9:32 Dragon, Spring

AN: This is the first of several of Beenie's chapters, about his journey through the world after he feels forced to leave Starkhaven. As Sammie's learns about his journey, we will, too. I hope the wait was worth it. Also- thank you all for the reviews; any and all feedback is wonderful.

Also, if the italics are too difficult to read, let me know.

Everything is damp. Including me. The air is thick with humidity and there is this constant buzzing around me as bugs come near and then veer away. My head feels like it's throbbing with a thousand hangovers compressed into one. It's hard to see. My hair is in my eyes – it seems longer than it used to be.

Where the hell am I?

I push myself up with my arms but the ground shakes once, like a tremor within the earth, and it knocks me back down. I have no idea what that was and my head is pounding, but I push myself up again, making it up to my feet this time only to get knocked into some blurry tree by another tremor. But this one is followed by the loudest, most deafening sound I have ever heard in my life and after I fall to my knees, I slap my palms to my ears instinctively. When the sounds dies away, I turn around to see where it was coming from and the most terrifying sight of my life greets me.

It's a dragon. A real dragon.

There, through the trees and the vines and the overgrowing plant life and the mist that hovers in the air around everything. Scaled from toetip to tailtip in blood red. I can see the muscles rippling in its hind legs as it turns, swinging its tail that is at least two times my height, rotating its round body which is larger than my room, curling its long neck that extends farther than the drawings always suggested, angling down its horns that jut out from its brow like two broadswords, opening its jaw that looks like it could snap my armor like twigs, and bearing its teeth... oh Andraste's favor be upon me, those teeth are longer than my legs.

I need to have a talk with my Pentaghast cousins.

I can't swallow. I can't breathe. I have no time to process this aside from quips that fly through my head, because the dragon roars again like a dozen blaring horns and my palms slap to my ears once more as my eyes take in this monstrous creature. It's amazing to see one, yes, but it'll be more amazing if I can survive it. I have no idea if it sees me, or if I am visible, but I am not moving for anything. In a still forest, a running deer always gets the arrow.

It shifts, grunts, and moves one of its massive feet, which I can now see has smashed something into the mud of this swampy place. It leans down and flays the thing open with its jagged teeth and blackened gore spews out. Poor creature. I can barely see it, but the dragon lifts its foot and it's—Well, aren't I one lucky son of a bitch?

It's that infernal desire demon.

The swamp may as well be a painting, and I am in it, staring at the entrails of this creature that I have fought against so hard, regaining moments of consciousness, minor battles only to lose the war. My hands turn to fists against my head as the pain and bitterness threatens to overtake me and I nearly yell out in my anger, in shock and relief and elation, and I am sure I am crying at the shock of being alive and free, but the beast grunts again and I am jolted back to the marsh.

I look up at the dragon. That was my kill, friend. I guess I owe you one.

But I'm not out of danger yet, and I can't sit here forever while the dragon figures out the demon isn't food. I am praying that it moves away, but it sits there. It lies down! Maker… some scholars would probably kill to be in my position, to watch a sleeping dragon, to study and observe. But, you know, I think I'll pass on this one.

My eyes dart around me, scanning the area and trying to figure out how I am going to survive this. I am sitting in a puddle of mud surrounded by green and brown and black and I know that, in a few hours, I am going to be in trouble because I'm miraculously wearing my armor. This is both good and bad.

My armor will protect me in a fight, but it's also golden and shiny. It's humid as hell here, and this humidity is going to soak me – it has soaked me. It doesn't matter right now, but all of this mud on my armor is going to start sliding back into the puddle in which I sit, leaving me as shiny as a brand new sovereign. I can't sit here that long waiting to be discovered and, if not this dragon, there are probably plenty of other creatures in this place that will likely see me as a tasty meal.

At first, I wonder if I can get my armor off, but I quickly dismiss the idea. I need it. I can camouflage myself again and again if I have to. I look behind me, to the left and right, but the shrubs and vines and trees are so thick that I can't tell if there is anything to escape into. I look up through the canopy, the light that filters down makes a kaleidoscope of leaves and swooping vines and tree branches as thick as my waist, and what sky I can see is a threatening grey. Great, just what I need: rain.

When I was living with the Pentaghasts for a year, we went hunting all the time. Sometimes we stayed out for weeks, and I learned a lot about how to survive in the world. I can use some of that here. I will wait here as long as necessary. Maybe I'll get lucky and the beast will not wake when I move. Or maybe it will leave before I need to.

But several hours go by, and I'm just listening to the creature sleep; massive breaths taken in and huffed out, vibrating everything around it. After a while, the noise becomes rhythmic and almost soothing. It makes me feel sleepy. But maybe that's the stress of sitting here, or my aches which are starting to come to life, or the hunger that I am now painfully aware of by the resounding rumble in my stomach threatening to give away my position. The mud has started dripping from my armor as well, and I have no choice now. I have to move. I have to go. I have to get away from that thing. I have no idea how far away I'll need to get, but out of its direct line of sight would be a good start.

Maybe I can just slip away if I'm real quiet, and move real slowly… I lift my ass into the air, effectively bringing me to my hands and knees. I never take my eyes from the beast as I maneuver my legs underneath me into a crouched position and the beast snores loudly, breaths taken in and out.

Very carefully, I straighten up, using the neighboring tree to help me to my feet and just when I think I am good, a shriek from somewhere above me makes me jump and my neck snaps back and I see it as it swings from this tree to the next. A monkey. Given away by a monkey. My gaze shoots back to the dragon, which is no longer sleeping but instead blinking its eyes and it tilts its head sideways, rolling one of those eyes in my direction.

Shit.

It sees me and I don't hesitate as I dive into the muddy ferns, scrambling like some field mouse caught in a farmer's kitchen. But my predator is no plump woman with a rolling pin, it's a twenty-ton scaled lizard that breathes fire. It can take me out with a simple swipe of its very large claws.

I feel the muck shake underneath me, earthly seizures that throw me around like a twig on a rushing river, but I can't stop moving and I look over my shoulder in time to see the dragon's mouth directly behind me and for a second I think, This Is It. But the beast just roars at me and it sounds like some warped combination of a lion and an elephant. I do the best I can as I fall to the ground at the shockwave, I tuck and roll, but the dragon is right behind me, clawing at the dirt and I roll to my side, changing direction even though I have no idea what's in front of me. The area is so thick that I have no idea if there's a wall or rock on the other side of every brush I burst through.

The ground rumbles again and I stumble but keep lurching on, and then I feel a searing heat behind me and I briefly look over my shoulder to see a tree swallowed up by a belch of flame and this motivates me like nothing else. I cross my arms in front of me as I launch myself forward, crashing through panes of leaves, the vines and the twigs lash into the skin on my hands and face and—

—I am weightless. There is nothing beneath my feet and the air is whooshing from below and the instant it takes me to realize that I'm falling, I hit a million shards of glass that stings my tender flesh and—

Silence. My own heartbeat. The inside of a seashell. My ears pop from the pressure. I am submerged in water and my arms start to move sporadically as I feebly propel myself, and it's laborious as I am weighted down by my armor, but I make it to the surface and when I do, it is a blessing to breathe. The air on my face stings like mad where the brush of the swamp has given me dozens of tiny cuts.

I am reminded of those times that I went hunting in plains with my Pentaghast cousins. We came upon a small pond and my cousins all stripped down to nothing and jumped in and I stood there like an idiot because, well, I didn't know how to swim. What can I say? I'm a royal in Starkhaven. There are some things that normal people do that I never got around to doing, and playing in the Minanter is for the "dirty" and the "poor" as my mother always says. Well, on that day, my cousins didn't laugh at me, mostly because laughing expends valuable energy and they are stingy with theirs. Still, they taught me how, and I am grateful for their exception.

I move my arms and legs just how they showed me and I make it to a muddy bank but as I am pulling myself up, my hands land on something soft and cylindrical and I nearly jump out of my skin when it rears its head and hisses at me. Andraste help me! Is there no end to the number of animals that I am now prey to?

At that moment, that dragon's deafening roar from somewhere near spooks the snake and it jolts away. I crane my neck, looking to the top of where I just fell from and I see the dragon's tail briefly as it swings around. I wonder if it's going to jump down here and eat me, but I don't see it. Eventually, I hear another scream from the thing – it's getting farther away – and I sigh with the greatest relief of my life. I am not dead.

My body wants to rest. My mind wants to rest. I close my eyes briefly, and it feels like only a second passes before I am rudely awakened by a thunderclap. Rain! It pelts my nose and my eyes and I sit up. I must have slept. I feel a little better, I guess.

My gaze lands on my hands, reddened and mangled by the brush of the swamp, and I realize that one of the plating pieces of my armor, the plate that goes over my right wrist, is missing. It must have gotten ripped off while I ran away from that dragon. Holy Maker! I survived a meeting with a dragon! Now, if only I can live to tell about it.

I run my hands over my wet face and back through my muddy hair, mostly to get it out of my eyes; my hair is down to my shoulders. I have hair on my chin and jaw; it's a beard. I must look wild. But I don't have time to think of that. My fingers dig into the soft banks of the river. There's a rushing waterfall nearby. The croaking of frogs and buzzing of mosquitoes and hissing and tapping and creaking and the sounds of the swamp infect me with a new fear.

I am alone. In the swamps. Survival. That is my mission now.

First things first, I need a weapon. The only thing that comes to mind is a whip. There is no shortage of vines here, and I know I can do better than that, but I will make one anyway. Let's see, there are rocks, twigs, trees – a spear. Okay, that's two weapons. My eyes scour the bank around me and there are pebbles embedded in the mud. If I can gather a handful of those, I can throw them. Okay, that's three.

I also need tools. Rocks that are large and flat for sharpening, tree bark will function as a second skin over my wounds. I need some way to ward off these bugs before I am eaten alive. I can already feel the tiny pricks on my skin starting to itch. From my time with the Pentaghasts, I know that many bugs are repelled by oils; I start running through a bunch of them in my head: rosemary, cotton, garlic, cinnamon, castor, lemongrass, many types of flowers – that's it. I need to find some grass and flowers, grind it all down to a pulp and rub it on my skin. That should make me look sufficiently freakish.

My stomach rumbles again. I'm starving. How have I lived this long? Apparently, I haven't wasted away as the demon has had me, and I think that it must not have been that long since I left Sammie… Oh, Maker. Sammie. I hope she's all right. I hate myself for leaving her there, but it was preferable to letting a demon or a mercenary have her. I run my hands through my hair again – focus, Beenie, damn you. Think of her later.

Since I'm sitting on the bank of a rushing river, through narrow, I imagine there must be fish in it. This is probably a good idea anyway, another dunk in the water, a scrub of my scalp and my skin and maybe I can dislodge some of the swamp from the joints of my armor. I will wash myself wholly after.

I wade in, moving slowly and once I am about waist-deep, I stop. I am pelted from above and below as the thick rain plunks down into the water hitting me in the face when it comes back up, but I have to remain still. I focus my eyes on what's in the water, and though I am exhausted and starving and my hands are shaking a little from encountering that dragon, I have to focus. I need to eat.

I see a fish, but my reflexes are too slow and I miss, cursing under my breath. There's another, and I miss again – calm down. You can do this. I focus. The third time is the charm, and while sort of small, there is a fish in my hands now. I wade back to the bank while it squirms in suffocation and I fall to my knees, picking up rocks and tossing them aside until I finally come across one that will work but I have to butcher the poor thing to get the scales off. I pick out the meat and there's not much but thankfully, this little fish is not infested with parasites and I shove it into my mouth, letting the tasteless slime slide down the back of my throat. I tell myself this is necessary as I repeat the process two more times.

The bathing feels nice, though the water is disturbingly warm. I don't know why I should expect it to be cool, but it's not. Starkhaven sits on the Minanter, a river that cuts through the Free Marches like an old woman's veins. Just to the north is a large and dense swamp – that must be where I am – and the water has to travel almost a month from the Amaranthine Ocean to reach us, taking a winding trip through this place. Now I understand why my mother didn't want me to swim in the river.

There are things here, creatures both soft and hard that attach themselves to me that I have to rip from my skin, strange things that float in the water and hover in the air and scream from the treetops. I am surrounded. There's greenery everywhere, the marsh is a veritable hotbed of life and I find flowers easily, using rocks to grind them into a fine paste and rubbing the mixture all over me before I suit up again.

I inspect my armor and all its little hiding places. Though a wrist-plate is missing, I still have my belt which is a blessing, and inside the pouches, I should find healing and energy potions concocted by alchemists and wizards, bandages, a pouch of herbs put together mostly to wake us up on the battlefield by sniffing it, and finally a knife. But all of these things have been replaced by mud. There is one last spot inside a small pouch between my breastplate and the chainmail and sure enough, I snap it out: the Chant of Light. Printed neatly on a small slip of paper by some chanter. I can't tell whether the Maker is watching over me or laughing at me.

It takes hours, but I manage to forge two weapons. I find a tree, the trunk is lumpy and twisting like veins around muscle, and I climb up, cutting down a long vine with a rock. I have to find a different tree to procure a tree-branch thick enough to function as a spear. The damn thing is near-impossible to break from the tree with my foot, and eventually I have to hang on the branch, jerking up and down like a child at play to get it to break and we both go crashing to the boggy marsh. I pick out a handful of pebbles that will be good for throwing, and place them in my belt pouches along with some smooth flat rocks to use as tools.

I feel better with weapons.

I need to move, but where? I have no idea where I am in this place, but I do know that I can't go back the way I came – no matter that dragons can fly and it might have traversed the swamp five times over by now and be someplace completely different. I don't want to risk being dragon food if I can help it. For all I know, they might return to nesting spots or something. No, better to press on to somewhere else....

I look up at the sky but there is no sun to guide me and, even if there were, it would be impossible to follow its direction. There is no wind either, but there is that river I fell into. I suppose I could follow that, even though I know that the Minanter snakes through the Marches but branches out like possibilities in this marsh. Following the river could only lead me in circles, but it's worth a shot.

I follow it but I can't move very fast. For one, this place is ridiculously dense. If someone upended my aunt's closet, it would be similar to that; she has, literally, a thousand dresses and coats to match. I step over high ferns and mounds of thorns and vines and rock and dirt, my feet sink into the mud, sometimes up to my knees and I am sloshing through with no idea if I'm even headed in the right direction. I don't even know if I'm headed in a straight line. It's hard to maneuver the banks because they are so soft, and I slip into the river a few times. I step on a crocodile once, and it's the last time, too. I break my spear killing it, but my armor saves me from a horrible gash in my leg. If the golden plates weren't so strong, I would be hopping out of here. I make another spear, which consumes time and energy, but at least I get a good meal out of the gator.

There are stories about this place. Men who go out for sport, women who follow visions into its thicket, children who chase small animals past the boundaries, and none are heard from again. The darkness falls at strange intervals when I know it's not night and there are whispers and sensations that I work very hard to ignore as I trudge through.

Days pass. Nights are uneventful. The river runs me into dead ends, and I have to turn back until it forks in a new direction. I hunt, I eat, I walk, I sleep, but time draws out like a blade in this swamp. The moments tick by and the sounds remind me that I am not alone.

I've lost count of how long I've been out here when a net lands on my head, its corners tied with complex knots, anchored by large rocks that lodge themselves into the mud. I must have tripped something, something made by a human! This net isn't hard for a person to escape, and I am excited at the possibility of finding some help until I stand up.

I hear a terrible shriek and spin around to see a woman. She is haggard, dirty, and missing several teeth. Her hair is frazzled like a starburst behind her head, and this funny memory of my Sammie pops into my head, sitting up in her bed next to me with her hair tousled like a madwoman. Like this madwoman's, actually.

And then the madwoman thrusts her hands in front of her and a fireball the size of a melon flies at my head – apostate! I am so shocked at a dozen different things but I drop to the ground and cover my the back of my wet hair with my hands, which are tinted green because of the grassy-flower mixture that I have rubbed all over me. Does she think I'm a demon? I look closer to a frog.

She screams again and it takes me a moment to process but when I open my mouth to call out to her, to tell her to stop, to tell that I am not going to harm her, a croak comes out instead, because I haven't spoken out loud in I-don't-know-how-long. I am a frog, I guess.

Then I hear her clearly as she screams the word Templar! and another fireball lands in a bush to my right lighting up like it was doused in some accelerant while I roll onto my back, gaping at the sparks and licks of flame that travel to the trees above me.

I hop to my feet, throwing my hands out in front of me, yelling, I'm not a Templar! But she just screams and screams and I am screwed.

Clearly extreme in her hatred of Templars, she waves her hands above her head and a swirling mass of black smoke forms above her; it's a storm cloud but made of fire. Andraste save me!

I have no way to fight fire, magical or not, and so I do the most logical thing I can think of: I turn tail and run. I run faster and harder than I have in weeks – or is it months since the dragon? – thrashing through the marsh's overgrown vegetation and I have no idea where I am now as I scramble like hell until the sounds of the crackling and the fires and the screaming is gone, and I fall to my knees, gasping for breath and aching for calories but there is neither here.

I don't know how long it's been, but this is the first moment that I consider that I might not make it out of here. I push it out of my head; I am a Vael, and defeat doesn't run in my family.

Pushing on my knees, I stretch back to my feet, but I have no idea where I am or what direction I am facing. I try to triangulate my position based on that mad old lady, but come up in circles. She thinks I'm a Templar, maybe it's the shiny golden armor… I guess that means she doesn't want to help me.

I pick a direction and keep going, eventually running into the river again. I hope that I don't run into any more dragons or apostates or snakes or crocodiles, of which there are so many it's scary. I start a new count of the number of nights and stop around thirty, but at least I'm alive. I feel like one of those people stranded on a deserted island, but I'm stranded in a populated swamp that is just as treacherous.

My hair is now past my shoulders and the beard on my face tickles my lips. I have stopped counting the days, as the sun and the moon are hidden on the other side of the canopy. I've never needed rescuing before, but my Pentaghast cousins say that there is no room for pride in the wild. Now I get why. No man is an island. Or a swamp.

One night, I make a small campfire and peel some bark from a tree, whittling it down to fine point and use the fire to harden it. I still have that slip of paper with the Chant of Light on it which I've had memorized since I was seven, and though Goran's skills at drawing are better than mine, I start trying to draw her face.

I think about her all the time. I think of her soft hair and the way her hips curve away from her waist, and how she smiles at me when I say something clever. I think of our conversations and the way she looks without her underclothes and how I would give anything to touch her just once more.

Maker, forgive me for all that I have done and send me back home.

He must hear my prayer, because one day the narrowing river leads me out of the thicket and into the sunshine. It starts with pinpricks of light filtered from the canopy above, twinkling down like stars and I run with the newly discovered breeze until the trees thin out and grass sprouts from underneath my boots and the amazing sun greets me unhindered like out of a poem.

Ahh, welcome warmth and light! I fall to my knees and close my eyes, letting the tenderness of the sunshine sink deep into my skin. I have never been as cold as this moment; perhaps the swamp wasn't as warm as I thought, even though I was sweating nearly all of the time. Or perhaps nothing is as warm as the Maker's Light. Praise Andraste for guiding my way!

Eventually, I open my eyes but they have a difficult time adjusting to all the light. The world is made of metals; gold and bronze and silver and I squint to adjust. I discover that I am in a field of grass as far as I can see. Browned by the sun and as tall as a child, each blade cuts into the air with a hundred brothers, swaying in dance from the wind.

As much as I don't want to, I head back into the forest to find the river; one last bath before the long trek home. It doesn't take me too long, because I am getting more and more anxious as the time passes. Home! My bed, and my proud father, my timid brother, my lovely Sammie, and even my enabling mother – Maker bless them all, for I will see you all again! I swear it. I think about that moment where I doubted I would make it out of the swamp and I vow that will be the last time my resolve is shaken.

Vows. I've had a lot of time to think about them. Specifically, the Oath of Starkhaven. I have broken it by tradition, but upheld it in spirit. Truthfully, I don't know how I will be received back home, but it doesn't much matter to me. I will not go crawling into the night to escape my fate. I will stand and defend myself just as I did with my uncle all those years ago. I did it once. I can do it again. And with the Maker's blessing, maybe they will accept me back and I will fight for the city and the people once again. For my family and my Sammie. For my prince and my honor.

Breaking from the forest the second time into the waning sunshine of dusk, I am no less awestruck by the beauty of the world, and it takes me several moments to catch my breath. I know I talk about my time with the Pentaghasts often, but it was one of the most intense years of my life. Just like this time. I stare across vast plains, I see snow-capped mountains in the distance, I walk by lakes as still as mirrors reflecting the perfection of the world without us.

I am no safer out here than I was in the swamp. I have new predators now. Great big birds that circle me from above, and at night they like to dive into my camp and steal my meat or sometimes attack me, thinking I'm carrion. Every so often, I find myself hunted by plains cats. There are no trees to climb, so I might fight them when they make their move, otherwise I let them be. There is one female that follows me for four whole days, keeping a good distance the whole time. I don't sleep much those four days, but she never attacks. I have a feeling that she has a litter of cubs somewhere, and I am fortunate enough not to stumble upon them. Herds are my biggest problem. When they don't stampede, I have to compete with other predators. I can hunt big game with my spear, but the jackals will chase me away almost immediately. I can't fight six wild dogs at once; they'll rip my throat out.

Rabbits are hard to kill. They hop and scurry and turn this way and that, but I have to respect them for it. I am the dragon and they are me. Rats are even worse. They burrow into the ground and are just gone. Prairie dogs are easier. They stand up straight and stare at you like idiots, and you can walk right up to them and snap off their little heads. They aren't particularly tasty, though; their meat is greasy and stringy.

I don't know how long I traverse the plains – they are as endless as the swamp is dense. I can feel it getting colder each night, and I know that the seasons are changing. Samantha's name day has passed, and I have no idea how old she is now. Let's see, she was twenty-two when I last saw her in 9:31 Dragon, Spring. That's right. We were supposed to be married in two months time. Spring! And now the season turns colder. How far into Autumn are we? How long have I been gone? Could it really be almost two seasons?

I am preoccupied by these thoughts when I nearly step into a bear trap – and thank the Maker the sun catches the metal, because otherwise I would have lost a leg! I crouch down to get a look at the thing: it's enormous, its jaws are set wide, and there is dried blood on the teeth, but no rust, which means that it hasn't been rained on. It has been roughly a tenday since the last rain, so this trap must have been reset recently. Only a person could have set this – perhaps someone who can help return me to civilization. Hopefully not an apostate.

I stand back up, looking in all directions, but the sun is bright and I can't really tell what's on the horizon. I decide to wait until nightfall, and maybe with some luck, I'll catch some light in the distance.

Sure enough, as dusk begins to creep across the plains, I see a faint twinkling of light not far away: firelight. It doesn't give me any indication of whether or not there are mages there, but I have to take my chances. It turns out to be a small farmstead. There's a house, a small granary and a barn. I hear horses – Maker! A horse! I feel nervous. I can't just walk up to the house, knock on the door, and greet them as the Marquess of Starkhaven. That would be ridiculous, but what else is there to do? I give myself a once-over, and while my skin is still sticky and green with oil, I don't look or sound like a frog. I decide that instead of surprising someone, I should call out.

Hello! Is there anyone there?

I see some movement, and a small man emerges from the house. He's not a dwarf, but he is shockingly short, with bushy brown hair and spectacles so thick I can't see his eyes on the other side.

He calls back, and there's a funny clacking when he talks, Chi è?

Great. Antivan. Okay, Beenie, dust yourself off and reply. I open my mouth and say, Io… sono di Starkhaven. I think it means, I'm from Starkhaven.

Starkhaven? He clacks back, bewildered. Che ci fai qui?

Umm, it's been a long time since my lessons, and I honestly have no idea what he just asked me. I have to answer him, and I ask him for help. Necessita aiuto.

He waddles out further, and I raise my hands in the air to show him that I mean him no harm, and I think to myself that I am saved! But I think too soon, because he stops dead in his tracks, squinting and not seeing me clearly, because the next words sound frightened.

Magia...

I wouldn't need lessons to know what that word means, and I raise my hands higher, calling out, Non apostata! Non apostata! I am not an apostate!

Apostata! He screams, scrambling backwards and then he runs away, and his short legs carry him far in no time at all.

Perfect. First an apostate thinks I am a Templar, and now an old man thinks I'm an apostate. I just need to run into a Templar who thinks I am an old man for the cycle to be complete.

Maybe I can talk to him, make him see that I am just a man, but instead of running into his house, he bolts for the barn. At first, I think he's trying to run, and I keep on shouting, Non apostata! There a gigantic crash followed by a ruckus and a billow of dirt and dust poofs out from one of the barn windows. I don't move, my mind is racing – what can I say, what can I do? – but none of it matters as he flies from the barn on a mule holding a javelin.

I'm not kidding. A javelin. Maybe the hilarity of the image would be best experienced, but he's dirty, scraggly, wearing coveralls that are rolled up thick around his ankles, his hair likely made brown from dirt, and he couldn't be taller than five feet. I'm taller than he is as he sits atop a mule, and he's carrying a weapon that is longer and finer than everything in this field.

He kicks his spurs into the poor mule's gut and is upon me faster than I am ready. My reflexes are still good from my time in the swamp, maybe a little too jumpy, but I wasn't expecting his gelding to move that fast, and I jump out of the way, twisting my body to avoid the tip of his weapon.

The scene that follows would be hilarious if not for my pitiable situation – I need this man to help me, but he is screaming out things in Antivan that I can't understand. I scramble this way and that as he makes pass after pass, and I am holding my hands in the air screaming the same thing over and over, Non apostata! But he just ignores me, turning his little mule back around to ride at me again. Eventually, both he and the mule grow tired, and he gasps for breath, glaring at me.

I am exhausted from this endeavor as well, and I place an open hand on my chest and say, Mi chiamo Corbinian Vael. Vael. Starkhaven. Vael. I tap my chest again and again and emphasize my name hoping that he recognizes it.

Maghi mentire, he clacks, and beneath his bushy beard, I can see that his teeth are made of wood.

No lie, I say. Non mentire. I don't know how to fix the grammar, but whatever. I say again, Vael. Necessita… uh… andare Starkhaven. Please. Per favore. Non mentire. Non apostata.

Andraste soften his heart and make him believe me.

His expression changes and he seems too tired to continue to fight me, maybe because he knows that I could disarm him, but I don't want to hurt him. I just need his help. Maybe a horse, maybe an escort. Maybe just point me in the right direction.

He finally points that javelin at me and says, Restate.

I don't really know that word, but he repeats it and starts to move away slowly, still pointing his weapon at me, and only when I take a step forward and he stops, repeating the word more forcefully do I understand. He wants me to stay here.

Fine. Whatever. I'll sit here. I'm still holding my hands up as he walks away, looking over his shoulder to make sure I don't move, and eventually, I see the firelight in his tiny house die away, which plunges the area into a deep darkness. The moon is hidden behind clouds, and there is a chill in the air. I make a fire and cook a rodent, and wait. I'll wait for a week if he wants me too.

I sit out here for three days as he goes about work on his farm. He looks out at me every so often, shakes his head, and goes back to work. He doesn't come out to talk to me. I try to talk to him, though; I call out during the day when I see him but my Antivan stinks, and he won't engage me.

On the fourth day, a group of riders approach the farmstead. He must have sent some kind of messenger, perhaps a pigeon or something, because there are three of them with four horses – four! Maker! I'm saved! I hop to my feet and he points to me in the field and they approach without delay.

I hold up a hand, Hello! Ciao!

When they come into range, I see that there are two men and one woman who rides in the front. They look fairly well-fed, though dirty, but they are all smiles. They are wearing chainmail underneath long belted tunics. Their tabards are a reddish orange, and there's a strange symbol on their chests that looks like an eagle with its head turned to one side and its wings outstretched. The female dismounts with a warriors gait, and the swords on her hips along with the way she walks tells me that she can handle herself. She raises a hand back.

Hello, she says genially, clearly the leader. You look strong.

I am the Marquess Corb—

I am silenced by her fist tightly wrapped around the hilt of her sword, striking me square across my jaw, not enough to cause permanent damage, but it rings my skull like a bell. Stars, twinkling lights, nausea and I am falling but I don't remember hitting the ground.