand to the ring and began to rub the cheap metal. "Now I'm a Grey Warden and am supposed to save the entire country, but I couldn't save my fiance, I couldn't even save my cousin. So yes, it may not be written across my face in blood, but I do carry the alienage with me."

"You know of the vallaslin?" It would seem that Rastaban had been wrong.

"Proud men like you are cut down in the alienage," Adele said. "And their heads are used as examples for the rest of us."

"Keep watching, then, da'len." Rastaban nodded. "And I will provide many examples for you."