disclaimer type=standard

Anything you recognise is Bioware's. I daresay anything else belongs to them too.

/disclaimer

o_ooo000ooo_o

Cassandra looked over the elf, considering her words. "What was the extent of your relationship with Teyrn Aedan?"

Kathryn sighed. "I liked him. I liked him a lot. I still do, to tell the truth."

"Oh? You do not have a favourable opinion of the noble classes as a rule, from what you've said so far."

"True," she agreed. "As a rule, nobles tend not to be the sharpest swords in the armoury. When people are taught from birth that they are destined to rule, they don't tend to consider things like, say, ability to lead. It's not just humans either; Branka was a bright smith who invented a useful tool, and got raised to 'living goddess' because of it. She promptly went so far round the bend she could see the back of her own head, and the rest of her new house paid the price.

"But Aedan is very unlike the rest of the Fereldan nobility, with one, or maybe two, notable exceptions. He is a genuinely nice person, noble in both birth and deed, but most of all…" she leaned closer and lowered her gravelly voice, as though imparting a great secret. "Aedan is competent."

The Seeker's expression didn't change. "Competent," she repeated flatly. "That's his most desirable attribute?"

Kathryn shrugged, and leaned back again. "In my experience, when it comes to the general population of Thedas, competency is so rare it's practically a divine power."

Cassandra felt that there was nothing she could add to that, mostly since she happened to be in complete agreement. "Does Teyrn Aedan return your feelings? You were in Orzammar for a number of days without a chaperone."

The elf made a face, a grimace of disgust. "No. Between you and me, I did try and get friendly with him the night before I left Orzammar. But he turned me down flat. Politely of course - handsome, rich noblemen are used to women showing interest in them - but he wasn't interested in me."

Cassandra fought back a nasty smile at the thought that this beautiful elf was turned down. Such a reaction was beneath her. "Oh? What happened?"

A shrug. "I was embarrassed for misreading the situation, but he was kind enough to explain why."

"And why was that? From your story, I get the impression that he was just as taken with you."

Kathryn shook her head. "No. Those smiles of his that used to make my heart jump are simply his usual, charming self. I just read too much into them. As I'd grown up in the Circle, I don't really pick up on social cues all that well. Leliana had explained that to me about half a year before, but I didn't really understand at the time. As to why, apparently I resemble his first love quite strikingly, apart from my colouring."

Cassandra frowned slightly. "I assume that was the elf, Iona? Lady Landra's maid?"

Kathryn nodded. "That was she. Her mistress was a friend of Eleanor Cousland, and Iona had been her personal maid for six years or so. They used to visit Castle Cousland several times a year. Aedan was smitten the first time he laid eyes on her, when he was just twelve. He finally managed to summon up the courage to talk to her the evening before Howe's men sacked the Castle, and discovered that she was quite besotted with him too. Iona was one of the casualties."

Cassandra placed a fist against her chin, thinking deeply. If the younger Cousland brother could be contacted, perhaps he could be of use in convincing the Warden to help. She still seemed to hold him in high favour. "When did you see the Teyrn again?"

"A few weeks later at the Landsmeet. We were both elevated, as it were. Alistair named him Teyrn of Gwaren not just because he married Alfstanna for the Crown's stability, but because of his success in negotiating with the dwarves. Having another person respected by the King of Orzammar was very much to Alistair's benefit."

That surprised her. "His negotiations were that successful?"

Kathryn grinned, a wicked gleam in her eye. "Oh yes. Remember, his father had been Ferelden's premier noble ambassador, and he'd given both his sons a very impressive education, which included all aspects of diplomacy and trade negotiations, not just wine tasting. Then, Aedan spent a year on the streets in Denerim, which hardened him up and eroded away all his naivety."

She leaned back and her eyes lost focus, as she stared at a happy memory. "After I mentioned a possible second family to negotiate with, Aedan made some suggestions about how to structure the trade between the families; a tactic to make Bhelen's contingent leave to discuss the possibilities with the King. He then contacted and opened negotiations with Orta of House Ortan. From what he told me, she was excited at the prospect, but as a new deshyr, she was inexperienced in politics and lacked the resources to get such an undertaking moving. She believed that she would be in a position to get the necessary resources in place to retake Ortan Thaig in a couple of years. That didn't stop them hammering out a contract in the mean time, with some very nice inducements for the Couslands to wait until her House was ready."

"So?"

"So, when Bhelen discovered that House Ortan had signed a contract with Aedan, he spat stone, I believe the phrase is. He dismissed his advisors and negotiated with Aedan directly, offering up even more on the condition that he broke the contract he'd just signed. In those talks, Aedan 'mournfully agreed' to suspend dealings with House Ortan for, oh, say two years," the Warden smirked at the Seeker, before finishing, "in return for some very juicy concessions with the Aeducans."

Cassandra swallowed. Perhaps convincing Teyrn Aedan wouldn't be such an easy task. "I see. I had no idea Teyrn Aedan was so skilled a negotiator. So, both your missions to Orzammar were successful."

"Absolutely."

"What happened then?"

o_ooo000ooo_o

Captain Francois was grateful that I was prepared to set out south so soon, at least, from what I could make out from his expression. He was definitely a graduate of the Loghain Mac Tir School Of Non Verbal Communication.

He left half his men and the beefy sergeant at the lawless camp outside the Orzammar gates. They would accompany Aedan back to Highever once he'd finished negotiating with the dwarves. With me on my horse and Thunder at my stirrup (well, at my knee really), we set off through Gherlen's Pass and south down the road on the western edge of Lake Calenhad.

It was a picturesque part of the country, arguably the most picturesque. Beautiful snow-dappled mountains on one side, glittering water on the other with the smell of un-blighted forest scenting the air. We passed the odd group of pilgrims, refugees, travellers or merchant wagon headed north from Redcliffe, making use of the clement weather.

A couple of days out of Orzammar, at a bend in the windy road, the soldiers on point stopped marching and readied their weapons. I immediately dismounted and drew my sword; I barely had the skill to stay on horseback at anything more than a trot. If I tried to fight in the saddle, I'd probably end up stabbing my own horse. Through my own thigh.

A pair of corpses lay around the bend in the road. That in itself was not unusual on the lawless byways of Ferelden, but what did surprise me was the amount of blood staining the muddy road. The pair had obviously put up quite a fight, and had taken more than their fair share out of their attackers before being cut down. Deep ruts in the crimson mud over the top of the chaotic footmarks revealed that a wagon of moderate size had been taken away from the scene. Thunder whined a bit, and nosed around at the edge of the road. He found something, barked a notification, and picked it up in his mouth.

I turned to the Captain. "I think there are some bandits nearby who need seeing to."

He gave me a grave look. "As much as I agree, that is not our job, Warden-Commander. The Bann of this Bannorn can be notified."

I sighed. "I am aware that your orders begin and end with keeping me safe, but I'd like to finish the job these poor souls started. I find the existence of bandits offensive." I squatted down as best as my armour would allow and gingerly touched the bodies. They were stiff. They'd been dead for a few hours at least.

He frowned. "Started?"

"Despite their wounds, the bodies are whole," I pointed out as I stood back up. I gestured over at Thunder. "So whose arm is that?"

One of the younger soldiers turned and retched at the sight of a big war-hound casually holding a severed human arm in his jaws.

Captain Francois sighed. "Very well, Warden-Commander, I will assist you in this matter. I suspect I would not be able to dissuade you any more than I could dissuade Teyrn Fergus. But I would like to state for the record that I am doing this under protest."

"Duly noted," I replied with a nod.

"Corporal! Take a couple of men and erect a pyre for those poor bastards. The rest of you, come with me." He turned back to me. "Can your hound lead us to the criminals?"

Thunder dropped the arm and gave the Captain an offended growl and a deep, "Whuff," of superiority. He turned and trotted off into the sparse trees, towards the west.

Odd, I thought. He wasn't taking us along the wagon tracks. I had assumed that it had been the bandits who'd taken it. Perhaps they merely looted it and some other enterprising soul nicked it.

Nevertheless, we made our way along behind Thunder as he trotted slowly through the undergrowth, occasionally putting his nose up into the air and having a good sniff. A half mile or so later, we began hearing the sounds of men around a camp. The Captain held up a hand for silence, and we all crept forward, our weapons drawn and ready.

There were about a dozen of them, scattered about the clearing where they'd made their camp. No visible guards were posted, making our approach difficult to navigate through unbroken forest, but avoiding detection trivial.

From our vantage point, I examined the camp. Three of the bandits were lying in blood-drenched clothes on pallets on the far side of the clearing. Two of them looked to be recently deceased, judging by messy wounds to their chest and bellies. The last of the trio was trembling, sweaty and missing an arm from the elbow down. He had a crude tourniquet made out of a torn strip of cloth around his bicep. From the congealing pool of blood on the rough blanket under him, it wasn't working.

Four more of bandits were walking wounded, with arms in a makeshift splint, or a dirty bandage around the head or walking with a newly acquired limp. As a profession, banditry didn't exactly call out to the most talented of men, but this lot seemed to be piss-poor specimens even by those already low standards. It seemed that they completely stuffed up and picked a fight with the wrong sort of people. The sort who fight back. Still, two fighters killing or marking seven bandits was an impressive ratio.

Captain Francois appeared next to me, also scanning the camp for threats. He gestured towards the only bandit with a crossbow, and pointed to Thunder. I shook my head, pointed at the bandit, and then wiggled my fingers. He deigned to look abashed, and nodded once.

The man who had, presumably, left his arm back on the road for Thunder to play with suddenly started convulsing, and began screaming. The bandits began complaining at the noise, calling for someone do something about it. One fellow with a dirty bandage around his head and a bottle in his hand stomped over to the wounded. He upended the contents over the screaming man's stump, which caused another agonised shriek. The armless bandit grabbed at his stump with his free hand, completely opening the artery once more. The one whose attempts at medical care left quite a bit to be desired crouched down before jamming the neck of his bottle into the wounded man's mouth, giving him a chance to either drink or drown.

He didn't seem keen to do either. After a few seconds struggle, the bandit with the bottle gave up, swore, pulled a knife, and silenced the wounded man permanently.

A shudder ran up my spine at the blatant murder. It occurred to me that I probably would have been obliged to make such a decision more than once on my adventures around Ferelden had it not been for Wynne and her skills. I lined up the bowman, gave Captain Francois a signal, and froze the bandit on the spot.

It took a few seconds for any of the other bandits to notice that they were under attack, and by then it was far too late.

The battle was short, and definitely not sweet. The bandits' armour was barely worth wearing, and their martial skills were somewhat lacking, though a couple of them had some incongruously high-quality swords. They had no defences against magic, had set no traps, snares or defensive structures around the camp, and had no escape. A fact evidenced by Thunder as he brought down the only bandit among them bright enough to try and leg it.

One of my soldiers got a cut on his shoulder, and that was the only wound we sustained in the assault. He appeared quite embarrassed about being the only one hurt, and got some friendly ribbing from his fellows. I healed the wound wordlessly and set about examining the camp while he proudly examined his new scar.

The bandits had been eking out a meagre existence, subsisting mainly on the lean game in the area. Examining the crude sanitation measures, I guessed that they'd been in the camp for less than a week. There was little in the way of supplies, and an astoundingly pitiful amount of coin. Indeed, had the dozen men worked on the docks of Highever or Denerim for the week, they'd have easily matched their takings; in all probability they'd have exceeded it. So, they were stupid, wanted or desperate. Those were the only reasons I could think of that would inspire a man to take up such a dangerous, yet unrewarding career.

There was a brief argument among the soldiers. I glanced over to see the Captain telling one of his men off for looting. It was odd, I hadn't seen anything here worth taking, and I'd been looking. I rose and cleared my throat. "What did you find?"

Captain Francois ignored me as he shouted at the man. "We are soldiers of Ferelden. We do not loot the dead!" he said heatedly.

I snorted. "Exactly! At least, not while officers or nobles are watching, isn't that right?"

"Warden-Commander?" he gasped, sounding horrified at the idea. The soldier glanced at me gratefully, but ducked his head.

I sighed. I'd been around enough soldiers in the past year to know that a great deal of less-than-honourable behaviour went on away from the gaze of interested eyes. "Captain, I fed and equipped a group of eight people, one golem and a dog for months with what I could scavenge from people who tried to kill me. These bandits don't deserve the decency reserved for honourably defeated foes. What did you find, soldier?"

He glanced between the Captain, and me but held out a silver pendant. I recognised instantly, even with the briefest glance. With wide eyes I said, "Did anyone else find one?" I demanded of the soldiers. "I will give you a sovereign for each one you find."

My generosity spurred the men into action, even under the disapproving gaze of the Captain. I pulled out a gold coin and handed it to the soldier, who gratefully exchanged it for the small pendant.

Another soldier shouted with glee. He too stepped up and handed over another identical pendant, with an apologetic shrug to the Captain. I paid him as well.

Captain Francois ground out, through clenched teeth, "I would thank you for not undermining my authority, Warden-Commander."

I nodded. In a low voice, I said, "I'm sorry, Captain. But this is important. I need to know how many of these pendants are in the camp. And having your men hide any from me for fear of upsetting you would be counter productive."

He narrowed his eyes, but nodded. "I see. What are they? What is so important?"

I hesitated. "How devout are you, Captain?"

He looked confused at my question. "I honour the Maker and his bride. I might not get to the Chantry as often as I should, but I hope to stand by the Maker's side when my time comes."

I nodded, pleased that he wasn't a fanatic. It meant that I could discuss possibilities with him. I held up the pair of silver pendants and gave them a shake. "These are given to templars when they first take their vows. They wear them constantly, and on their death, they are returned to the Chantry."

His eyes widened. "Templars?" He looked around the camp at the dead bandits. "Them? No!"

I looked around too, but at the soldiers rather than the bodies. "No. I don't think so. Templars are well trained to defend themselves, especially in comparison to these pitiful wretches. Your men don't seem to have found any more pendants, so I'm inclined to think that they were just random loot. I'm hoping so, at any rate."

"I should say so! A templar would never resort to banditry!" he hissed at my in a low voice.

I nodded carefully, to hide my opinions on the matter. "It is highly unlikely, I agree. It would be more likely that..." I stopped, looking around for a wagon.

There were a couple of decrepit wagons over on the edge of the camp; one of them - the one with red-tinged mud spattered on the wheels - still had a few crates on it. I trotted over to it, jumped aboard and rummaged around. The boxes were all sitting open, and mostly contained clothing and camping equipment. One crate even had some cooking pots and plates. The ones that contained food had already been unloaded and emptied. It was similar in design to the one I'd driven from Denerim to Highever. Having not seen an ox in camp, I jumped down and walked around to the front of the wagon. I pushed the driver's seat up to look in the spot reserved for feed.

I slammed it shut.

"Shit."

"Warden-Commander? What is it?"

I sighed, but raised the seat again and looked down gloomily into the contents of the feed box.

A well oiled set of tools. A small sack of nails. A few rope coils of various thicknesses. Several pieces of prepared timber, cut to size as replacement pieces of the wheels on the wagon. A pair of bulging money-pouches. An open crate packed with potion vials, about three-quarters of them full of blue liquid. And two sets of neatly packed templar armour.

The Captain looked over my shoulder and nodded. "Ah. So the poor souls on the road were templars. That explains the pendants."

I nodded slowly. "It explains quite a lot. Their martial skills. The casualties taken by the bandits. And yes, it explains the pendants and the two high-quality swords among the dross the bandits were carrying." I didn't mention the questions it raised. Like why the templars were travelling incognito. And why they had all the camping equipment and tools necessary to repair the wagon. They were set for a long, long trip.

He pointed at the open crate. "What are those blue concoctions?"

"Lyrium," I replied absently. Well, he wouldn't know about the templar need for it.

He looked at me. "That's the stuff that you use, isn't it? For your magic?"

"Something like that," I said softly, still running thoughts through my head and not at all interested in a lengthy exposition of the relationship between magic, mana and lyrium.

"Why would templars have so much?" he asked, genuinely curious. "Were they transporting it to the Circle, do you think?"

I shrugged, figuring that I really shouldn't let his speculation go too far. My life was going to be interesting enough without me spreading rumours about the evils of lyrium addiction in highly trained, well-armed fanatics housed in every village in the country. "I doubt it. They probably confiscated it from some apostates," I lied. "We should take it to the Chantry at Redcliffe," I finished to forestall any further complaints. "The armour and lyrium will fit in our supply wagon, yes? We don't have a spare ox to hitch this wagon to."

He nodded. "Easily, but then, this wagon is not set up to be drawn by an animal. See here? This crossbar? Those two templars were pushing the wagon themselves."

Ugh. A long journey was bad enough when you had to walk. Pulling a heavy wagon along would be awful. "Well, I'm not going to push my luck with your men and ask them to push the wagon," I said with a smile. I reached in and pocketed the pair of money-pouches, before grabbing the crate of azure vials. "Could you get some of your men to grab the armour? We can leave the tools, but I'll take the lyrium. It does funny things to a non-mage if you breathe it in or get it on your skin."

"Funny?" he asked tentatively, leaning back and suddenly happy to put a bit of distance between himself and the lyrium.

I shrugged. "Funny - as in entertaining. But only from a bystander's point of view."

It took us almost an hour to scour the rest of the bandit camp for usable goods and make our way back to the road. A plume of black, oily smoke meant that we had no chance of losing our way. The pyre burning the pair of templars crackled nicely in the still, late-morning air.

I discretely dipped into the newly acquired money-pouches to give each of the soldiers a half-sovereign, a bonus for the little side trip. I didn't want there to be any ill will aimed at the pair who'd been lucky enough to locate a templar pendant. I knew all about keeping your followers happy. We were soon on the move once again.

That night at camp, Captain Francois wandered over to where I'd set up my tent and fire. I sat before my fire with my back against a log. Thunder was spread out in front of me lying on his back. I had buried my bare feet in the fur on his belly, kneading with my toes. It was entertaining to see just how much control I had over his rear leg. If I rubbed my feet one way, I got a lolling tongue and a canine expression of bliss. If I wriggled my toes in a slightly different way, I could get his leg kicking up and down so fast it was almost vibrating. Thunder seemed to find the whole exercise very satisfactory, if his soft grunts and yips of joy were any indication.

"Er, Warden-Commander? May I ask you a question?"

I nodded, looking up at the man.

He looked uncomfortable. "Are all mages capable of casting the spells you use? Freezing that bandit, and blasting those others senseless? Healing those wounds?"

I cleared my throat, wondering if I should have included him in the discussion of magic with Fergus. They seemed to have similar thoughts and concerns. Fortunately, that had given me some practise in reassuring others. "Most mages aren't as powerful as I am, and we do have individual specialities. I don't really have a talent for healing."

He blinked. "I find that hard to believe. You've healed every wound my men have suffered."

I shrugged. "They've still got scars, and the underlying tissue will still take a while to knit back together properly." He looked at me in disbelief. I chuckled and continued, "Wynne, the elderly witch who travelled with me during the Blight, is an unparalleled healer. She could heal those injuries so well you'd not know you were ever hurt. My field healing is pretty rudimentary in comparison. Why? What brings this on?"

He cleared his throat. "Er, well, I was speaking with my sergeant back at Orzammar, and my corporal on the way down here. When we left Denerim, the men were a bit wary at the idea of having to travel with a mage. But after a few weeks with you, well, they want to know if all mages can do the things you do." He waved his hands in a placating manner. "Not in a nervous way, you understand. It's just that they're quite keen on the idea of having a mage as a comrade now. I know His Majesty is inviting apostates to join the army, and the men are looking forward to it, surprisingly. A lot of people thought it a fool's notion to start with."

I raised an eyebrow. "And?"

He took a deep breath. "I've been a soldier for nearly fifteen years. And I'm honest enough to say that if it hadn't been for your magic, most of my men wouldn't have made it through that first battle with the darkspawn outside of Denerim. The men know it too. When we get back to the capital, I'm going to petition to have a couple of mages put under my command." He coughed, and lowered his voice, as though his superior officers in Denerim could hear his mutinous words from the other side of the country. "I'll be delighted with just one, you understand, but it never hurts to ask for more than you need."

I smiled and nodded in agreement. "Absolutely."

"Of course, the men would probably desert en masse if they were given orders to attack a mage, no offence meant. Respect goes both ways, you see."

I shook my head with a laugh. "None taken. And there are some skills and tactics that can help fight mages. If you interrupt their spell casting, most mages are just scrawny bookworms wearing no armour and holding a big stick. Archers are very good for that. And templars can drain the magic out of an area, and even a specific mage, leaving them pretty helpless. We have our strengths and weaknesses, but as part of a balanced group, we're invaluable."

Captain Francois nodded. "It strikes me that if the standing army in Ferelden did have a mage or two in every squad, then our job would suddenly become a lot easier."

I gave a soft chuckle. "Loghain said much the same thing, on more than one occasion."

He seemed a bit chipper after our talk. I suppose being compared favourably to Ferelden's greatest General in living memory would put a spring in the step of any career officer.

I was quite a bit chipper myself. Slowly but surely, mages were becoming more accepted.

We continued south. Now that I knew what to look for, I was able to spot a number of wagons being pushed by a pair of hearty travellers on the road. Most travellers poor enough to have to push their own cart were scrawny from short rations. But the incognito templars were all lean and muscular, with well-defined forearms. Zevran would have laughed at their efforts.

Our squad's corporal had asked at one point whether we should pass on our extra cargo onto one of them, but I had responded negatively. I pointed out that if they were trying to hide being templars, carrying around more embossed armour wouldn't really help. He agreed, but seemed troubled by the idea that templars had a need to hide their identity.

The next day, we rounded the western tip of Lake Calenhad. The Captain ordered a temporary camp set up for a few days. Most of the soldiers set about sharpening stakes and whatnot, all the defences paranoid officers thought necessary. Using the maps Alistair had provided, I took Thunder and a handful of soldiers and scouted around for the supposed entrance to the Deep Roads.

The Royal cartographers had scoured dozens of reports of darkspawn locations, and made some educated guesses. As it turned out, the guesses weren't necessary.

It was painfully obvious where the darkspawn had emerged.

A rocky outcrop on the side of a gentle hill looked to have exploded outwards. The darkspawn had marched straight over everything once they had disgorged onto the surface. Grass, crops, plants and trees were all trampled, pushed over and crushed under the feet of thousands of unholy, diseased monsters. There was one enormous cavern where the majority of the blighted bastards emerged, though within eyeshot there were about half a dozen smaller scars on the landscape. No wonder no one had returned to the nearby farmland. It looked as though the entire area had been stripped bare. It would be years before animals could graze here again.

Well, with the plans afoot, perhaps this would be a mercantile area, rather than a place for agriculture.

I left a couple of the soldiers at the entrance and scouted a few hundred yards into the main tunnel. It was irregular, as you'd expect from underground paths excavated by darkspawn, but large enough for ogres to traverse so long as they didn't mind ducking their heads on occasion. I got no sense of nearby darkspawn, though Thunder's ears did prick up at the sound of scurrying vermin in the side tunnels.

After a few hours of tedious exploration, the tunnel suddenly joined onto the dwarvern-made Deep Roads. Describing the underground highways as 'made' seemed almost disrespectful to me. Dwarvern-engineered sounded better, but just didn't encapsulate the sheer artistry and genius that had gone into their creation. The amount of time invested into such an undertaking spanning the length and breadth of Thedas was truly awe-inspiring.

The trio of soldiers at my back made murmurs of appreciation at the sight, and loosened up even more once the road opened onto a Thaig.

I recognised it as the Aeducan Thaig even though we'd entered from a different direction; the half-crushed-by-rock-fall look was quite distinctive. The last time I'd been here, I'd arrived in time to assist Lord Dace beat off a brace of deep stalkers (which we discovered to be quite tasty, and we'd eaten well for the first time in days). It was not much different coming from the new direction - half the Thaig was buried under rock falls - but there were a few broken chests on this side. The dwarves would need to expend quite some effort to get the place habitable again, but with a supply dump a mile or so away through some very defensible tunnels, that would simply be a matter of time.

I made some more detailed additions to the maps as we left, feeling my mood soar at the success of the scouting mission. With the Thaig no more than half an hour's march from a defensible spot on the surface, this area would become a booming trading centre quite soon. I began making plans for the Grey Wardens, and how the order could benefit from establishing a presence here too.

A few more days of travelling south saw us at the seat of power in Eamon's arling.

Redcliffe was looking quite a bit better than the last time I'd seen it. There were a couple of ships moored at the piers, and plenty of cargo being offloaded. Entire streets of houses had been torn down and in the process of being rebuilt, leaving the roads straighter and wider. It meant fewer dwellings for a smaller population, but it made travel much easier through the town.

As Eamon was based in Denerim these days, Isolde was nominally in charge of the arling. However, with news that the doors to the Circle were now open, she'd apparently jumped in a carriage and raced to see her son. True to form, she had once again left the town to fend for itself while she indulged her own desires. She would have undoubtedly welcomed me with nothing but withering scorn had she been at the castle, so that was all to the good. I had no desire to listen to the shrill harpy ever again.

Revered Mother Hannah greeted me cordially, with little real warmth. She excused herself quickly, claiming that she needed to organise an aid shipment to the Lothering Chantry, which was in the process of being reestablished. She gratefully accepted the templar armour and the silver pendants of the slain pair we discovered. She seemed somewhat surprised at also being given the crate of lyrium and the money-pouches. Only someone who had carried them from the bandit camp to our supply wagon would have been able to tell just how noticeably lighter they were.

The Ferelden Wardens still hadn't received their backdated tithes, after all. I was just… helping out.

I noticed that the templars assigned to the Redcliffe Chantry were few in number and either very young or close to retirement. The grizzled chap nominally in charge of the holy warriors was only months off being shipped to the Val Royeaux sanitarium, in my opinion. His hands trembled uncontrollably, and he quite often barked orders to people who weren't there.

The inhospitable treatment I got from the Chantry was more than offset by my reception from the villagers. People shouted my name and waved wherever I walked. Lloyd was quite happy to put me (and my escort) up in the tavern, even on the lean budget Captain Francois had to billet his men. He ran the inn by himself; apparently Bella had just up and left one day. Rumour was that she had hooked up with a widower travelling back to reopen his family's inn, having left it to flee the darkspawn horde. Lloyd still looked put out, but just about every local believed it was his fault, what with his poor treatment of her. Still, the beefy man was a much more cordial host, and the townsfolk were still appreciative of his efforts on that fateful night.

We stayed in Redcliffe for two days, time enough for Owen the blacksmith to repair the accumulated dings and pits in my escorts' armour and weapons. Then, once again, we left what passed for civilisation, and headed east.

Lothering was still a blighted, burned-out mess. Not one of the original buildings was standing, with the exception of the occasional stone wall. The army had been through here and set everything even remotely tainted alight, a tactic to enable eventual safe resettling. Even weeks afterwards, the air still held the scent of charred wood, soot and some other smells that were, quite thankfully, unidentifiable.

Even with the deliberate arson leaving the town almost uninhabitable, there were a few dozen hardy folk around. They were mostly living in tents or temporary shelters attached to the more stable, freestanding stone walls. One enterprising pair had set up a crude tavern, with barrels acting as both ale storage and a short bar counter. I suspected that the beer was on the green side - since it appeared they brewed it on site.

A single woman wearing a ragged priest's robes was ministering to a pair of praying settlers. We didn't bother her, and simply rode on past.

There was a squad of soldiers on the outskirts of town with Southern Bannorn heraldry on their kit. They watched us warily, making no move to welcome or challenge. The lord of those lands, Bann Ceorlic, wasn't a particularly popular man in Denerim these days. His father, Ceorlic Senior, had been an Orlesian bootlicker during the occupation, and his men had participated in the assassination of Maric's mother, the Rebel Queen. Junior had only inherited his dad's holdings on very shaky grounds, and thus should probably have dedicated his life to supporting Maric and Cailan. Despite this, he had thrown his lot in with Loghain; infamously being the only outspoken ally of the Teyrn of Gwaren in that last fateful Landsmeet. In doing so, he followed in his father's tradition as being party to a regicide.

Backing the losing side in a civil conflict didn't often lead to longevity in a noble. Picking the wrong side twice in two generations could only be described as catastrophic. Doubly so when the chosen side had indulged in a little light killing of the rightful monarch. From what rumours I'd heard, he was relying on his current wealth and strong Chantry allies, and the excuse that Loghain was, well, Loghain.

As compelling as that argument was, Ceorlic was going to be lucky to keep his head, let alone his lands. His religious friends probably wouldn't stand with him when push came to shove. After all, the Chantry had good form in abandoning those out of favour. But rats backed into a corner tend to be unpredictable. Being so closely aligned with Alistair, I would be useful to Ceorlic only as either his friend or a corpse; of which neither suited. I was not about to linger here.

I led my horse and soldiers up the stone stairs at the edge of town onto the Imperial Highway, and then continued south.

Blighted land became more common as we moved south into the Korcari Wilds. The army had burned the fields near Lothering, but the further away we got, the blacker the scenery. There were animals about, birds and small game, mostly. Insects thrummed in the air, rising like clouds of dark, rolling mist from stagnant pools when disturbed. While it was magically tiring, I cast and maintained a spell enchanting each of my soldiers' weapons with elemental cold. The frigid air around the swords, bows and maces effectively kept the masses of insects at bay. That earned me quite some good will, and extra portions at camp.

One unexpected benefit of the blackened earth was the ease at which I located the flowers I searched for. Even in their natural form they had some blight resistance, and the glorious white and crimson petals stood out amongst the blackened dead flora vividly. Over the course of a few days, I gathered and pressed many dozen samples into a book, to the bemusement of my guards.

We found a likely campsite and Captain Francois gave his corporal orders to prepare the camp. As the soldiers competently fell to their assigned tasks, I gathered some equipment and scouted around, looking for sturdy samples that had a strong chance to survive transportation to Denerim and Soldier's Peak. Thunder padded along at my side, happy just to be with his chosen master.

At the edge of a stained, stagnant pool, I found a sample that appeared suited to my purposes. I dropped my bag and pulled out a trowel and a small clay pot. With as much care as I had, I eased the sodden earth around the plant out of the ground and pushed it into the pot. With a bit of luck, and a great deal of water, it would live. I wandered around the area, looking for more.

As dusk fell, Thunder gave a soft growl of warning. Pretending to be engrossed in a minute examination of the flower in front of me, I stretched out my senses, listening hard and looking out of the corner of my eye.

Several armoured men approached from one side, marching in step along an animal trail between the sparse trees, apparently oblivious to my presence. But even in the dim twilight, glints and glimmers off polished armour drew the eye. The man on point barked a warning and gestured in my direction.

My elvish eyes picked out details a human would miss in this light.

The men were wearing templar armour.

o_ooo000ooo_o

AN: Thanks to my reviewers - MB18932, Nightbrainzz, Arsinoe de Blassenville, Isabeau of Greenlea, Alifangirl21, Rhagar and TheDawgg - I can't get enough of them.

We're nearly at Awakenings. As close as I'm keeping this fic to canon, there will be some differences in the way some of the side quests are completed. So, it will be a quick run through rather than a retelling. Then, we're off into fanon again, touching on the events of DA2.