Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Age, its characters, or its mythology – Bioware does. I merely attached myself to the world and have fun with it and those who live within. Especially Alistair and Zevran.

Author's Note: Short and simple note this time – I'm planning on making this a weekly update for the time being, either on Saturday or on Sunday depending on the availability of my beta reader. Speaking of, once again, thanks to Teakwood for taking the time out of his GMing schedule to give me his insight! Now I'll go into the corner, since I'm sure everyone would rather read the chapter than listen to me ramble.

Arcanum: Fatum

Chapter Two: Into the Wilds

The Korcari Wilds were not quite what Yllia had been expecting.

The way the soldiers had been talking, she'd expected them to be overrun by darkspawn the moment they set foot outside of Ostagar – but at first, all she saw were trees. And bushes. The occasional flower (though not the flower she needed for the Kennel Master, and yes, she was keeping an eye out for it). And despite the mugginess of the humid temperature, the Wilds were actually quite…nice, scenic-wise.

But there was something off about them nonetheless, and it took Yllia a moment to place it.

"It's too quiet, isn't it?" Alistair murmured from next to her, causing her to jump in surprise as he echoed her thoughts. Gone was his earlier caustic humor, his wit and wry smiles. His expression had gone sober, his eyes scanning the landscape as the four of them trekked through the foliage, ever alert for signs of danger. Being the only true Grey Warden present, he was the only one who'd be able to give them any amount of warning should they suddenly come upon a darkspawn raid.

Yllia nodded. "No birds, no animals," she said softly. "I didn't hear them around Ostagar, either, but at least you had the noise of the armies. But here… nothing."

"Most of the inhabitants of the Wilds who were able have likely already moved north, away from the horde," Alistair said. "Following their instincts, which are rightly telling them to get the hell out of here." He gave a humorless half-smile. "We, of course, being of superior intelligence, instead choose to walk right towards the threat."

"Are they near?" Yllia asked, giving him a searching look. "The darkspawn?"

"Oh, they're near enough, and we'll likely come across them sooner rather than later," Alistair replied. "Don't worry about that. It's not gathering the blood that I'm anxious about, it's the second part of Duncan's task for us."

"Finding this Grey Warden archive?" Yllia tucked a few stray locks of hair back underneath her cowl to keep the humidity from plastering them to her skin and becoming irritable. "I thought Duncan gave you a map?"

"A map drawn by Grey Wardens who haven't been in this area for two hundred years," Alistair said with just a touch of exasperation. "Who knows what's been in and out of the archive ruins since then? Or if they're even still there."

"We'll find out when we get there," Yllia said, giving him what she hoped was a reassuring smile. Something seemed to be agitating him, and she didn't think it had anything to do with the lost archive. She brought her hand up to her eyes to shield them from the sun. "I think Daveth and Jory found something."

The other two recruits had moved on ahead while Yllia and Alistair had been talking, and now Daveth was waving the two of them over while Jory knelt to examine something on the ground. Alistair and Yllia both hurried forward – and Yllia almost wished she hadn't, recoiling from the death scent that permeated the area as soon as they reached the other two men. She yanked up the edge of her robes to cover her mouth. "What…"

"If it wasn't for the smell, we might have gone right by them," Daveth said, shaking his head. "These bushes hide them pretty well." He pulled back some of the brush, showing them the desiccated corpses of men and oxen that had been left to rot. "Think darkspawn did this?"

"Either darkspawn or tainted wildlife," Alistair said, as Jory stepped back from the corpse he'd been examining. "Poor bastards… they got caught in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Looks like they were just travelers, not soldiers," Jory said. "I think they've been here for several days now."

Yllia looked down at the bodies, her heart aching for the lives cut far too short. "Can we do anything for them?" she asked. "A pyre or something?"

"Too risky," Alistair said, and she could hear the regret heavy in his tone. "A pyre would just attract anything in the area to us – and we don't dare take them back to the camp. If they were killed by darkspawn, they could be carrying the Blight sickness."

Daveth backed up several steps, his eyes widening. He hadn't thought to worry about that.

Jory looked at the caravan remains for another moment, then turned to them. "If there isn't anything we can do for them, we should probably keep moving," he said.

Alistair started to nod – and then Yllia saw his entire body go rigid, his expression change swiftly from one of pity to one of determination as he reached behind him and drew his sword from its back sheath. "Darkspawn!" he shouted, the single word sending a rush of adrenaline surging through the elven mage at his side.

She turned as he did to see a group of eight of them, breaking out of the foliage and crashing down upon them. If not for Alistair's warning they would have been taken completely by surprise, but Daveth and Jory's reflexes had their weapons in hand, metal flashing as they joined Alistair into the fray.

Yllia hung back, knowing full well that she wasn't equipped to find herself in the middle of eight darkspawn, drawing on her ice and lightning spells to give her companions an edge, and before long their attackers were reduced to nothing more than charred and broken corpses, lying in pools of their own blood.

Which, fortunately, was exactly what they'd come for.

As the men wiped their blades off on the grass and resheathed them, Yllia joined them from her perch. Alistair looked up and gave her a crooked smile. "Nice spells," he said. "They really didn't like those."

Yllia felt her cheeks flush a little at the compliment – she wasn't used to having anyone outside of the enchanters at the Circle praising her magic, and given that Alistair himself had said he'd almost been a templar, his appreciation factored in even more. "I can see why Duncan wanted to have more mages in the Wardens," she said with a nod. The darkspawn definitely had less resistance to her spells than most did – a byproduct of the taint that had corrupted them into what they were now? Impossible to know, but Yllia was thankful for it.

"Okay, so…how do we collect this stuff without, you know, getting it on us?" Daveth asked, looking at the pooling blood warily.

"I can do it," Yllia replied. She held out her hands for the empty vials that Duncan had given both Daveth and Jory, pulled out hers, and knelt down to carefully collect it. Years of training in dealing with volatile potion ingredients really did come in handy for some things. She filled each vial with precision and secured the stopper to keep it from spilling, then handed the other two back to her companions. Her own she slipped into the most secure of her inner robe pockets, the one at her hip where her belt would keep it flush against her skin. Dangerous if it broke, but the less it could move around, the less likely it would be to break. Her pack wasn't an option – it wasn't that large, and it was already chock full of herbs and potions and other little tidbits that she'd felt would be vitally important when she'd left the Tower. Rather amazing how all of that piled up after awhile, and she wanted to leave enough room in case she found the flower for the Kennel Master.

"Is that enough?" Yllia asked Alistair when she was done, giving him an inquisitive look. He nodded, having been watching her like a hawk as she'd filled the vials, and she rose to her feet and quickly checked her robes to make sure they weren't wrecked. It occurred to her that the Circle robes were not well-suited to traipsing around in marshland, but there was little that she could do about it now, but she wondered how effective she'd be able to cast if she swapped them out later for a set of light leather like Daveth's. She'd never worn actual armor before, but all she needed was to be able to cast in it, not move about and swing a weapon. It was certainly something to think about.

"All right, that just leaves the archives now," Alistair said, reaching into his pack and drawing out the map that Duncan had passed to him. He looked a little disgusted. "I can't stand these blasted things..." He stared at it for a few minutes, and then looked around. "Okay…I think we're here, by this little knobby…thing. And if that's us then we want to go…that way. The map shows we'll find the archives by a…" He paused, stared at the map, and then frowned. "A chicken?"

"What?" Daveth stared at him, and Jory raised an eyebrow.

"Let me see that." Yllia reached out and snagged the map out of Alistair's hands, looking at it. She immediately understood why Alistair was having trouble with the map; the Grey Wardens who had drawn it must have been in an all-fired hurry, because half of it was smudged and the other half was rather indecipherable. But she thought she could see that part that Alistair was referring to. But… "That's not a chicken, Alistair. That's a goat."

"A goat?" Alistair asked incredulously. "That's not a goat. Goats don't have wings." He pointed at the misshapen blob on the map. "See? Those are wings."

"What? No, they're horns."

"Andraste's tits, give me that!" Daveth all but snatched the map from them in disgust. "Don't tell me the two of you have never learned how to read a map?" He looked down at the parchment – and for a moment his expression was almost comical. But rather than attempt to determine just what it was the map was pointing at, he just started off in what appeared to be a random direction and said, "This way." Jory set off after him in silence.

Alistair and Yllia looked at each other for a moment, shrugged, and then followed. She still thought it looked like a goat.

If the four travelers thought that they were being stealthy as they slipped through the Wilds, they were sorely mistaken. The one leading the way seemed to have some idea of how to move without being detected, and the elf walked with the natural grace of her people that lent itself to soft footfalls, but the other two galumphed their way through the bushes in a way that might as well have called out to the Blighted, "Hey, here we are! Come and eat us!"

The crow ruffled her feathers, tilting her head to the side so as to watch their approach more readily from atop her branch. Ah, so they were after the ancient archives. Well, their relief at having found the place was going to be short lived once they opened up the chests and poked around a bit.

Which, the crow supposed, was precisely what she was there for.

She listened to the dismayed reactions of the four, spread her wings, and swept down to land behind one of the large, moss-covered pillars – one of those ones big enough to hide not only a crow from sight, but more importantly a human being. Foolish people. Did they really think something as important as that which they sought would just be left to rot in a treasure chest for untold years? The chests weren't enchanted in any way – all it would take was the right rogue to come along and pick the lock and poof, valuable documents vanished! The only reason they'd held out for as long as they had was because no one but the Chasind dared to wander into the depths of the Wilds.

And no one but she and her mother dared to live in the Wilds.

She called on the magic within her, felt it slide through her veins as if it were blood itself. She envisioned it starting at her chest and then spreading out, down along her spine to her legs, to her wings, up along her neck and into her head itself. She formed the image in her mind with practiced ease, picturing the wings becoming slender arms, the clawed talons becoming toes attached to lithe legs, her spine straightening and shifting until she was able to stand fully upright without the feathers of her tail for balance.

The mage, sometimes called witch, unfolded her long legs and steadied herself, momentarily nude before her clothing manifested and settled around her body. Transfiguring her clothing along with her form so that both blended seamlessly into her shift was child's play for someone who had been assuming forms other than her natural state for as many years as she – and although it might have been amusing to see the reactions of the travelers if she'd stepped out in nothing but her bare skin, her mother had made it clear enough to her that this is a business matter, not a game.

What a pity.

Yllia stared into the empty chest, and then looked up at Alistair and shook her head. "Nothing," she said. "They're completely empty. If the treaties that Duncan wants were here, they're long gone."

"Who would take such things?" Jory asked, frowning and looking rather displeased.

"Someone who thought they could make a couple silvers off of them, probably," Daveth replied. "So we came all the way out here for nothing?"

Alistair looked caught somewhere between frustration and distress. "Let's look around again," he said. "Maybe we missed some-"

"Well, well. What have we here?"

The sly, husky, and decidedly feminine voice caused all four of them to turn, and Yllia stared as an unfamiliar dark-haired woman made her way down the ramp of the ruins, her eyes on them as she walked… no, stalked, like a cat stalked its prey. She moved with predatory purpose, and Yllia responded accordingly by slowly rising to her feet. Cautiously.

Because she could feel something coming from this woman that the men could not, save perhaps for Alistair. Magic.

This woman was a mage – but her magic felt like nothing Yllia had ever experienced before.

"Are you a vulture, I wonder?" the woman continued, moving closer to them with purpose. "A scavenger, poking amidst a corpse whose bones were long since cleaned? Or merely an intruder, come into these darkspawn-filled Wilds of mine in search of easy prey?" Yllia followed her movements until the other mage at last came to stand before them, her kohl-rimmed amber eyes fixing on the elven girl and her companions.

Then, abruptly, she crossed her arms over her chest – her rather scantily-clad chest, and Yllia spared a brief moment to wonder if she'd ever have the courage to wear such an outfit – and spoke sharply, "What say you, hmm? Scavenger, or intruder?"

"Who are you?" Yllia asked, her tone guarded. She wasn't quite sure what to make of this woman. She was nothing like the Circle mages. There was a wildness about her unlike anything that Yllia had ever experienced. It reminded her a bit of the…of the Fade.

Tread carefully, Yllia.

"Who am I?" The woman replied archly, looking at him for a moment before moving again, circling around them. "You come into my home, and question me as if I am the one who does not belong here? Interesting." Yllia turned as she moved, keeping her carefully within sight. Her instincts were screaming at her to not take her eyes off of the mage.

"I have been watching you for some time now," the woman continued, avoiding Alistair's question and yet answering an unspoken one of Yllia's. "Where do they go, I wondered? Why are they here? And now you disturb ashes none of have touched for so long." She stopped walking again and looked thoughtful. Inquisitive. "Why is that?"

Yllia looked at her companions, and Alistair immediately shook his head. "Don't answer her," he cautioned in a low voice. "She looks Chasind, and that means others may be nearby."

The woman laughed, a mocking tone entering her voice. "You fear barbarians will swoop down upon you?"

Alistair narrowed his eyes, and once again Yllia caught a glimpse of that other side of him, a more serious side that he hid behind his jokes and humor. "Yes," he said, clearly not impressed by their new acquaintance, and it came through in his tone despite his attempt at a light response. "Swooping is bad."

"She's a Witch of the Wilds, she is," Daveth suddenly cut in, sounding simultaneously nervous and fearful. "She'll turn us into toads."

Witch of the Wilds? The term seemed familiar, but Yllia couldn't place where she'd heard it before. Probably one of the many books in the Tower again, although it wasn't too often that one found reading material on mages who weren't part of the Circles. It wasn't like the Chantry wanted to advertise the fact that there were apostates wandering about the world, free and clear – even though everyone knew they existed.

Another laugh, and this time it was one of pure, unadulterated amusement. "Witch of the Wilds?" The barest hints of a smirk played at the corners of her mouth. "Such idle fancies, those legends. Have you no minds of your own?"

It appeared to be a rhetorical question, which was good, because Yllia could practically see Alistair trying to come up with some sort of response and she was sure whatever he said wasn't going to help the situation in the slightest. She quickly tried to think of something to defuse the growing tension, but the woman solved the problem for them. "You there, sister mage," she said, startling Yllia. "Tell me your name and I shall tell you mine. Let us be civilized."

Of course – just like Yllia could sense her magic, she likely could sense Yllia's. Probably far easier, in fact, because there was no doubt in Yllia's mind that she was facing a skilled spellcaster, even if she couldn't identify her personal school of study.

Alistair was shaking his head at her, but she ignored him – she had the feeling that any lies would be seen right through, and she wasn't interested in dealing in mistrust right from the start. "My name is Yllia Surana," she replied.

The smile that was given to her appeared both pleased and satisfied. "And you may call me Morrigan."

Their eyes met, amber-gold to sky-blue, and something flared between the two of them. With a start Yllia realized that this meeting was not by chance or coincidence, but by carefully orchestrated timing. Morrigan had been watching them, but not to find out what they were doing there. She knew already who they were and why they'd come, and had simply used It was cover to make contact.

But why? What...game was she playing?

One thing Yllia knew for certain – she had no intention of being someone's pawn.

"We came here in search of ancient documents that were left behind in these ruins," she said, grabbing the reins of the conversation before Morrigan could snatch them back. "Do you know anything about them?"

"Ancient documents?" Morrigan repeated, feigning just a bit too much innocence.

"You stole them, didn't you?" Alistair interjected, and Yllia was sorely tempted to step on his foot, although he probably wouldn't feel it through the metal. "You're some kind of sneaky…witch-thief!"

That foot-stomping was looking very tempting.

Morrigan was nonplussed. "How very eloquent," she said dryly. "How does one steal from dead men, I wonder?"

Alistair's agitation only grew. "Those documents are Grey Warden property!" he said in a clipped tone, "and I suggest you return them."

"I will not," Morrigan said with a touch of indignation, "for it was not I who removed them."

"But you know who did," Yllia cut in before the conversation could spiral out of the control and descend into pointless bickering. "Don't you?"

Morrigan looked at her for a moment, and then sighed, placing her hand upon her hip. "'Twas my mother, in fact," she replied.

Now they were getting somewhere. "Can we meet her?" Yllia asked, giving Morrigan her friendliest smile – the one that always convinced the Senior Enchanters to let her study on her own instead of with the other apprentices, giving her ample time to practice the magic she wanted and not what they wanted.

Morrigan looked thoughtful, touching her hand to her chin, and then nodded. "There is a sensible request," she agreed. "I like you."

Yllia wasn't sure how she felt about that.

Neither was Alistair. "I'd be careful," he said dryly. "First it's, 'I like you', then it's 'zap' – frog time."

Yllia held up her hand, wiggling her fingers a little. "I'm not too concerned," she said, a bit of electricity sparking between her fingertips, reminding her companions that Morrigan wasn't the only mage present.

"Follow me then, if it pleases you," Morrigan said with a touch of amusement, before turning to head off into the Wilds.

Not wanting to let her out of her sight and get left behind, Yllia hurried after her, boots sinking into the mud. With any luck, they'd meet Morrigan's mother, persuade her to turn over the scrolls, and be back at Ostagar before sundown and in time for something warm to eat.

If only their luck could be so good.

The trek through the Wilds went far smoother with Morrigan as a guide – she knew her ways through the foliage and marsh better than the four Wardens (well, one Warden and three soon-to-bes) could ever hope to, and had no qualms about straying off the established path and leading them on roundabout paths that, as it turned out, ultimately allowed them to avoid corrupted wildlife and small darkspawn groups. They only got into a couple of skirmishes along the way – skirmishes that, Yllia noticed, Morrigan had no qualms about sitting out on.

After the first two detours, Alistair matched pace with Yllia, muttering to her that he wouldn't be surprised if Morrigan was purposefully getting them lost instead of taking them to her mother. Though Yllia acknowledged that it was a chance, she also reminded Alistair that they had little choice – if Morrigan's mother really did have the documents they needed, then following her was the only chance they had of getting them back. He grumbled and clearly didn't like it, but he didn't argue again after that. The distrust he held for the wild witch, however, was almost tangible.

Another delay came from Yllia herself, who noticed a certain plant off to the right as they were walking. To her delight she realized it was exactly what she needed for the Kennel Master, and now the situation was reversed – it was Morrigan griping instead of Alistair, who had no issues with Yllia stopping if only because it appeared to irritate Morrigan. Daveth and Jory both wisely stayed out of the way.

Yllia decided she was going to be very happy once they were on their way and there was as much distance as possible between Alistair and Morrigan.

At last the trees and bushes began to thin, and then Morrigan was leading them into the first clearing they'd seen in a long time. In the center of the clearing, surrounded by a fence that appeared to have been pieced together from fallen trees with little in the way of actual craftsmanship going into the effort, stood a modest two-story cottage that looked just barely big enough for two people. Outside of the cottage stood a cooking pit, and a few things that Yllia couldn't identify – Circle upbringing left her a bit wanting in the practical knowledge of life department. If it was important, she could probably ask Alistair or Daveth later. Not Jory – she doubted he'd want to spend the time explaining.

As they approached, the door to the hut opened, and a tall woman strode out. At first glance she wasn't much to look at – slender, but her hair was graying and there were lines about her face. And yet the moment Yllia was close enough to see her eyes she knew that she would never be able to consider this woman to be old. Her body may have been aged, but the eyes that looked back at her bespoke of more power, wisdom, and strength than Yllia could ever dare dream to possess.

Morrigan greeted the woman with disdainful interest. "Well, here they are, Mother," she said to the woman. "Just as you expected."

"You expect us to believe you were expecting us?" Alistair scoffed, then fell silent at a warning look from Yllia. She hoped her expression conveyed enough of 'do not antagonize the very powerful mage' for him to take it down a couple of notches.

"You are required to do nothing, least of all believe," Morrigan's mother said with all the interest of someone addressing a haystack. "That I knew you were coming and that I know why you have come is an undeniable fact, but I do not expect to convince you of the truth of it. Nor, for that matter, do I intend to try."

Alistair tensed but said nothing; a quick glance at Jory and Daveth showed that both of them wisely appeared to have decided that silence was best. That, or they were just too intimidated by the two apostates. Because, of course, that's what they had to be – certainly they were in no way affiliated with a Circle.

There was a light flutter in Yllia's stomach. She'd always wanted to meet an apostate – a mage who had learned magic outside of the ironhold grip of the Chantry, the Templars, and the Circle of Magi. The rules regarding which magic you could learn, how far you could take your studies, what you could do with it – although she understood the theory behind the rules, she couldn't help but resent the restrictions. It was…it was as if a musician were being told they could not make music, a scribe that they could not write. Or, perhaps a better example: a warrior that they could not fight. Magic was what a mage was, and to restrict it… it was like telling them not to breathe.

But as much as she'd wanted to meet other non-Circle mages, at the same time there was something about this woman that made her…uneasy.

"We're Grey Wardens," Yllia said, looking at the woman, "and we've come looking for a set of scrolls that were left in the old Warden archives. Morrigan told us that you might have them."

The older mage arched one eyebrow, the corner of her mouth twitching upward in what might have been amusement. "Not Grey Wardens, save for this one." She nodded once in Alistair's direction. "Not yet, at any rate. Still and all, there's truth enough in your words. You've come seeking the treaties, then?"

"You've read them?" Yllia asked. It felt like a pointless question. Of course she'd read them – otherwise she wouldn't have known what they were. They'd taken care not to refer to them as anything other than 'scrolls' and 'documents' once they were Morrigan's presence. But the worlds had just stumbled out before she could catch them.

Her response was a husky chuckle. "I don't have to read them to know what they are," she said cryptically. "I suppose you want them back, then? Claiming them in the name of your Order, after I've taken care of them for so long?" Her eyes met Yllia's, and the young elf's breath caught. The power swirling behind those eyes was so intense it was near-tangible, and she had to struggle to remember to breathe. Jory and Daveth didn't react, but Alistair's stance shifted ever-so-slightly, a look of discomfort passing over his face.

It took Yllia a moment to remember that she'd been asked a question, and she willed herself to nod. "We do want them, yes," she said. "If there's something that you need in compensation for them…"

Another laugh, and this time the humor in it was unmistakable. "Compensation? You offer Flemeth compensation? You are a strange one, aren't you?" Her mouth remained curled into a smile – a smile that hid untold secrets, truths, and lies.

And Yllia felt herself grow cold, because she knew that name – and yet it seemed impossible that this woman, this aged apostate living in the Wilds, could possibly be the Flemeth of legends. Yes, the mythical Flemeth was supposed to have walked the Wilds, but that had been centuries ago. Surely… surely…

And yet, was the Dalish name for her not Asha'bellanar? The Woman of Many Years?

"Are you…the Flemeth?" she managed to asked, still stunned by the name alone.

"I am myself, and no one else," came Flemeth's smooth answer, though it truly answered nothing. "Very well. You seek your treaties, and you shall have them. You'll need them for certain in the coming times. More trials and tribulations than one person could dare to shoulder alone." She turned from them, disappearing inside the cottage, and reemerging a moment with a series of scrolls bundled together and covered in a deerskin wrap.

She brought the bundle to Yllia and held it out to her expectantly, clearly intending for Yllia to take it. After a moment's hesitation she did so – and as she did, her hand brushed against Flemeth's.

Everything around her swirled, her eyes widening as her gaze flew up to meet the golden eyes of the witch before her once more. That gaze held her, captivating her in a way that threatened to push her to the very edge of her sanity. And though Flemeth's lips did not move, her voice could be clearly heard.

"You have a long and winding road ahead of you, Yllia Surana," Flemeth's voice purred within her mind. "And you will be faced with many choices along the way. Some will be easy. Some will be hard. And some will seem easy, only to be the most difficult in the end. Remember these words well, child."

And then Flemeth stepped back, and whatever connection there had been was gone, leaving Yllia dazed and rather overwhelmed. "Take them to your Grey Wardens and tell them this Blight's threat is greater than they realize."

"What do you mean by that?" Alistair demanded, alarm creeping into his voice.

"Either the threat is more or they realize less," Flemeth replied, and then waved her hand through the air. "Or perhaps the threat is nothing! Or perhaps they realize nothing!" She laughed, the frustration returning to Alistair's expression. "Oh, do not mind me," she continued. "You have what you came for."

"Time for you to go, then," Morrigan said in a tone that indicated the entirety of the exchange had bored her – making Yllia wonder if she had noticed what had passed between herself and her mother. But Morrigan's expression was impassive, impossible to read.

"Don't be ridiculous, girl," Flemeth chastised her daughter. "These are your guests."

Morrigan looked at her for a moment, and then sighed. "Oh, very well," she relented. "I will show you out of the Wilds." And with an expression that stated very clearly she would rather they not, she added, "Follow me."

Yllia held the deerskin-wrapped scrolls close to her chest, feeling decidedly chilled despite the muggy temperate of the Wilds. Whether they had to follow Morrigan or find their own way out, she didn't care – just so long as she never had to set foot in the Wilds or go near Flemeth's cottage again.