Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Age, its characters or its plot. I merely twist them around for my own diabolical intentions. Mwahaha!
Author's Note: I apologize for the extremely late post - I had a splitting headache that floored me yesterday, and then my best friend was over playing DA:O for most of the day. Therefore it is only now, with a can of Mountain Dew beside me, that I'm able to get this next chapter posted. Many thanks, as usual, to my beta Teakwood - there aren't too many people willing to stay up until 2 am in the morning to beta read a chapter for me over Skype.
Arcanum: Fatum
Chapter Four: Betrayal
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Although the majority of the Ostagar ruins were in a state of decrepit disrepair that stemmed from several hundred years of abandonment and neglect, the mammoth Tower of Ishal still stood tall and proud, its vantage point over the Wilds serving as an ideal lookout for the armies of Ferelden. Even up close there was little to no sign of the age that the rest of the fortress had undergone, as if the Tower itself refused to accept the natural way of things, determined to withstand the test of time in defiance of the new ages.
When King Cailan's army had first arrived at Ostagar, his scouts had immediately secured possession of the Tower. It had been swept from bottom floor to top for any dangers, any breaches, and had been proclaimed safe upon finding none. Without pausing for rest, climbing to the top of the tower should have taken no more than fifteen minutes, tops - a task that could have easily been accomplished by the smallest page, let alone two Grey Wardens.
Had King Cailan not been so fixated on the glory of the old tales and the resilience and legend of the Grey Wardens, Yllia and Alistair would likely have never set foot within the Tower.
They had much to owe, as it turned out, to Cailan's fancy.
No sooner had warrior and mage arrived at the Tower's base than they had received the first shock of the night – despite the thorough scrutinizing that the army had performed, the Tower's defenses had been breached, and every floor had become heavily inundated with darkspawn. Most of the soldiers and scouts stationed within its walls were dead – only a few who had held posts on the outside still survived.
Despite the overwhelming odds against them, the two Grey Wardens merely paused to look at each other, silent questions receiving silent answers, and then pushed their way into the Tower.
The hordes fell upon them, wave after wave, exhausting Yllia's mana supply and straining Alistair's stamina as they cut through. Their medicinal supply was more than half depleted by the time they fought their way to the top floor, and by the time they reached it the few soldiers and mages who had accompanied them had been cut down, leaving only the two of them to face what waited for them.
Yllia's heart was pounding in her throat as Alistair threw himself against the final door, throwing it open and stumbling inside. "Get to the beacon!" he shouted over his shoulder to Yllia. They both knew that it had taken them longer than anticipated to reach their target – and Loghain would never move without the signal. They had to get it lit.
With his eyes on her, half-turned in shout, Yllia saw behind him what Alistair hadn't. "Alistair, look out!" she shouted, raising her staff and releasing a blast of ice at the giant ogre that the shadows of the room had partially concealed just as it raised its axe to bring down upon Alistair, momentarily freezing it in place as Alistair threw himself to one side. He hit the ground rolling, a look of shock upon his face as he realized just how close he'd come to getting flattened.
Then his shock was gone, his face flushing with anger. There was a glint of silver as his sword reflected the firelight of the torches, and then he was on his feet and charging for the ogre just as it shook off the last of the ice shards that had covered its skin. It swung its axe again as Alistair ducked under its arm and twisted, blocking the strike with his shield and driving his sword into its arm simultaneously, drawing a bellow of rage from his monstrous opponent.
Yllia didn't think about how close Alistair was to the ogre, about how easy it would be for the creature to seize him with its free hand and crush him. With Alistair distracting it, she popped the cap on another lyrium potion and tipped the entire contents down her throat, feeling her mana momentarily refresh itself, power surging through her core. She muttered the incantation under her breath, sent a silent prayer to whoever was listening that she got the words right, and unleashed a wall of flame from the palms of her hands that filled the Tower with heat and smoke.
The flames shot over Alistair's head, her partner realizing that she was casting something and dropping to his knees to avoid getting caught in the blast. As the ogre reeled from the sudden scalding, burning pain in its eyes, Alistair brought his shield in front of him and charged forward, sliding through the ogres legs as it stumbled blindly forward. How he then got onto the ogre, Yllia couldn't tell, her view blocked by the massive bulk, but he was suddenly there, on top of the creature and driving the blade of his sword through the base of its neck from behind.
The ogre bellowed and collapsed, the force of the fall throwing Alistair off balance and sending him tumbling to the ground feet away from the charred and bleeding corpse.
A quick precursory check revealed no more darkspawn in the room, and Yllia ran to Alistair's side. "Are you all right?" she asked breathlessly.
He ripped off his helmet, revealing a bleeding gash around his temple, and accepted the poultice she pressed into his hand. "Fine," he said tersely, not so much from irritation was from the way he was breathing. She followed the poultice with a stamina drought, and then a quick cure when she could. After the cure he gave her shoulder a light push. "The beacon. Go, I'll be fine."
Right. Beacon. She tried not to look at the blood on his face or the dead ogre, instead looking around and finally spying the hearth of tinder that lay untouched. Her stomach in knots, she pushed herself to her feet and hurried over. How much time had gone by since they'd entered the Tower? Since the king, Duncan, and the other Wardens had advanced on the battlefield?
Her mana spent, she snatched a torch up off the wall and hurled it into the hearth.
It blazed to life, the heat lashing back at her, but she didn't care. All she cared about was the sight of the flames curling upwards into the beacon, the steady glow lifting some of the tension that had settled onto her shoulders. They'd done it. The beacon was lit; Teryn Loghain's troops would advance.
She moved to the large open window next to the heart and braced her hands on the stone ledge, leaning out a little to try and get a look at the scene below.
Her throat tightened. Ostagar was burning – anything that could be on fire was, and that which couldn't had been crushed by the hurled boulders from the horde. She could hear the clashing of metal, the bellows and war cries from both sides, but she could not see the actual battle from her vantage point.
Movement in her peripheral caught her attention, and she turned her head slightly. Yes – there! She could just make out the massive form of Loghain's reserve, and they were starting to move. Her legs nearly gave out on her in relief.
And then something cold wrapped itself around her heart as it registered exactly what she was seeing.
Loghain's army was moving away from the battle.
"No," she whispered, staring in horror. "What…" Adrenaline surged through her and she turned. "Alistair…!"
They got the warning at the same time, the cold, dark chill that filled their minds as it did all Grey Wardens, every nerve-ending within their bodies flaring up. There was barely time to register the sheer numbers before the door to the top floor crashed inward, the fresh wave of darkspawn flooding through the opening, swarming towards them like a sea of death and carnage.
Alistair had his sword raised and his shield out; she had her staff and was already chanting another spell. But it was too late. The darkspawn converged upon them, and everything went dark.
Her head hurt.
Not the 'hitting your head on the book you was reading because you fell asleep' type of hurt, or the 'drank a bit too much of the mead that got smuggled up from the Circle kitchen' hurt. This was the type of pain that came from casting a spell far beyond your own level or breaking every bone in your body. This was so much pain that even trying to open her eyes hurt, and Yllia couldn't keep herself from gasping as she attempted to do just that.
A hand touched her forehead, and she felt the cool glass of a vial touch her lips as liquid was tipped down her throat. Almost instantly she could feel the potion work its way through her system, bringing her to a more heightened state of awareness.
"That will have to be enough," a familiar, husky voice said from above her. "I am not much of a healer, but this ought to take off some of the edge."
And it had – the knife-blade sharp pain had dulled to more of a club, and Yllia was finally able to open her eyes. She blinked owlishly up at the blurred face that hovered over hers, struggling to get her eyes back into focus – then her brain caught up with her and she realized she didn't need to see perfectly to know who the face belonged to. She recognized the voice.
"Morrigan?"
Maker, was that her voice? It was so hoarse and scratched she sounded like an old man! She pressed her hand against her throat and swallowed, wincing sharply. Feeling a sense of déjà vu as Morrigan passed her a water flask – was this going to be how she was going to wake up from now on? – she downed half of the water before she had a chance to really taste it. She drank so fast that she started coughing, the rasping sound harsh to her ears.
Morrigan snatched the flask out of her hand. "I didn't give this to you so that you could drown yourself with it!" she snapped irritably. "Twas a difficult enough task getting you to wake up – I'd rather not have to repeat it."
"Sorry," Yllia apologized thickly. She coughed again, clearing her lungs out, and sighed with relief when she felt her throat begin to feel a bit more normal. She blinked again, and her eyes finally focused. "Where am I?"
"My home," Morrigan replied simply, "where else would I take you? I wouldn't move too suddenly if I were you. You've been out for a few days."
A few days? Ignoring Morrigan's warning, Yllia pushed herself up on the bed, wincing as her body protested from the sudden movement. She looked around the small room – a completely unfamiliar room, but she felt the touch of magic on everything there. Yes; this was Flemeth and Morrigan's hut, and she didn't much care about that except that it meant one thing.
She was no longer in the Tower of Ishal.
She looked over at Morrigan, her eyes wide. "What happened?" she asked. "How did I get here?"
"My mother rescued you and your companion off the top of the Tower of Ishal," Morrigan replied in a matter-of-fact tone, as if old women retrieving Grey Wardens off of an eighty-foot tower were a common event. "The entire place was overrun with darkspawn – you were lucky that she got there in time."
Yllia's heart seized on one word – companion. "Alistair," she said, drawing in a sharp breath as she realized that in the confusion of waking up she'd completely forgotten that she had not been alone. "Is he..?"
"In about the same shape you were in, but he awoke some hours ago," Morrigan replied with a shrug of one slim shoulder. "He's in something of a state given that I would not allow him to disturb you while you slept. I do believe he does not trust me to see that you are properly tended to."
Somehow that didn't surprise Yllia, but she was too relieved to hear that Alistair was all right to comment. She pressed her hand to her forehead and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. The last thing she remembered was the waves of darkspawn charging into the tower, and Alistair – still recovering from the battle with the ogre – going for his sword. And she hadn't been ready with her spells, her mind reeling from what she had just seen out the window…
She stilled, and slowly opened her eyes. "The battle," she whispered. "Do you know what happened?"
"The king's reinforcements quit the field," Morrigan said flatly, without preamble. "There were no survivors on the battlefield. The king, his men, and every Grey Warden – they were all cut down by the darkspawn." She paused, and then added, "You do not want me to tell you what became of their bodies."
No. No, Yllia really did not want to know. The images of the merchants that they had found in the Wilds were still fresh in her mind, and that had been a small ambush. She pressed her lips together and pressed her face into her hands, struggling to compose herself.
It was a strange, overwhelming feeling, the sense of her heart aching for another person. She had met the king only briefly, and although as a monarch he had not especially placed an impression on her, there was no doubt that he had a bright, sincere soul, and she ached for the loss of it.
But more than the king, she ached for Duncan, for the other Grey Wardens that she had never had the chance to meet – and now never would. Recalling Duncan's face the last time she'd seen it, she recognized the resignation that had been in his eyes; he had known that there was a good chance he would not survive the battle. Yet he had gone forward, because that was what a Grey Warden did, wasn't it? However…
It was one thing to die in battle.
It was entirely different to die in battle because you were betrayed.
Now Yllia knew with certainty what she had seen. The beacon had been lit. The signal had been given. And for whatever reason, whatever purpose, Teryn Loghain had turned his back on the king and sounded a retreat, leaving Cailan, Duncan, and everyone in that valley to die.
"Does Alistair know?" she asked quietly, working to keep her voice even.
"I have told him, yes," Morrigan replied. "He – what are you doing?"
Yllia was already pushing back the fur blanket that had been covering her, throwing her legs over the side of the bed. She reeled for a moment, holding herself perfectly still as she waited out the vertigo her sudden movement had caused. The moment it passed, she started for the cottage door.
Morrigan cleared her throat. "Far be it for me to dissuade you from making your own decisions," she said, "but if you're that intent on pulling your friend out of his brooding state, you may want to rethink your choice of wardrobe first." She paused for half a beat, then added, "Then again, going out as you are might actually do wonders for his mood."
Yllia froze, hand on the door, and looked down.
Her face colored at the sight of nothing but bare flesh and smallclothes, the flush sweeping down her neck and shoulders. She stepped back from the door and slowly turned back to Morrigan, unable to meet the other woman's gaze. "I don't suppose you know where my clothes are?"
Alistair's back was to the cottage when she finally emerged, this time fully clothed in what remained of her robes, her feet shoved into a pair of Morrigan's boots – her own had apparently not cleaned as well as the rest of her belongings and couldn't be salvaged. It made for awkward movement, as Morrigan was taller than Yllia and her feet a few sizes larger. At least she didn't have to wear Morrigan's clothing.
When she paused behind him, trying to figure out how to announce her presence, he suddenly turned and met her eyes.
All thoughts of finding something to say flew from Yllia's mind; there were no words that seemed appropriate in the face of the depth of emotion that she saw in Alistair's eyes. Raw pain, fierce anger, and crushing vulnerability warred for supremacy, and for once Yllia didn't care about appearances – she closed the distance between the two of them and threw her arms around him, holding on tight.
She felt him tense briefly, but then his arms came up as well, his grip just as crushing. They stood like that silently for several minutes, both of them lost in thoughts and memories of the ordeal that they had somehow managed to survive. Yllia closed her eyes and pressed her face against his chest, drawing in a deep breath. She relished the solid feel of his arms, the very real scent of his armor and skin that screamed that they were alive.
Then they were suddenly breaking apart, releasing each other and stepping back in unison, as if they'd just realized the number of personal boundaries that they had both overstepped. She wrapped her arms around her waist, and he shoved his hand through his hair, causing the short strands to stick up in scattered directions as they perfected the art of not looking each other in the eye.
"Are you all right?" Alistair asked, breaking the stretching silence first.
Yllia nodded, her hair falling over her eyes from the motion. She hadn't taken the time to retie it, and the longer strands obscured parts of her face. "Are you?" she asked.
"Physically a little sore, but nothing that won't go away in time," he replied. "Morrigan and her mother fixed us both up, I guess. Other than that…" His expression darkened. "Did she tell you what happened?"
She nodded, and watched the muscles in his throat and jaw work as he clenched them. "I don't want to believe it," he said fiercely. "Teryn Loghain…he was King Maric's closest friend and ally. Why would he abandon Maric's son? It's got to be some kind of mistake!"
Yllia bit her lip, and then placed her hand on his arm, lifting her head to meet his eyes. "I saw it, Alistair," she said. He stiffened. "When I lit the beacon, I had a clear view of the battlefield. I saw Loghain's army pulling back."
His eyes widened slightly, and for a moment she saw a flash of defiance – she flinched automatically, bracing herself for denials and accusations, for him to tell her that she was lying, that she couldn't have seen what she said she saw. She knew that look too well; she'd seen in on the face of more than one Templar in her lifetime.
Instead of unleashing his anger out on her, he pulled back from her hand and turned, gripping the wooden fence behind him. Alistair closed his eyes and hung his head. "Why?" he asked in a low voice. "Why would Loghain do it? I don't understand."
She heard the rawness in his voice, and something inside her snapped. "I don't understand it, either," she said, "but we're not going to find the answers standing around here. The darkspawn aren't going to stop at Ostagar. There's nothing between them and the rest of Ferelden now – except for us."
"Us?" Alistair let out a sharp laugh. "We are exactly two – count, two - Grey Wardens. An entire army couldn't stop the darkspawn – what makes you think we can?"
"What makes you think we can't?" Yllia countered. "Think about it for a moment, Alistair. We may be the only Grey Wardens left in Ferelden now, but we certainly aren't the only people. Didn't Duncan say at one point that not all of the armies made it to Ostagar before the darkspawn attacked? That means there may still be help out there that we could go to." She looked at him searchingly. She knew next to nothing about the politics of the world outside of the Circle – she was going on a little theory and a lot of hope, but it was going to be Alistair who would need to fill in the gaps for her.
Some of his brief cynicism had vanished while she'd been talking, and she could practically see the light coming into his eyes as her words registered.
"Your friend speaks much truth." Yllia started and turned to see Flemeth approaching them from…wherever it was she had been apparently lurking during their conversation. The old witch's eyes were on Alistair as she spoke, and she raised an eyebrow at him. "See? As I told you, she is alive and well. He was quite worried for you, you know." This last was directed to Yllia, and the words brought another hint of red to his face. Yllia's as well, as she recalled their unexpected embrace of relief. She still couldn't quite believe she'd been that bold – and from the slight smirk on Flemeth's face, she was fairly certain the other mage had seen it all.
Yllia was glad she'd left her hair down, because it made an excellent shield to hide her own expression. "I understand we owe you thanks," she said humbly. "Morrigan told me that you were the one who brought us down off of the tower."
Flemeth nodded, merely accepting the thanks with little fanfare. "I did," she confirmed, "with a bit of magic. Given the number of darkspawn swarming that tower, it appears that I got there none too soon."
"Why?" Alistair asked abruptly. "Why save us?"
She inclined her head slightly, regarding the two of them. "We cannot have all the Grey Wardens dying at once, can we? It has always been their duty to unite the lands against the Blight – or did that change while I wasn't looking?"
Since Yllia had said nearly the same thing just moments earlier, Alistair looked rather chagrined.
"Of course it didn't change," Yllia said firmly, crossing her arms over her chest. "But we're in a precarious position now." She looked at Alistair. "Duncan could barely convince the nobles that we were facing a Blight, and he was the Warden-Commander."
Alistair nodded in agreement to that. "We could declare it a Blight until we're blue in the face," he said, "but if no one believes us then it's like we're talking to stone. And…if Loghain really did betray us…" He looked frustrated again. "I don't understand why he'd do this!"
"Men's hearts hold shadows darker than any tainted creature," Flemeth murmured, and her words sent a shiver sliding down Yllia's spine. She dug her nails a little into her arms. "Perhaps he believes the Blight is an army he can outmaneuver. Perhaps he does not see that the evil behind it is the true threat. The archdemon."
An image of a dragon against a green-lit sky made Yllia's throat tighten. She hadn't dreamed of it again, but she didn't have to in order to remember what she had seen; her dreams always stayed with her, as vivid and detailed as if they were part of her everyday life. As she recalled the way the dragon had turned its gaze upon her she shoved it into the back of her mind, focusing on Flemeth and Alistair so that she didn't get lost in her thoughts.
"The archdemons are supposed to be the Old Gods of Tevinter, right?" Yllia asked, recalling the conversation she and Alistair had had…Maker, had it only been a few days earlier? She had no recollection of the passage of time. Morrigan had said a few days, but to Yllia's memory it had been less than that – and yet it felt like so much longer.
"According to the tales," Flemeth replied, "it is said that long ago, the Maker sent the Old Gods of the ancient Tevinter Imperium to slumber in prisons deep beneath the surface. An archdemon is supposedly one of the Old Gods awakened and tainted by the darkspawn. History says that it is a fearsome and immortal thing – and only fools ignore history." There was no mistaking the derision in her tone, and Yllia felt herself agreeing. History stated that four Blights had already come to pass – four archdemons. Why was it so hard to convince people that another had come upon them?
Flemeth's confirmation of what Alistair had told her before didn't offer Yllia much comfort. "What reason could Loghain have for betraying the king?" she asked. "The throne? He's the queen's father, right?"
Alistair nodded. "Yes, but I can't see how he'll get away with murder."
"You speak as if he were the first king to gain his throne that way," Flemeth snapped, causing Alistair to jump. "Grow up, boy!"
Alistair narrowed his eyes at the admonishment, and his own voice grew sharp with unexpected authority. "If Arl Eamon knew what he did, he would never stand for it! The Landsmeet would never stand for it! Ferelden would fall into civil war!"
"Who's Arl Eamon?" Yllia asked, turning to Alistair.
He looked at her. "Arl Eamon is the Arl of Redcliffe," he replied – and then paused, bringing his hand to his chin in thought. "Arl Eamon wasn't at Ostagar; he never answered the king's summons, I'm not sure why. He'll still have all of his men, and he was Cailan's uncle."
Understanding dawned on Yllia, and she looked at Alistair eagerly. "Do you think he'd be able to help us?" she asked. "If we go to Redcliffe…"
"We could appeal to him for help!" Alistair's expression suddenly grew animated. "He's a good man, and well respected – the Landsmeet would listen to him." But then, almost as quickly as their hopes had risen, he suddenly looked uncertain. "But I don't know if his help would be enough. He's got an army, true, but it's not as if he can defeat the darkspawn horde by himself."
A somewhat secretive smile spread across Flemeth's face, as if she had thought of something that neither of them had. "You have more at your disposal than you think," she hinted to them both.
Yllia and Alistair looked at each other for a moment.
"The treaties!" they exclaimed in unison. "Of course!" Alistair continued. "With those treaties, we can enlist aid from dwarves, elves, mages – all over! They're obligated to help us during a Blight!"
"I may be old," Flemeth said slyly, "but dwarves, elves, mages, this Arl Eamon and who knows what else…this sounds like an army to me."
Not even Yllia's hair could hide the shine in her eyes. "If we can go to them, convince them that we're facing a Blight and get their aid, then we'd have enough of an alliance to face off against the darkspawn," she said. Counting the mages in the Circle Tower alone and given magic's effectiveness against the darkspawn, she could already see what a valuable asset it could prove to be. "And if Arl Eamon can help us, we stand a chance of exposing Loghain for his betrayal and keeping Ferelden from civil war." She reached up and brushed her hair back, tucking the loose strands behind her ear. "And as easy as it was to say all of that, it's not going to be easy to do, is it?"
"When has it ever?" Alistair asked dryly. He pressed his lips together, and all trace of his earlier vulnerability and uncertainty had vanished. "It's always been the Grey Wardens duty to stand against a Blight – and right now, we're the Grey Wardens. That means it's up to us to see this through."
"Whatever we have to do," Yllia murmured softly.
Flemeth crossed her arms over her chest. "So you are set, then?" she asked. "Ready to be Grey Wardens?"
Yllia and Alistair looked at each other, and then gave quick nods of ascent. Yllia looked back at Flemeth, and despite her misgivings at dealing with the Witch, and the uneasiness that she still felt when she thought back to the last time they had met, the situation was urgent enough for her to set those aside. "Is there anything else you could offer to help?" she asked. "Anything at all?"
Flemeth looked at her for a moment, and their eyes met. She tilted her head to one side, regarding Yllia thoughtfully. "Now that you mention it," she said, "I do have one more thing."
"Tell me I'm not the only one who thinks that this is a bad idea," Alistair muttered to Yllia as the two of them knelt with their packs, rearranging the various potions, herbs, and other bits of supplies that Flemeth had offered to them for their journey.
"Oh, come on," Yllia replied, doing her best to keep her tone light. "It might not be that bad."
"Not that bad?" he repeated incredulously. "Well, at least I know who to hold responsible if I wake up one morning in the body of a toad."
She grinned at him, shoving the last of the potions into her pack and tying it off, looking over at Morrigan. The other mage was standing off to the side with a pack of her own sitting at her feet, looking rather put out.
Flemeth's offer, as it turned out, had been in the form of her own daughter – and she hadn't exactly left the option open to negotiation. Of course, Alistair had protested, but Yllia had placated him by pointing out that Morrigan was not only better equipped to lead them out of the Wilds intact, but also that her magic would likely come in handy. Morrigan had added in a few biting remarks of her own, aimed in Alistair's direction, but in the end the decision had been made – Morrigan would join them on their journey, wherever it would end up leading them.
They'd eaten a quick meal, and Yllia had taken some time to do her hair – it was more practical to keep it out of her eyes – and now they were preparing to go. Alistair had suggested that they wait until morning, as much of the day was already gone, but Flemeth had told them in no uncertain terms that they were to depart from the Wilds immediately.
Whether she was simply tired of having them at her house, or there was some more pressing reason for their departure, Yllia didn't know – but she was inclined to listen to the older mage. As crazy as some of them ended up being, Flemeth did not leave the impression that she wasted her words.
With packs filled and tied, and armor and weapons in as good a shape as they were going to be, the two of them stood up and walked over to where Morrigan stood waiting. "Ready to go then, are we?" she asked, skipping all greeting. "Since it appears I have little choice in this matter, I have given some thought to where our destination should lie."
"Really now?" Alistair asked, raising an eyebrow. "Some thought?"
Yllia shot him a warning look. "What are you thinking?" she asked.
"The supplies Mother has given us will not last for long," Morrigan replied, "and 'twill be difficult to reach any of the larger holdings without replenishing. The two of you could also, I might add, do with some replacements to your attire."
Yllia looked down at her tattered once-robes ruefully, and then eyed the dents and cracks that lines Alistair's own armor. "You could say that," she said.
"There is a village of some note a few days journey from the Wilds called Lothering," Morrigan continued. "I have been there on occasion, and know the way. We should be able to find what we need there."
"Lothering's right in the middle of the old Imperial Highway and it's still used as a hub in the trade route," Alistair said with a nod, looking like he'd rather eat roast spider than agree with Morrigan. "We might not only be able to find supplies there, but also information."
"That'd be just as useful," Yllia agreed. She nodded. "All right, then. We'll head for Lothering."