The initial shock of the attack had worn off and the inside of the Chantry bustled with a frantic sort of energy. Rastaban quietly pressed his back against a wall and tried to make himself invisible.

The human gods were not his gods. He did not belong there.

Shale and Sten also made for awkward pillars as they too stood along the wall quietly. To see the strongest of their companions stand idly and uncomfortably, it made Rastaban begin to question their choices. He hoped he was right in trusting Donal's judgment and that all they needed were mages and stealth. Aside from Alistair, Donal's team was lacking in terms of brute force. The mage insisted on including Morrigan and he grudgingly accepted Nema's aid. On Rastaban's recommendation, they brought along both Zevran and Adele. Separated from Sten and the dog, it would be Adele's chance to stand on her own or die.

Rastaban hoped he chose wisely. She was out of the realm of his protection and in Mythal's hands, now.

It made for a motley crew left within the Chantry. The dwarf, Oghren, had formed a drinking circle with some of the panicked villagers, while the revered mother looked on with a stern, disapproving glare. Silfee Cousland was creating more unnecessary drama, falling into fits when she realized that Bann Teagan willingly submitted to whatever trap was waiting for him back at the castle.

"He had no right!" she exclaimed. "Why did no one inform me of this foolish plan of his?"

"Because we knew you would react exactly as you are right now," her brother replied.

Silfee raised her hands, but instead of a retort, turned and stormed off with Edgar still on her heels. Rastaban shook his head. He didn't want to admit it, but their petty arguments brought him a nice reprieve. All the villagers needed was assurance and some guidance so that they didn't fall into riots, and the presence of Grey Wardens did more than any actual action on their part. Necessary, but mundane. And it was the long gaps of quiet nothing that Rastaban wished to avoid.

Could the others hear it as he could? The archdemon was too provocative to ignore. Any voice other than that monster's was welcome. Rastaban would soak up their silly squabbles and use it as an armor against the Calling.

"It's not fair," Silfee was saying. "I should be in the castle with the others."

"I know it's difficult to not act when friends have knowingly entered dangerous situations," Wynne replied. "But I think it was wise of them to keep their numbers down."

"Says the woman who was asked to join them, but outright refused!" Silfee snapped.

Wynne's soft, clucking laughter uncurled Rastaban's fist. "Could you imagine my old bones skulking around in the dark?" she asked. "No, my talents are more needed here. The potential for illness in the village is enough for me to stay here and insure that it doesn't happen."

Silfee crossed her arms. "I still don't see why I wasn't asked to go to the castle."

"I'm sure they can hear you all the way from the castle," Edgar chuckled. It earned him a glare.

"I am concerned for them," Wynne admitted. She sat down on one of the rows of benches and folded her hands in her lap. "In this short time I've come to care a great deal about this odd group we've amassed. Dare I say that I even feel motherly toward some."

Edgar plopped down next to her. "Motherly? Toward whom?"

Wynne smiled. "Well, Alistair, for one."

"Not me?"

"Why, yes." She patted his cheek. "I suppose I feel motherly toward you too, Edgar."

"Oh good!" Edgar bent over and dragged his heavy travel sack closer to them. "Because I have a few stinkier items in here that could certainly use a mother's touch."

Wynne lightly pushed his grinning face away. "Yes, when I see how bright eyed and endearing both you and Alistair are, I like to think that's how my son would have been."

Edgar had busied himself by digging through the contents of his pack. "If you had one, you mean?"

"I did have one, Edgar."

"Huh?" That got his attention. The young man dropped a dirty sock back into his pack. "You? But- I mean, how...?"

"Your mother never told you?" Wynne was laughing in earnest, now. "You should listen closely, then, young man, because I fear you will come across this side effect sooner rather than later given your antics with the good women of every little hamlet we come through."

"I just meant-"

"When a man and a woman love each other very, very much-"

"But you're a mage!" Edgar's face was a bright flaming red. His shout lanced across the dull hum and bustle in the Chantry. The silence that followed was telling, as everyone seemed to edge closer and eavesdrop on their conversation.

"Mages are allowed to marry," Wynne said. "Not that it's common practice. Not that I was. But we are all people and we all have urges like everyone else, and have been known to seek out the company of others."

"You had a son?" Edgar asked. "You're not just putting me on?"

"I did," Wynne said. "But that was a long time ago."

He leaned closer to her and whispered loud enough for the rest of the Chantry to hear, "What happened?"

Her shoulders lifted in a meek shrug. "I wasn't allowed to keep him."

"He was your son." The soles of Silfee's boots clicked sternly against the stone tiles of the floor as she marched over to them.

"Yes," Wynne said.

"No one could just take him from you." Silfee pointed her finger like a weapon at the mage.

Wynne nodded with a frown. "I was exhausted," she said. "I had just been through labor and delivery. They came in and took him away from me. I was too weak to stop them. I haven't heard of him since."

"No!" Silfee snapped. "You should have fought them! They had no right to rip that babe away from his mother!"

Edgar reached a hand out to his sister. "Silfee..."

"I would have fought them!" she raged. "They had no right! It wasn't fair."

"It wasn't," Wynne said. "But it was what happened. It was many years ago, but I still think about it from time to time."

"Silfee, let's..." Edgar tapped his fingers against his thigh, before he quickly kissed Wynne on her forehead. "Silfee, can you help me with Chester? I think he's due for a b-a-t-h and I won't be able to do it by myself."

The mabari's ears perked up at his name and then the dog was fleeing toward the exit. Edgar was on his feet, then, and he pulled Silfee behind him as he dashed after his dog.

Not all mothers care for their children. Rastaban's own mother had left him in the capable hands of the Keeper on that day she wandered from the camp, never to be seen again. Odd that the humans took such a strong stance on the possession of children. Rastaban had thought the only thoughts to occupy Silfee Cousland's mind were of powder cakes and which men desired her.

Wynne appeared to be pleased with the silence that blanketed them all as the Couslands left. Rastaban's nose twitched and he ground his teeth. He could hear it, again. He wasn't supposed to understand it. He wasn't supposed to want to obey.

Come.

Unite.

He lurched away from the archdemon's silent plea and walked to Sten. "We do not belong here."

Gather.

Overcome.

"Yes," was all the qunari would say.

The polish smeared across the wood invaded Rastaban's nostrils and blood pounded behind his eyes. "I do not like it," he said.

Sten looked at him with cold, violet eyes. "We are warriors," he said. "Our home, where we belong, is on the battlefield. Everything else is a test of patience."

Patience. Keeper Marethari often stressed patience to Rastaban. He tended to feel that those tests of patience felt more akin to exercises in frustration. How could he be patient when he could sense his time leaving him, like children grasping fistfuls of sand?

Rastaban muttered a quick prayer to Andruil, to grant his companions haste in their mission. It ended in more of a plea than request over his growing weakness. The archdemon's call for blood was compelling, and for now, he could guarantee that it would be darkspawn blood that tarnished his steel.

The Dread Wolf had claimed a new name for itself. Urthemiel. Rastaban prayed to have the strength to see this journey to its end. The trick would be to have the wisdom to tell the difference between actual strength and stubborn belligerence. That thought made him snort. He and Marethari would have much to discuss.