With the curve of the Drakon River in the distance, and the evening hiding the more unsightly aspects, the village which the seven Grey Wardens were headed towards might have once been described as picturesque. Drawing nearer, however, it became clear that such a time had long since passed beyond the reaches of living memory. The constant flow of travellers to and from Denerim provided excellent trade opportunities and the little hamlet had swelled in accordance with all the services, savoury and unsavoury alike, with which a weary traveller might wish to avail himself.
Unfortunately for the group of Wardens, all looked abandoned. Evidence of battle marred the buildings, the windows broken and walls blackened, while rubble and debris were scattered about the road.
On either side of the West Road, there were well-worn tracks in the dirt, still muddy from the rain the day before, stretching haphazardly outwards to a handful of farming homesteads. Their lands had at one time been neatly enclosed with a mixture of wooden fencing and stone walls but which were now all but destroyed.
Casting his eye about, Gethin huffed. "Looks like it'll be a cold night on the ground."
"I don't understand," Elissa breathed, wide eyed and scanning her head back and forth as she struggled to take stock of the sight which greeted her. This was one of the villages that Bodahn had recommended when he needed to restock or had to source some rare item at her request. It had always been bustling and with the regular influx of news from the south as well as the propaganda from Denerim, it had proven to be a useful location in which to glean snatches of gossip and the like.
"The Horde," Torih remarked gruffly. "Fleeing from Denerim."
"There seems too few bodies," Ithyal spoke up, his voice wavering. He threw a surreptitious glance towards Elissa and she hastily bit down on her lip, his attempt to offer some solace against her distress threatening to overwhelm her.
With a grunt, Damon rebuked the new recruit. "No great mystery. Would you linger if it was reported that the darkspawn army were headed this way?"
"They would have known what happened in Lothering," Elissa added softly, waves of inadequacy washing over her. It was so easy to forget those who continued to suffer simply because she was safe and well. "They would have known that they couldn't defend themselves if they stayed."
"So maybe they have survived," Ithyal offered. "They'll come back."
"Come," Argarth interrupted, gesturing towards the far end of the row of buildings. There was a sign hanging over one of the doorways, fastened only by a single rusty bolt, depicting a crude outline of a bed. "An inn. It may serve our purpose for tonight, at least."
The Guerrin estate was in the grip of what could only be described as organised chaos. Guards dressed in an array of different heraldries milled about the courtyard, greeting one another with strained acknowledgements, while messengers dodged around the little groups, rushing to and fro as they delivered orders from estate to estate. Inside, harried maids and overburden menservants darted through the hallways, fulfilling the strict instructions which the Arlessa had relayed.
Somewhat at a loss in the midst of it all, Alistair drifted through the corridors, scarcely mindful of the servants as they bustled past.
He had thought that Eamon might try to impede his move into the Palace. Certainly, when Alistair had informed the Arl of his intent the previous afternoon, Eamon had listened, tight-lipped and with a deepening frown. The relationship between the two men remained fraught now it was borne from necessity rather than a reciprocal loyalty. Nevertheless, Alistair acknowledged that he needed to surround himself with people familiar in the ways of politics and in spite of the betrayal Eamon had inflicted on the new King, the Arl—and Teagan, though he was still in Redcliffe—were the only people with whom Alistair could freely admit to his ineptitude for ruling.
Regardless of the strained relationship between himself and Eamon however, this current commotion was evidence of the Arl's commitment to the Crown. Aside from a cursory objection, and despite his pinched expression, the man had accepted the decree and assured Alistair that he would personally oversee to the proclamation that the nobility provide a small contingent from each of their estates to help staff the Palace. Scarcely a day later and Alistair now only awaited confirmation that the preparations for his arrival at the Palace were complete. He had spent his last night under the roof of the Guerrin estate.
Yet there was little doubt that Eamon's eagerness correlated with the continued favour with which the nobles, still gathered in Denerim following the Landsmeet, had received Alistair. During the incessant meetings with the nobility, there had been favourable responses towards him and with time, he trusted that he would be able to become more open with certain people. Freeing Osywn from the torture chamber in Howe's estate had gained the support of Bann Sighard, which in turn had persuaded Bann Reginalda to throw her support behind his claim, and both continued to look auspiciously on him. Bann Alfstanna also remained a staunch supporter of his Theirin blood, and there were others who had offered words of support and encouragement whenever he had faltered in conversation with them. He hoped to forge new alliances as best he was able, nonetheless he was not dumb to the fact that their support was for the legacy of Maric and not him personally.
Alistair rubbed at the back of his neck, sighing as he did so. Maker help him, what a state of affairs when simple kindness practically guaranteed the favour of the King.
His self-rebuke must have shown on his face because one of the maids immediately halted a few paces from him and enquired after his health. Lifting his eyes from the floor, he flashed a crooked grin and assured that her that he was fine. Colouring a faint pink, the maid bobbed her acknowledgement and continued on her way.
Reminded that just about anyone noted his every expression, Alistair lingered at one of the windows in the hallway, keeping his face turned away from the servants as he looked across the courtyard and towards the marketplace.
His head swam with the number of thoughts clamouring for attention. How was it he could keep his cool in battle, continually anticipate the greatest threat to life and limb while adhering to a predetermined strategy, and yet he could not recall the intricate political alliances between noble houses while maintaining a coherent thought process?
Resting his palms against the slope of the windowsill, Alistair dug his fingers against the rough stone. The feel of it helped him to ground his thinking and push back against the flare of panic which threatened to obliterate each and every thought.
Banns. Yes, that was it—he had been focusing on the Banns and their support. Their combined support was important but it was the arlings and teyrnirs which would prove to be the determining factor in the success of his rule. A fact made all the more complicated by the reality that Amaranthine and Denerim had both lost their Arls.
His gaze grew unseeing as he turned his focus inward and sifted through the excess of information which Eamon had inflicted on him over the days since the defeat of the Archdemon. If he recalled correctly, the only surviving Arls were Wulff, who controlled West Hills; Bryland, who controlled South Reach and had some banns pledged to him; and of course Eamon with Redcliffe.
As for the teyrnirs, both Highever and Gwaren were currently without a Teyrn and no successor was immediately to hand. Once again, Alistair found himself wishing that Fergus Cousland might be found so that his family lands could be restored to him. It would be one less decision to contend with while demonstrating that Alistair was keen to adhere to generational legacies rather than simply imposing his will as and where he pleased. As for Gwaren—well, guidance from Teyrn Cousland over that matter most certainly would not go amiss.
Alistair leant his forehead against the cool glass of the window, his breath misting against the pane, and scrunched his eyes shut. Maker, if he were to wish for things, he may as well wish for it all: Elissa to return to his side, the Orlesian Grey Wardens to leave them both in peace and the issue of the heir resolved. That would about cover it, he reckoned. Everything else would seem straightforward in comparison.
A polite clearing of the throat behind him interrupted his wallowing. He twisted round to find Isolde, her hands clasped neatly in front of her even as she cast an eye over his appearance. He had the disconcerting feeling that even now she was assessing whether he met with her approval.
"My Lady," he greeted her in as bland a tone as he could muster, resisting the urge to pull at his shirt in an attempt to hide any creases or glance down at his boots with the sudden dread that he had tread mud through the estate.
She bowed her head. "I am to inform you that your guard are ready for you, whenever you should wish to depart."
"Oh. Thank you." He cleared his throat and made to edge around the woman.
"If I may have a moment?" Isolde blurted out. Her hand rose as though to catch a hold of him, but she remembered herself mid-movement. Dropping her hand back to her side, she beseeched him with a plaintive gaze.
He halted, cursing his bleeding heart, and offered her a nod that she may continue with whatever she wished to say.
Rather than speak openly, the Arlessa looked about her and beckoned that he should join her in one of the nearby rooms. With a heavy heart, he followed after her and shut the door to prevent any of the servants from overhearing what had all the markings of being an entirely unpleasant conversation.
"Please, do not judge my husband harshly," Isolde insisted without preamble. "He did what he thought was best."
Alistair sought refuge in a cold silence. Nothing further had been said about the Arl's deceit since the brief stand-off between the two men directly after Alistair had spoken with Elissa in front of the Warden-Commanders. Whatever else he might want to say in future, however, would be kept between himself and Eamon, and certainly not conveyed through the Arlessa.
Interpreting his silence as outright refusal, her expression hardened even while her tone remained appeasing. "We have both lost that which we hold most dear."
His eyes dropped to the floor as he wrestled with his conscience. That decision made all those months ago in Redcliffe still had the power to rankle him. It was the one decision Elissa had made which had truly threatened to drive them apart, more so than anything else which had happened. A great number of bitter hateful words had passed between them before Alistair had at last convinced himself that her decision had not been driven by malicious intent and that she had truly believed killing Connor was the only way to counter the threat from the demon. Perhaps the lyrium ritual might have worked, and the demon might have been bargained with, but there had been no way to know for certain. The only certainty at that point, as they stood in the hall of Redcliffe Castle surrounded by undead corpses, was the devastating damage the demon could wreak through its connection with Connor. Break the connection, break the control; that had been the thinking which had formed Elissa's decision.
As the silence stretched on, his skin prickled and he felt the scalding heat of Isolde's gaze piercing through him. He wondered if the unspoken accusations he perceived were truly intended or simply a product of his own lingering sense of guilt.
"I am truly sorry for the..." Alistair steeled himself, sensing that any euphemism would provoke an adverse reaction, "...death of your son, Lady Isolde. But to use Connor as an excuse for the recent behaviour of the Arl does the memory of your son a great disservice. I cannot believe his absence is any easier to bear simply because Elissa and I are separated."
The words had none of his usual genial inflection but he felt compelled to respond in as formal a manner as possible. He did not know how else to relate to this woman, the bane of his childhood, and yet with the presumed difficulties of his producing an heir with the woman he loved so recently held aloft, he unearthed a new dimension to the compassion he held for Isolde. He could not find it in himself to like her, but he felt he was now in a better position to fully appreciate the extent to which her grief might reach. If stilted and formal exchanges provided some form of comfort for her, he would do so.
"I would not dare contradict the belief of my King," she replied, eyes flashing and seemingly unaffected by his attempt to placate her. "However, I did not only refer to Eamon and I. We," she pressed her hand flat against her chest before gesturing towards him with an open palm, "have lost that which we hold most dear. It does not matter that some may argue that your loss cannot hope to measure against mine. We both know the sacrifice we would make to have them return to our side where they belong."
Alistair fought to keep his expression guarded. This was a treacherous subject.
"I ask only that you do not punish my husband for an act that you know you would not have hesitated to surpass, had you thought that it might offer some relief from your loss."
"So I'm to be grateful that he only traded my betrothed and did not arrange to have her murdered?"
He realised the mistake the moment after his tongue had formed the words. Unwittingly, he had conceded the admission she most wanted from him; that Connor had been murdered.
Isolde squeezed her eyes shut. "It is a hard truth to bear. I would not wish the knowledge of that betrayal on anyone."
"My Lady Isolde," he began, voice low. He only wanted to have the entire city of Denerim between himself and this woman, nothing else would suffice. "Only a matter of days ago, you begged me to persuade Eamon to agree that Teagan should be granted the Arling of Redcliffe. Now you wish that I do not do so?"
"These matters are for you alone to decide," she replied, dodging the question. "I only beg that you do not inflict further anguish on our family."
He hoped his lip was not curling. "I fail to see how retaining your social position eases your grief, Arlessa. If I had been able, I would have readily given up mine." Before she could retort, Alistair bitterly added, "regardless, Eamon will remain Arl of Redcliffe."
A shadow flew across her face, but she was quick to master it. For a moment, Alistair wondered why she seemed displeased until the thought occurred to him that perhaps Isolde had hoped that, as royal advisor, her husband might have been elevated to the position of Teyrn. The news that Fergus Cousland had survived Ostagar was not widespread—or so Zevran had reported after he had consulted with his various contacts within the city. Alistair doubted the Guerrins would wish to be removed as far as Gwaren, but Highever could have seemed a much more agreeable proposition. So much for her concern about Eamon's well-being.
"It is of some comfort to me to hear you promise that we will retain our position in Redcliffe," Isolde bowed her head, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she had given herself away, before letting out a long exhale. "I thank you for such a base consideration and I trust to your integrity that you would not tell me only what you think I might wish to hear."
He quashed the urge to remark that he had worked out precisely what she wanted to hear, and that he had no intention of indulging it. Instead, Alistair stepped back, his fingers searching out the handle of the door even as he continued to keep his attention directed on the Arlessa. "If that is all, may I leave now?"
Her lip twitched but she controlled the movement before it could develop into the smirk he had all too often seen on her face. Now, as then, it was evidence that his ignorance of airs and graces amused her. He could believe that it had also offered some reassurance when her suspicions regarding his parentage had been at their height. After all, even if he was Guerrin flesh and blood, what use would her husband have for so uncouth a child?
Indulging the child within, Alistair did what he had always wished he could have done during his time at Redcliffe. Without waiting for her dismissal, he turned on heel and walked out.
The inn in the abandoned village had suffered its share of damage and looting yet the upper rooms remained in a somewhat habitable state. Between them, the Wardens had gathered the majority of broken and splintered wood which lay throughout the building and a fire now burned brightly in the hearth of the largest bedroom.
Only Torih, Korgik and Damon remained in the room. Once the fire had been built, Argarth had taken Ithyal to fetch fresh water from the river while Cousland had requested permission to patrol through what remained of the village. Her mawkishness had led her to claim the privilege, wishing to rid the village of any lingering darkspawn in an effort to ease the guilt in her soul or some such nonsense.
It had suited his purpose to be rid of her, and so Torih had agreed the request with the stipulation that Gethin accompany her. As much as the elf wished to wring the truth from Cousland with regards her survival and the increasing number of inconsistencies in her explanation, he was beginning to understand—having reflected on the words of warning from Argarth earlier—that Cousland would not buckle under simple intimidation or interrogation. If anything, it would only strengthen her resolve. No, he would need to familiarise himself with the events as she had described them and pick out the mismatched details. Having done that, he would instruct Cousland to once more spin her tale and then he would catch her out when drilling down into specifics.
Having set Damon to the task of preparing their scant meal, the elven Commander righted one of the chairs which had been thrown aside and set it at the table opposite Korgik. The dwarf raised his eyes from the scrap of vellum he held between finger and thumb and grunted a greeting.
"Why must you insist on torturing yourself?" the elf asked with a trace of irritation, recognising the dirtied vellum.
He knew a little of the former Shaper's past, details which had been teased out over years. One such detail was that his disgrace within Orzammar which had led to his joining the Grey Wardens involved some revelation regarding the ancestors of a prestigious House. The vellum was the only remaining evidence of a fact which Korgik had otherwise destroyed all trace of from the Memories. As far as the dwarven empire was concerned, whatever truth was contained on the paper had never existed.
"I may be of the stone, but my heart is not," Korgik responded tartly.
"Those times have passed. Let them rest."
Korgik rolled his eyes but folded the vellum along its creased lines and returned it to his pocket. "We did not all come to the Order with a spring in our step and a song in our hearts as you did."
"Hardly a song," the elf groused, but held out his cup to share. In the cellars, they had discovered an assortment of food barrels which had spoiled as a result of the damage from earlier looting. Tucked in the dank corner, however, there had been a half barrel of mead. Cheap, it threatened to strip the skin from the tongue yet the warmth which spread through the body as it made its way down the throat was worth losing some taste buds over.
Korgik greeted the objection with a dry chuckle and accepted the peace offering. He threw the liquor back without hesitation, and for a moment Torih simply studied his long-standing comrade as he marvelled at the dwarven constitution.
Casting his eye about the room and confirming that they were out of earshot of Damon, Korgik chose to forego his usual observance of rank. "What assistance can I offer tonight, Torih?"
The elf hunched closer over the table so that they might speak in lowered tones. His request was simple: that the dwarf recount the explanation Cousland have provided while in Denerim. The original documents were stored securely in the cache in Denerim, but Torih was well-acquainted with Korgik's memory and placed his faith in the dwarf's recollection of her testimony.
Between them, they succeeded in reconstructing the account. Having succumbed to some tainted poison from an arrow head embedded in her shoulder, Cousland had been healed by her pet Circle healer. The mage had a permanent connection with a Spirit of Healing and it was this unique bond which Cousland claimed had provided the spiritual power required to heal an otherwise fatal injury. She had then made her way through the city, narrowly avoiding death when she was tricked by an ambush within the Fort, and had eventually reached the rooftop of Fort Drakon. With Theirin's assistance, she then delivered the killing blow to the creature and had been knocked unconscious. Her rationale for her survival was that the extensive healing from the mage had somehow maintained a connection between herself and the Fade which had saved her from what should have been a certain death.
With her account summarised so succinctly, Torih came to the personal conclusion that this lingering connection to the Fade acting as a conduit for the demon's soul was impossible—that was an ability reserved only for mages. No matter what base talent she had for disorientation, Cousland was no mage. Furthermore, the demon passing into the Fade would surely have resulted in immediate ramifications which would have been experienced by any of the mages upon the rooftop. Despite the strength of his own convictions however, Torih knew he could not prove his suspicions, so he was forced to remain with the more earthly matters in her tale.
"What can we understand by this, Korgik? That she anticipated she would die?"
"She does not argue that her survival was unexpected," the dwarf observed.
Torih hummed, considering the point. In the eyewitness reports he had gathered while Argath had debriefed Theirin corroborated that the newly accepted King had reacted as though he believed Cousland had died. He must have believed that the blow meant certain death.
In the discussion with Ithyal earlier, Cousland had affirmed that she too had acted in the assumption that the killing blow meant death. True, she had couched the truth in simpler terms—her presence of mind in obscuring the truth from the more junior Wardens had not gone unnoticed—but even her explanation of fearing what unknown risk lay in taking the blow demonstrated her understanding that there had been substantial risk.
Why, then, had Cousland left if she understood the true cost of victory? Torih refused to accommodate the idea that she had simply abandoned Theirin to his death. After all, what act could Theirin have committed on the eve of his betrothal which would result in such a desire?
No, Cousland had left because she did not believe that Theirin would die if he took the blow. Was it possible that Riordan had somehow inferred that the sex of the Warden who delivered the final blow was somehow a factor to survival? That the necessary sacrifice was somehow reserved only for women rather than men?
His derision reached new heights and with a snort, Torih dismissed the notion. No, the heroes of the previous four Blights were well-noted in lore, and they had not all been men.
Perhaps it was not so important the reason why she left but rather the fact that, when she returned, she had felt compelled to reverse her prior decision and insisted on taking the blow. More than that, she did so in the belief that it was necessary to protect him. What had changed for her to believe that Theirin was in fact at risk?
Hunching over the table, the elf cradled his head in his hands. It was a pertinent question, but only in relation to understanding the prior events. Something had changed but first he must understand her initial disregard for the truth which Riordan had disclosed. Both he and the human Senior Warden had been briefed together by Argarth—while Korgik knew the truth from his research in the Shaperate—and there had been no suggestion that death was anything but an inevitable consequence. Torih trusted that Riordan would not have fostered false hope in the Fereldan recruits.
Back to his initial question, then: why had Cousland left? She claimed that she had not wanted to die but that did not explain why she had forsaken everything. To shirk the final blow, that might have fitted with her account but to leave, to desert her cause with no second glance, and to do so without the knowledge of either her companions or lover...
Torih jerked his head from his hands, sitting bolt upright. The wooden joints of the chair creaked in protest of the abrupt movement but he ignored it as he fixed an unblinking gaze on his dwarven companion. "We are certain that Cousland and Theirin were lovers?"
"He was in a considerable state of disarray when we attended on her that morning in the Arl's estate," Korgik remarked, keeping his voice low even as Damon glanced over at the unexpected sound of the Commander's exhilaration. "We had to wait a few minutes because he claimed that she was not dressed."
"Hardly a chaste arrangement, but not definitive."
The dwarf barked out a laugh. "You refute her survival even though she lives and breathes but you consider the possibility that they remained chaste?"
"Fine." Seeing his long-term companion so amused brought a rueful grin to Torih's face. "Let us consider it as sufficient evidence of a physical relationship. If they were not opposed to lying together, it would be exceptional that they spent the night of their betrothal apart, yes?"
Korgik raised his shoulders in an indifferent shrug. "Can't speak from experience, but I'd reckon so."
"Yet Cousland succeeds in making her escape without her absence being noticed until the following morning? Theirin was evidently not with her. So where was he?"
"The Arl was angry to find Theirin in her room that morning. Could be he had greater control over arrangements before the disorder which seems to have followed the battle."
The elf rubbed a hand over his chin. "No. The Landsmeet was the height of their triumph. Theirin essentially crowned and Cousland placed to become his Queen. It is unrealistic that their desires would have been opposed so long as it was kept discreet."
His companion offered a grunt by way of casual agreement.
"If he was not occupied with Grey Warden matters—and he would not have attended those without Cousland—and the nobility had been dismissed to attend to battle preparations, where did Theirin spend the night of their betrothal?"
"Perhaps it was she who wished to be apart."
"Maybe, though I doubt he would have agreed to leave her without good reason," Torih mused. "Besides, why would she send him away from her?" He began to shake his head, eyes narrowing while he focused his mind on piecing together his fragmented knowledge of the events presented to him. "As I said to Argarth, she must have spoken with Riordan immediately after the Landsmeet. That is when they would have discovered the cost of defeating the demon. They would have sought comfort from one another, I imagine. Riordan would have permitted as much."
A scowl darkened Torih's face. Why the man had endorsed this farce was beyond him. He could only attribute it to the fact that the Senior Warden had been close to his Calling. He would not be the first to reflect on the failed elements of his past and try to ensure that ones who remained behind might enjoy what he had lost. A fool's act of misjudged sentimentality. If only the man had intervened, reiterated the oath which both Theirin and Cousland had taken, and asserted that the only option was to permit Cailan's widow to rule then much of this could have been avoided.
Korgik cleared his throat with a hacking cough. "She had to have sent him away. She asserted that she would rule as Queen so her decision to leave can only have come after their assembly. The only significant event would be when Riordan spoke with them."
"So perhaps it was Theirin who sent her away." Torih began to drum his fingers against the table, pursing his lips. "It is true that the fool was besotted. It is not inconceivable that he would make some grand gesture as evidence of his adoration of her." Unbidden, his mouth twisted into a sneer and he gave a vehement shake of his head. "No. No, if he did have knowledge of her departure, why send the Orlesian and Arainai after her the next day? No, he cannot have known that she intended to flee."
"So it does follow that on the night of their betrothal, Cousland chose to send Theirin from her because she had already decided to run away."
"No!" Torih bunched his hand into a fist but resisted slammed it down against the table, not wishing to pique Damon's curiosity so that the man would feel compelled to enquire if all was well. "It does not make sense!"
Korgik leant back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest and studying the elf from behind a closed expression. "It is the only obvious justification."
"It is only obvious because we can find no other explanation," the Commander scowled, temper rising. "I maintain that Cousland fled because she did not believe that death was a certainty. She hoped for success, even if she did not fully anticipate it."
"You cannot prove that."
"I know it," the elf spat, striking at his chest with his fist.
Korgik remained motionless for a few moments before he heaved a large sigh, unfolding his arms so that he could rub at his eyes with the heel of his palms. "What you think you know counts for nugshit, Torih. But," he seemed to sense the elf glowering at him, "if your instinct proves to be correct, it suggests that something occurred between the discussion with Riordan and the point at which Cousland decided to flee."
"Something which involved Cousland and Theirin spending the night apart from one another."
"So it would seem."
His temper somewhat placated by Korgik's diplomacy, the elf contented himself with an aggravated groan. "It brings us no closer to understanding why. Why did they spend the night apart, why did she decide to leave and why, once healed, did she suddenly decide that she must take the killing blow?"
With a roll of his shoulders, Korgik indicated that he ridded himself of all responsibility for Cousland and her actions. His part in this conversation was at an end.
Torih rumbled his disapproval at the movement. All the same, he chose not to press the issue. The burdens of maintaining authority and discipline were ones that Korgik had always been determined not to involve himself with.
Pushing the chair back as he rose, Torih picked the empty cup up from where Korgik had discarded it on the table. "My thanks for your assistance, falon."
Before Korgik could acknowledge the remark, a frantic shout from some way down the road snared their attention. Both sprang to their feet as Damon bounded to the window and angled his head and shoulder through the empty frame, pausing for a moment as he surveyed the road outside. Swearing beneath his breath, he hauled himself back into the room and headed for the door even as he reported what he had seen.
"Ithyal. He's on his own."
Torih echoed the curse, loudly and with greater spite, before hurrying after Damon. Korgik remained to guard the room but as the Damon and Torih spilled out into the street, the elf caught sight of the dwarf craning his neck out the window in an effort to see for himself what was happening.
"What is it?" Torih demanded with a snarl as the inexperienced lone Warden ran up to them. "Where's the Commander?"
"He's... fine," the young recruit gasped, doubling over and resting his hands against his knees as he struggled to draw breath. "It's... something... else."
"What?"
"A darkspawn corpse... washed up on the river bank..."
Torih puffed out his cheeks, irritation swiftly replacing the relief that came with the confirmation that Argarth was unharmed. "And this warrants such ridiculous panic?"
"It's..." Ithyal straightened to his full height, chest heaving as he heaved in a gulp of air. "It's wearing clothes."
Thanks as ever to EasternViolet for her beta talents.