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"Back from your interview the King I see?" Said Alistair as Odin returned to the Warden Hostel that had been their base since they got to Orzammar, "What did he want?"

"The full story of our adventures, namely why we destroyed the Anvil of the Void."

"But the Anvil was evil!" piped in Leliana, who up till that point had been cooing over her new pet nug, inexpiably named Schmooples.

"It was also a mighty weapon," Morrigan noted.

"You're both right," Said Odin playing the diplomat with some credibility. "Bhelen was not pleased but he at least realised that giving it to Branka would've been far worse. Also he was rather pleased at finally being King so he let it pass."

Oghren was passed out in the corner so no one felt the need to be tactful about the ex wife whom he did still care about at some level.

"Now the Dwarves will march to Redcliffe, we will face the Darkspawn and I will find the answer I need to return home," said Sten in his usual stoic manner. His mind was far away.

"Is there anything else we need to do?" Asked Wynne, peering up from her latest delightfully spicy romance novel.

"A few bits and pieces," replied Odin "The most critical however is finding my nephew a present."

Almost immediately the dwarf was bombarded with suggestions ranging from the mundane to the insane.

"A cuddly toy!" said Alistair.

"A cuddly Nug!" said Leliana, cuddling her own Nug with slightly disturbing affection.

"A pet rock," said Shale.

"A Rattle," said Morrigan, "He still a babe and is easy to please."

"A golem doll… sorry Alistair…a Golem figurine," said Zevran, amending his suggestion after receiving a glare for using the word 'doll'.

"How about this knitted scarf I was making?" Said Wynne, "I was planning it for Sten but sure it could easily fit a baby, albeit as a blanket."

"A barrel of ale, fine quality of course," Oghren mumbled in his sleep. No one was sure whether this was part of this conversation or a good dream.

"He should be prepared for arms training, a weapon would be appropriate," decided Sten.

"He's less than a year old!" protested Leliana.

"A leader should always be in training," was the deadpan response.

Odin listened to all this with long suffering patience. Then an idea came to him. He called the Luggage and began trying to find something that he had placed in the homicidal chest several months back. When he found it the group's reaction was incredulous.

The reaction at the Royal Palace was much the same. His sister in particular was torn between amusement and disapproval.

"It's a rattle," said Odin smiling proudly.

Rica's response was deadpan, "It's a mace."

"It's a very sturdy rattle. So much so in fact it tends to rattle other things. It is also an heirloom of House Aeducan."

King Bhelen raised an eyebrow at that.

"It once belonged to Foral Aeducan," explained Odin "It has been passed down through the Grey Wardens until it was given to me by Duncan. It is a fine…rattle that has served me well but in truth I favour swords. I'm sure my dear nephew will love it. It will only be a matter of time before he'll be running amok with it."

The parents of the Prince had near identical grimaces on. Both could picture it all too well.

Little Prince Endrin, in the arms of his mother, gurgled in appreciation.

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Brother Genitivi had faced many perplexing mysteries, some he had solved with careful research, discovering lost artefacts and occasionally dumb luck. Of course for every answered question there were just as many that would go unanswered. It was a frustration of his life and vocation that the scholar had to accept. Unfortunately he feared that the biggest unanswered question of his career was that of his rescuer.

Not that Genitivi was ungrateful for the timely salvation of course. But the sudden appearance of this… veteran warrior defied all explanation and, indeed expectation. The very fact that a man of such advanced years was capable of slaughtering his way through the best that this Dragon Cult could offer with relative ease was astonishing. Genitivi had considered himself relative healthy for his age (apart from the current leg wound) but one look at Cohen forced him to re-evaluate with some envy. He also seemed to know nothing about the Urn of Scared Ashes but was eager to find them anyway. How could any man not have heard of Andraste in this age? Several theories had crossed Genitivi's mind about where such a man came from but none came even close to a convincing explanation.

As for Cohen the Barbarian it was a standard Tuesday. A remote mountain stronghold filled with crazy cultists, an ancient relic and Dragons, what could be better? The last few hours of battling through the maze of temples had been a good but not really a challenge. The dragons here were puny; most of them were smaller than a horse and could barely breathe fire.

As they reached the summit of the mountain however Cohen smiled. There perched on a ledge was a Dragon, a proper Dragon.

"A High Dragon," murmured Genitivi "I had hoped that these people only worshiped an idol rather than a living creature."

"Perfect," said Cohen "Hold theshe and wait here."

He passed the still somewhat mesmerised Genitivi his dentures, drew his sword and advanced towards his favourite kind of Lizard.

Andraste the Dragon had woken up mere minutes before the two humans arrived, she could smell the blood of her followers and her hatchlings and was determined to wreck havoc.

Far above the gods also watched, interested to see how one of their own would face this threat. The Prophet Andraste looked on barely moving, not even blinking.

The Dragon swept down to face her opponent, intending to seize the impudent warrior but he rolled to the side. The old man was quicker than she expected. Then she smelt fresh blood, there was a small nick on her right leg. The roar of fury that followed could be heard for miles.

Brother Genitivi watched the hour long battle in awe. Hack and slash, back and forth, steel and flame. Both participants fought well. Andraste the dragon naturally had size, strength, bulk and flight while Cohen had an uncanny nimbleness and no blind spots. It was these advantages that would prove decisive and the Barbarian did not fail to exploit them. Cut by cut, minor injury by minor injury he wore his enemy down. The Dragon fought back and came close to crushing or incinerating the warrior but was always denied that final blow at the last moment.

Eventually Andraste, battered and bleeding let out a pitiful moan. She had lost and she knew it. It looked at the damn human that had achieved the impossible. The grizzled old warrior made eye contact.

"Shorry, but we all know how thish endsh."

The sword rose and entered the Dragon's skull, at first there was only darkness.

Then the despondent Dragon found herself back the presence of her fellows. Some looked sympathetic; one Dwarf Paragon offered a strong drink.

The Prophet looked smug.

The Dragon roared at her. Not every deity could speak Dragon but to those who could the message was clear.

"NOT ONE BLOODY WORD."

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Odin looked back as the great doors of Orzammar closed behind him. Gift giving aside his farewells to his family were serious. Even his mother made a brief stumbling appearance. His baby nephew smiled at him. Bhelen had played the benevolent Monarch to perfection and his big sister had pestered him (in the nicest possible way) about being careful and looking after himself in the strange surface world. The Grey Warden was glad that this time he could bid his family a proper farewell. It could be the last time he saw them.

This thought was interrupted by Oghren violently emptying his stomach behind the nearest boulder.

"Give me a moment," groaned Oghren, wiped the vomit out of his beard.

Odin was momentarily confused before the obvious answer came to him Oghren had never been on the surface. Odin had gotten used to the sky so long ago…perhaps the stories about losing your Stone sense weren't so wrong after all.

"Take your time, you do get used to it after a while." Odin reassured, had he been this disorientated the first time?

"By the Stone, I feel like I'm about to fall off the world with all that sky up there."

Suddenly the Luggage became agitated. If it had been a Mabari it would look like it had caught a scent. However being a wooden chest meant that was just absurd, even if it was entirely accurate. Without any further warning it scurried down the road as fast as its' stumpy little legs could carry it.

"Well," said Alistair "It's not done that before!"

"Perhaps the creature finally grew sick of cleaning your socks." Morrigan said in her reserved-for-Alistair-baiting tone.

"Well I'll be damned if we've losing our Luggage now." exclaimed Odin "After it!"

The ramshackle group, still squinting in the sunlight after weeks underground, began its' pursuit of their erstwhile companion at varying speeds. Fortunately the path was easy to follow the irate merchants, who were only just beginning to get back into Orzammar, only to have their wares swept aside or tramped by a mad piece of magical furniture. The group pressed on trying their best to placate the enraged merchants.

It took them the best part of an hour to catch up after dealings with the complaints. The trail led to a small pub on the road. As they entered the group found pandemonium; the patrons had all left in a hurry as tables, chairs and previous full tankards lay broken and scattered. It was Zevran who found that the establishment wasn't quite deserted. The white-faced landlord was cowering behind an upturned table hugging a crossbow. He didn't say anything but motioned towards the kitchen.

Inside amidst the chaos they found the Luggage. It was happily licking a rather scruffy looking human. Alistair and Odin exchanged looks; who was this man? And why wasn't he dead yet? Once the man noticed the arrivals he made an effort to stand up, in spite of the thoroughly excitable chest and brush himself off. Finally his retrieved a pointed red hat with the word WIZZARD written in sequins. He looked at the baffled group before him.

"The Grey Wardens I presume?"

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