Thank you all for the wonderful response to the previous chapter! I've seen a lot more favorites and alerts come up. And, as always, I so very much appreciate your reviews: Forestnymphe, CCBug, Arsinoe de Blassenville, zevgirl, mutive.

The last chapter was rather pivotal - subtly so, I believe. You will see why in this and forthcoming chapters.

Oh, and a little honor paid to Immort's mod for Ser Gilmore. Kudos to anyone who can guess what it is.

Oh, yeah, and you all know that I don't own any of this. It's all BioWare's baby. So I'll just sit in my corner, and bemoan my fate to just write my own version.

The Halla Reborn

Chapter 28

He lurched up, pulling himself into a seated position. Heart beat strong and fast, and sweat ran down his neck and back. Panting as though from heavy exertion, Loghain brought a hard hand to his face, covering his eyes as he sought to regain his senses. A grimace formed upon his face as he realized the damp mess he had made of his trousers.

He rose from the bed, pulling his soaked clothing from his body as he walked to the water basin across the room. He tossed his soiled clothing to the floor, scowling down at them. He dipped his hands into the basin, and was surprised to find the water cold - icy. A quick glance toward the fireplace told him what he had suspected - the fire was out.

Frowning, he splashed the cold water onto his face, then placed his hands on either side of the bowl, glaring down into the swirling depths of the basin as water dripped from his regal nose. He had such dreams in the past, obviously, but never had he felt so satisfied afterwards, almost the afterglow of lovemaking warm. Usually, he had awoken feeling bereft, needing, anguished and ashamed. He felt none of that now; it almost felt as though he had actually been with her, felt her small, calloused hands upon his body, touched the silky lengths of her hair. He still could feel her body pressed against him, her warmth and softness; smell the sweet fern she used for her hair; her warm, full lips upon his body; the taste of her...with a snarl, he shook himself from his reverie, finished his wash and claimed clean clothing from the nearby wardrobe to cover his body.

He turned toward the table, expecting a repast to have been set, as always had been. He was surprised to find the table bare.

A thoughtful frown formed between his brow, and he settled down onto one of the wooden chairs, glaring at the empty expanse of wood. Normally, whenever he awoken from his Fade prison, a fire would be blazing, hot water provided for bathing, and a hot, complete meal awaiting him. Now, his room was cold, with no food provided.

That meant that his captor had not expected him to awaken as of yet.

With a start, he pushed himself from his seat, advancing upon the door. Of course it was locked. Did he truly think someone as intelligent and thoughtful as Arawn would overlook the slightest possibility of Loghain awaking ahead of schedule?

He resumed his seat, his eyes sharp in thought. So why had he awakened earlier than planned? He could only think it was the dream, so intense with emotion, his regrets and desires overtaking him…he frowned. He wished he understood magic and blood magic in any other terms other than 'fear' (and Loghain was one to admit that he feared magic). Could it possibly be that the intensity of his emotions - lust, desire, regret, love - allowed his body to overcome the hold the blood mage had over him? Or could it merely be coincidence that the dream occurred and somehow, for some reason, Arawn's own concentration had faltered?

Glancing back at the bed, Loghain's mind sifted through every possibility; always coming back to rest that it was the intensity of his emotions - of seeing her, of being with her - that had broken down the barrier between his spirit and body. Allowing him to once again regain control over himself. He had so long tried to deny just how much he had cared for - no, loved - the elven woman. But, perhaps it was those very same emotions he held for her that was the key to breaking the mage's hold for good.

For a man who had spent most of his life keeping his emotions in check, hidden away from all peering eyes and unwelcome intrusions being able to call upon those very same emotions would prove…challenging.

His head bowed slightly. And, of course, he was only dealing with the memory of a woman who had perished with the rest of her order at Ostagar. Was he doing her memory a disservice by using her in such a fashion? He shook his head, unable to find any answer the would satisfy both his longing for her and his guilt over even considering using her memory in such a manner.

Expelling a sharp gust of breath, the Teyrn rose to his feet, glancing back at the door. The only thing he knew for certain would be this: Arawn would be watching him more carefully from now on.

DA:O

Adela jerked awake, jolting into an upright position. Sweat beaded down her neck, drenching the cotton nightshirt she wore. Her heart was racing, and she nearly blushed - alone as she was - at the memory of the dream of her and Loghain making love.

She brought a shaking hand up to press against her feverish forehead. With a sorrowful sigh, she brought her head down to her knees, and there, sitting in the darkness, she quietly cried as she thought of what she could never have, and the words that had never been said.

DA:O

Anora stood, staring at the man who wore Cailan's face. No, not Cailan's face: Maric's. And of the other son…Alistair, if she recalled correctly. But where Maric's face was open, friendly, this man's held an arrogant expression that seemed to be a permanent feature. The blood red eyes added to the menace of his persona.

She knew the man, but first only as a mage in the service of Howe. Now, he seemed to have free run of the palace, and had even become an advisor to her father.

Her father. She worried over him, and was at the moment fretting. So much so that she missed what Arawn was saying to her.

"Your Majesty?" The mage prompted, his voice smooth, soft, containing only soothing tones. She looked into his eyes and tried to see any humanity within their dark depths. She shuddered at the malevolence she may have imagined she saw there.

Shaking her head, she stuttered out," I…I apologize, Arawn," she reached over and gently patted his arm, then turned away from the desk. "What were you saying? Something about the Bannorn?"

Arawn nodded his blond head, his eyes scanning over the figure of the queen who stood before him, her back turned, head bowed slightly. "I am afraid that with the current situation in the Bannorn, we shan't have enough troops to continue scouring the countryside." He tilted his head. "I suggest that we pull them in from the farmlands, and concentrate the forces upon bringing the Bannorn into line," He stepped forward, his chest nearly brushing against her arm. He could feel the shudder course through her, and he quickly suppressed the self-satisfied smile that threatened to cross his lips.

"Have you discussed this with Father, yet?" Anora asked, her exhaustion betrayed in her voice as she turned to study the man before her.

Arawn bowed. "Your father has instructed that I bring matters to your attention as well as his," the mage smoothly lied. "So that you are aware of every move the regent makes on Fereldan's behalf."

Nodding, not quite believing him, but uncertain how else she should proceed, Anora instructed. "Will this not leave the farmlands defenseless against any darkspawn?"

"True," the mage conceded, "However, while the nobles continue their little war against the crown, manning the farmlands makes no sense as the rest of the country falls down around them."

Frowning, she could only nod. The only news she ever received came by the hands of Arawn, Howe, or Cauthrien. Whenever she had discussions with her father, they always seem slightly stilted, as though he was speaking from a script. With a heavy sigh, she agreed that the best course of action would be to make certain that the Bannorn placed their forces behind the Crown, especially against the darkspawn. Giving her permission to remove forces from their patrols of the countryside, forcing down the sick feeling rising in her stomach, Anora bade the mage good afternoon.

As Arawn turned to leave, she could not help but notice the slight tensing of his broad shoulders. With a quick nod, the mage stepped from the queen's chambers, turning northward toward the quarters of the Teyrn.

DA:O

Soft soled boots clapped quietly upon the marble floor with each determined step. A scowl formed on the mage's normally calm features, and he curtly ordered the guard at Loghain's door aside. Bowing respectfully, the man stepped to the side, allowing the mage to step passed. With a glare of a red eye, the bastard of Maric stepped through the threshold, into the cool quarters of the Teyrn.

Loghain sat, impassive, upon one of the wooden chairs at the dining table, his icy eyes unreadable, watching the mage as he sauntered into the room. Arawn stood before him, dressed in noble finery, a graceful golden brow raised in faint amusement, while his eyes betrayed the irritation the man obviously felt. A black brow arched upwards in a mirror image of the mage's gesture. Loghain's eyes, however, remained cold, offering nothing to the observations of the man before him.

"I see that you have awakened," the mage spoke, that soft, elegant voice of his barely reaching the older man's ears.

"Obviously," Loghain drawled out to him. He lifted that brow higher. "You seem…surprised."

Arawn frowned, giving a slight shrug of a broad shoulder. "Somewhat," he freely admitted, pulling the other chair free from the table and seating himself across from his adversary. "I had expected it some time ago, truth be told," he continued with all honesty. "I am rather astounded that it took you so long to awaken without…assistance."

"Disappointed?" came the Teryn's sardonic reply.

The mage chuckled without mirth. "Oh, hardly," the chuckle ceased, and veiled anger shone from his red, malevolent eyes. "An accident, more than likely. One that will not be repeated."

The blood mage rose to his feet as a hand slipped into his breast pocket, pulling forth a vial of blood. Loghain felt his body grow cold as he realized whose blood was contained therein, and what use it would be to one who excelled in the forbidden arts. The warrior surged to his feet, seeking to grasp the vial, but, despite being a mage, Arawn was neither weak nor slow. Growling out a spell, he flung his hand out, the currents of shocking power flowing through the older man's body, causing him to convulse and stagger to the floor. 'Tsking' at him, Arawn held the vial of blood tightly in his hand, speaking the ancient, demonic words necessary to exert control over the owner of the blood. The crackling energy ceased dancing about Loghain's twitching form, and he jerked upright to his feet, as a marionette upon taut strings. Grinning, the mage watched as the light went out behind Loghain's eyes, and the almost dead seeming face turned toward him. Once again under his control, the blood mage bade the man to follow him from his room. They had an important meeting with ambassadors of the Tevinter Imperium this day. Business matters in which only Teyrn Loghain, as Regent, could see to.

DA:O

"Halt!" came the sharp order, and the group turned to stare at the human guard standing atop the long stairway. Alistair shifted behind Adela, uncomfortable as she took a step closer to the obviously hostile man.

"Greetings, good ser," the elf replied politely, glad the others were ready to strike if need be. "We have business within Haven…"

"No you do not," the man sneered, undisguised hatred turning his lips up in a sneer. "I would have been informed if anyone was expecting…visitors."

A blond brow rose at that, and the elven Warden cast a questioning glance back to her companions. All of them seemed equally perplexed. She turned back.

"You mean that had anyone who resided within the village expected a guest, they would have told you?" she could not help but keep the disbelief from her voice. "Rather a…close community, eh?"

"More like closed community," the guard shot back, his behavior less and less welcoming. "We do not welcome outsiders."

"Glad it's not just us," Alistair whispered from behind her, sarcasm heavy in his voice.

Jabbing him lightly in his chest with an elbow, Adela turned back to the man. "Look," she stepped forward, not about to be bullied by a surly guard. "We know that a Brother Genetivi made his way here for research," she poked a finger at the guard, who scowled at the tiny elven woman but actually took a short step back. "All we want is to ask someone - other than the gate guard," the guard frowned at that, "if the man's been here or not." Staring the man straight in the eye, she said, "We're not going anywhere until I get to speak with someone who would actually know."

Her companions did well to contain any snickers, chuckles or other guffaws as normally happened whenever the diminutive woman managed to intimidate someone who was easily three times her size and thrice her temperament. There was a war of conflicting emotions and retorts obviously within the man's mind and flashing across his face. Finally, he acquiesced, suggesting she find a Father Eirick at the Chantry atop the hill. Frowning at the guard, Adela motioned with her head, and the others fell in step behind and to the side of her as they made their way through the serene little village.

"Father Eirick," Alistair drawled as they walked away from the surly guard.

"Seems a bit unusual, does it not?" Leliana put in as she joined the pair at the front.

"I agree," Adela replied, looking at her two Chantry experts. "I thought men could only become chanters or affirmed. I've never heard of a man as a priest."

"Neither have I," Alistair's voice rolled over her. She glanced over at him. His eyes were unusually wary, taking in everything in a most decidedly Zevran-like manner. She turned her head to her other friends, and noticed that they, too, felt the unease of the human Warden. Well, both Wardens.

The village may have seemed peaceful, however, Adela could not shake the very wrong feeling she got from the place.

First, there were no children running about playing. Oh, there was one child - a boy - chanting a very disturbing poem. When the group had approached him, he had been extremely rude, yet with none of the usual childlike fascination of seeing mages, warriors and rogues of their caliber. The child also, in a very grown up manner, advised the group that they were not welcome and that they should leave.

Blowing out a low whistle, Alistair tugged at Adela's arm, leading her and the rest of the group away from the very strange child, muttering, "Creepy." Adela found herself agreeing.

As they passed by one home, Hafter stopped in his tracks. Bowing low, his haunches raised, the great warhound let out a low, menacing growl, staring at the door to the home. The rest of the party immediately went on the alert. They had all not traveled together for so long without learning how to read each other's warning signs, even those of the dog. With a glance around, Adela stepped toward the door and tried the handle. It was unlocked. Frowning, she turned the handle, pushing the door open. Immediately the smell of decay, rank and vile, assailed her senses. Gagging slightly, she pushed the door open further and stepped into the dankness of the cabin.

The air was oppressive, but Zevran quietly closed the door behind them, so as not to alert any passersby of their presence. The cabin was small - one room, with a fireplace and cook pit against the furthest wall, a bed to their left. It was the butcher's block - complete with cutlery - that caused the shiver to creep up Adela's spine. Hafter's low growl and plaintive whine made her blood turn cold.

"Does meat bleed that much?" Alistair asked anxiously, glaring at the offending block.

"Don't be foolish," Morrigan snapped, studying the blood soaked wood with a keen eye.

"The Crows are known to make blood sacrifices," Zevran put in, patting Niall gently on the shoulder. "Blood magic is used quite often, and demons appeased in such a manner."

Adela pulled her eyes from the offending fixture, stalking around the room, her keen eyes searching, aware. Her eyes settled upon a portion of the floor, near the bed, that seemed less discolored than the rest of the rough, wooden flooring. Frowning, she gestured to Zevran, who glided across the floor to kneel beside her.

Indeed, the portion of floor the elven woman spied was a trap door. To untrained and unwary eyes, it was set, almost seamless, in the floor. With a dagger, the former Crow pried the board up, pulling it free with a 'pop'. More fetid air, reeking of more death and decay, wafted up from the floor. Zevran's tawny eyes looked up at the younger elf with concern and, with a gentle hand, he guided her away from the fissure. Knowing better than to argue with her friend, the elven Warden rose and stepped away, feeling Roland place a hand upon her shoulder. The others remained at their positions by the chopping block, aware that something unpleasant had been found. Zevran indicated a nearby torch, and Alistair took the torch from its sconce and held it aloft behind the elf. Zevran turned his head, taking in a deep breath of comparatively fresher air, and then stuck his head into the hole, the torch behind offering some light.

Bodies, hacked into pieces, lay scattered across the dirt floor beneath the house. Such was the pile that it was impossible to tell how many people had found their final rest beneath the rough building. The assassin frowned as his gaze settled upon the heraldry of Redcliffe emblazoned upon rusted shields and torn, rotted tunics.

With a shudder, the assassin, so used to death, fought back the bile that rose in his throat as he pushed himself away from the offending hole. Kicking the board back into place, he described - in as little detail as possible - what lay beneath their feet.

Adela blinked rapidly, trying to focus her blurring vision. The look upon Zevran's face unnerved her and she could see her own revulsion reflected upon her companions' faces. The stoic Qunari, standing at the furthest corner of the building, had trouble mastering his features. Even the Qunari would afford their vanquished foes a more honorable burial.

Adela led her group from the building, fully expecting to be met with hostile villagers. She was surprised when they met with no one - no hostile, out for blood murderous villagers, not the crazy child with his insane chant, even the stairway guard had vanished. The elf exchanged uneasy looks with her companions. With a gesture, she sent the Sten, Morrigan and Hafter back toward the way they entered the village. Without a word, Zevran and Leliana melted into the shadows, creeping along parallel pathways to the lake. Alistair, Niall, and Roland continued on with Adela, walking up hill, toward the center of the village.

It was quiet, far too quiet, and the elven Warden found her nerves rattling. The discovery at the small cabin had unnerved her greatly, and she feared what other horrors they were likely to stumble upon in this idyllic seeming setting. As they crested the hill, they spotted several other homes, and she noted that many of them seemed untended: grass grew tall around front doors, flowers and weeds alike shared garden beds, livestock roamed freely. Ahead stood another building, this one displaying a shingle indicating it a store. The uneasy feeling would not leave her, and the elf led her companions through the open door into the building.

The stench of death crept into the companions' collective consciousnesses, but they did well to quell the expressions of distaste from their faces. The shopkeep, an overly pale young man with pale hair and eyes, stared suspiciously at the quartet as they approached his counter. It was obvious that the stench of death was something that this man - and by extension the other villagers - were used to,. That thought, just as much as the discovery in the cabin, disturbed Adela greatly.

Roland and Alistair spoke with the man, keeping his attention on them as Adela crept through the shadows to the back room. She stifled a sharp gasp as her eyes settled upon the corpse of a young knight of Redcliffe. Her eyes narrowed, and she went to her knees, pulling the bloodied cloth from the man's face. Head bowed down as she said a prayer to the Maker to receive Ser Donall's soul. With a growl, she rose, pulling her daggers free of their sheaths. Blending into the shadows as Zevran and Leliana had taught her, the elven rogue slipped from the room, making her way until she stood, unnoticed behind the eerie shopkeep. Quietly, she brought her blades to his throat, and, with a snarl, demanded to know what was going on in the village.

Eyes widening, the man gasped out prayers of deliverance to Andraste, saying nonsensical things as 'she has arisen' and 'all will be forgiven' before lunging backwards, hoping to catch the elf off guard and loosen her grip upon him.

In her anger, Adela was hyper aware of every muscle and tendon tensing in the man's body. As he pushed against her, she pushed her blades more securely to his throat, digging in slightly to draw blood. Again she demanded answers and again he answered her with nonsense. He kicked out with a foot, hoping to drop her. As he did, the elven Warden, realizing she would get no answers, dragged her dagger across his throat, opening it in a spray of blood. With a hiss, she jumped back, allowing the body to slump the floor as his lifeblood pumped from the jugular.

Staring at the body, Adela advised the three men of her discovery. Alistair bowed his head in remembrance of the knight who had, when he was a child, been kind to him. Pledging that once they found Brother Genetivi and put the murderers of the knights to justice they would put the deceased they found to a proper rest, Adela searched the shop for any supplies they would need. Taking all healing potions and health poultices she found, as well as other necessities, the elf led her group out of the building.

Months of traveling together, fighting for every step side by side conditioned the group to each other's moves. This proved, time and time again, to be the saving grace. As it did at this time. As the four exited the shop, they were met with blade, arrow and spell as the villagers erupted from nearby buildings to attack the group.

In the distance, Adela could hear the Sten's battle cry, and could feel the entropic nature of Morrigan's magic upon the air. Believing that Zevran and Leliana, too, met with resistance, hoping they were dealing with it well, the elven Warden pulled her bow free of her shoulder, and proceeded to decimate their assailants.

Focused as she was in felling their foes, the elven archer always made certain she knew where her people were placed upon the field. Alistair always remained fairly close to the archer, moving as a great, destructive satellite to smash, slice and drop any enemy that got too close to her, while concentrating his Templar abilities toward any mage harassing them. Roland ran the field, picking out the most heavily armored foe and bringing that one down first. Niall, his magical arsenal impressive in its offensive nature, managed to take out great areas of enemies with ice, flame or energy. This time, she noted as she nocked another arrow to fly at a nearby mage, the Circle Mage was concentrating on taking out the apostate mages the village obviously sheltered.

A hiss escaped the elf's lips as she felt a blade slice into her bare forearm. Turning, she watched as a human man - slender and dressed in black leathers - emerged from the shadows, a glowing blade in hand. Instinctively, she dropped her bow, reaching for her daggers as she ducked down, shouldering him in the side to knock him backwards as she freed her weapons. Surprised, the rogue staggered slightly, enough to give the elf time to pull her blades free of their sheaths. Frowning, she brought them to bear, parrying each blow of the human, dancing around him, seeking an opening to his impressive defense. She swept down, tucking under the man's arms, swinging herself to his back. As she rose, she thrust her daggers out, cutting deeply into his sides, slicing in kidney. A scream of agony erupted from his lips, and she pulled her daggers free, watching as the black bile and blood flowed from the wounds. The rogue staggered, his life already ebbing from the wounds. With a sudden lunge, Adela swept her blades out, slicing the man's throat. She spun about, bending quickly to retrieve her bow, as the man's body fell lifeless to the ground.

She looked up in time to watch as Zevran melted from the shadows, digging and twisting his blades into the back of a nearby mage. Arrows whistled into the fray, and Adela looked up to see Leliana standing atop a rise, raining arrows down upon their foes. The Sten, Morrigan and Hafter continued to fight their way up the hill.

A battle cry from her right brought her attention to Roland, and she let fly an arrow into his assailant's back. Did he just cry out that he's the best knight in Highever? Grinning, she turned her attention to the warrior fast approaching Niall, who was deep in concentration on a spell. One, two, three arrows flew out in succession, each scoring a direct hit in the warrior's throat, chest and eye. As he toppled over, Niall finished his spell, and a group of enemy archers convulsed, twitched, and finally fell as the energy tempest took hold of them, sending shock waves through their bodies.

No more foes launched themselves at the group. The Sten and Morrigan tromped up the hill, Hafter bounding ahead of them, huffing and barking as he spied Adela. As they regrouped, Adela turned, taking in the carnage surrounding them. It seemed to her that every villager came out to apprehend - or rather, slaughter - the intruders to their village. Many of their assailants had carried weapons - swords, axes, bows - but quite a few of them were women and men dressed in peasant clothing, fighting with nothing more than a kitchen knife, a cleaver or bared fist. Relief swept through her when she realized that no children lay amongst the dead, but she could not bring up any feelings of pity or sorrow for the destruction they had wrought.

After all, these very same villagers had caused the deaths of many of Redcliffe's Knights; who knew what they had done to others innocently passing this way? What they had done to Brother Genetivi?

With a heavy sigh, the elven Warden Commander turned toward the rise behind them. With a gesture, as the first flakes of snow began to drift about them, she led her band upwards.

DA:O

Not surprising, the companions found more resistance from the remaining villagers. What was surprising was that they were attacked in the Chantry. The Father Eirick the front gate guard had warned them of was an apostate, something that Morrigan chortled about as they striped his corpse of robes, coin and other trinkets. Alistair was the first to remind the witch that they were, apparently, dealing with some kind of a cult, and obviously not a chantry sanctioned by the Divine. It made no difference; Morrigan continued with her smugness and the others just let the witch have her fun.

They found a battered, tortured yet very much alive Brother Genetivi lying in a small, hidden room. The poor man's right foot was diseased, and it was both Morrigan and Niall's opinions that it would have to be removed in order to avoid further infection. Unfortunately, neither of them was so well versed in medicinal healing and was loath to perform the act. The brother was adamant, however: despite his physical condition, he wished to journey with the companions further up the mountain and to the temple, wherein lay the Sacred Ashes. Uncertain, but not about to dismiss the man from his life's work, Adela had the Sten and Roland prepared a litter from the broken furniture contained within the chantry. Once that was done, and with instructions from Brother Genetivi, the Warden sent the Sten, Zevran, Leliana and Morrigan up the mountain as the first strike against any further hostilities.

Once the Brother was comfortably set within the litter, which was piled with blankets and pillows, Hafter was hitched to the litter, and easily pulled the old man from the chantry and up the mountain. Adela led the group, bow in hand, followed closely by Roland and Alistair. Niall took up the rear, spells of offensive nature firmly in mind.

The four ahead of their group made quick work of any cult members they encountered. So, Adela's group found their way up the mountainside easy going, despite the flurry of snow assailing them from above. They found their companions standing before a massive double door, set within the side of the mountain. With a few words, Brother Genetivi instructed Adela on the use of the puzzle key she had removed from Father Eirick's body back at the Chantry. Twisting the key, she reshaped its previously flat, octagon features into a spear shaped box. This easily fit into the locking mechanism and, with a push and a twist, the doors swung open on recently oiled hinges, barely creaking as they admitted the group within.

The doors opened into a huge, cavernous chamber. High vaulted ceilings, areas missing and emitting the gray sunshine and falling snow, arched overhead, intricately detailed walls loomed to the sides. Rubble, snow and ice now decorated the once elaborately gilt floors, and elegant fire places were strategically placed along the floors. Alcoves and doorways arched to the sides, and a great curving staircase dominated the far end of the great hall. Everyone stood, staring in awe, as the images of what the hall must have looked like in its early days came to mind.

Adela hated it; she had never liked splitting their group up. And, walking into an unknown situation made this decision even more detestable. However, she could not leave Brother Genetivi alone in this place. Whether she had left him back at the chantry or here made no difference; the group would have to be divided.

And so, reluctantly, she left the Sten, Niall and Leliana behind, with a proportionate amount of their supplies, to watch over the Brother, and deal with any of the cultists that may find their way to the temple behind them.

And so, with a final warning to be wary of elaborate and cunning traps (Alistair bit his tongue on a sarcastic response), the Warden Commander of Fereldan led her much smaller troupe deeper into the ruins of the mountainside temple.

DA:O

"You have slaughtered your way here through our sacred Temple!" the man shouted, arms flailing, face contorted with mad rage. He stopped before the elven woman, pointing a strong hand into her face. "You have killed our young, and you think you have a right to demand passage?"

"Young?" the elf asked, her voice confused, questioning. "Do you mean the dragons?"

That sent the man, huge and towering over the elf, into another rage. "The Maker's own Beloved has arisen, and you defile Her Temple, kill her children, and yet claim ignorance of your blasphemy?"

"I don't suppose you'll accept an apology?" Alistair's sarcastic comment slipped from his lips before he had time to reconsider. Zevran smirked at the bold comment; Adela composed her features but she was not impressed. Sarcasm wasn't always the best approach when dealing with mad men. Religious zealots. Cultists. Crazy people. That guy right there ranting and raving.

The man, who had introduced himself as Father Kolgrim, eyed the younger man with disdain. "You mock me, do you?" he demanded, taking a step closer to the Warden. Alistair did not flinch, did not take a single step back, but stood bravely in the face of the zealot's rage. Roland placed a hand to the pommel of his blade, and Zevran backed away a bit, giving himself room to maneuver. Morrigan merely glared at the man, leaning almost casually upon her staff, watching for any indication he would strike.

Kolgrim stepped away from Alistair, his eyes once more going to the obvious leader of the mismatched group.

"Why have you come here?" he demanded, crossing his arms angrily to his chest. The cultists who stood to the side and behind him mirrored his stance.

Adela paused, debating about whether to tell this man about their quest. Her eyes skimmed over the forms of his followers. She counted five warriors and at least two mages that could be seen. Given the nature of the mountainside chamber they found themselves in, it was likely more foes could easily be hidden amidst the rubble and obstacles in the vast, cavernous chamber.

"We seek out the Urn of Sacred Ashes," she intoned, ignoring the uncomfortable shifting of her fellows behind her. She watched as conflicting emotions and thoughts paraded themselves across Kolgrim's bearded features.

"Perhaps," he said, the venom gone from his gravelly voice, "there is a way for you to make up for your desecration of our Temple."

A blond brow jerked up. "Why so willing to be cooperative?" Zevran asked from the back of the group, echoing Adela's own incredulity.

Ignoring the assassin, his attention fully upon the elven woman before him, Kolgrim stepped closer, religious zeal hot in his eyes. "Perhaps I believe in second chances," his voice was quieter now as his sight was fixed solely upon Adela. "Perhaps Her greatest enemy can become Her greatest champion!"

Unease at those words set in. "How so, exactly?" Adela asked, her eyes narrowing. She did not like the way Kolgrim was studying her. She heard Roland and Alistair shift behind her, their armor and weapons rattling slightly with their movements. Apparently, they, too, had noticed the interest with which the human was now regarding the elf.

"As it stands, the Blessed Andraste cannot realize her true power while the Ashes remain," he began pacing in front of the group, and missed the speculative glances Adela and Alistair exchanged. "While they remain, our Beloved cannot obtain her full glory!" He raised his arms at this and the other cultists, quiet until now, murmured prayers to their risen Beloved. He turned back to the group.

"So why do you need me?" Adela asked, hands on her hips, tired of this tirade. Either attack us or don't! she almost screamed. "Why haven't you just sent some of your goo…followers up the hill and taken them?"

A condescending sneer crossed Kolgrim's otherwise handsome features. "There is an immortal guardian," he explained as one would a child. "who refuses to the see the truth in the Risen Andraste." He frowned. "We cannot get passed him." That frown turned to a smile. "You, however, are unknown to him. You would be able to get passed him to destroy the Ashes."

Lunatic! "But," she said instead, "we need those Ashes to cure an ill man."

"You only need but a pinch," the cultist replied quickly, eagerly. "The rest can be destroyed by pouring a vial of Andraste's blood over them. Thusly, the power remaining in the ashes will be transferred to the Lady and her full potential shall be realized!"

"I'm not sure I like talking with this man," Alistair muttered behind her. Adela nodded her agreement, giving a slight motion with her hands, hoping her friends will see and recognize it as a gesture to be ready. This would not be an easy battle if this came to blows.

"Ah, but to avoid an unnecessary battle…?" Zevran put in, trailing off in his thoughts. His actions, however, belied his words as he placed both hands to the pommel of his daggers, his eyes stern and aware as he began to pick his targets.

"Why would I want to do such a thing?" Adela asked, trying to buy them more time, hoping to put Kolgrim and his followers off a bit.

A smile pasted upon his face, the human stepped even closer to the elf, his eyes gleaming. "You would become a revered Sister in our flock," he murmured to her. "With power and knowledge that only the Blessed Risen can endow." He turned away, and Adela could feel a spell of Morrigan's flush over her body. She realized that her daggers were now emanating a vicious chill.

While alternating between silently thanking the witch for her foresight and hoping fervently that Kolgrim and his mages did not sense the magic used, Adela shook her head at the man. "It's wrong," she said quietly, frowning up into the man's face as he turned. "Everything screams at me that doing this is wrong."

An angry scowl formed across his face. "You realize we cannot allow you to leave this place alive?" he stated, pulling from his back a massive axe.

Fear leaped in her stomach and she found herself pulling her enchanted blades free of their sheaths. She could hear her companions do that same. "You are certainly welcome to try," she said with as much bravado as she could muster.

She stepped quickly to the side, melting into the shadows created by the twists and curves of the cavern.

Alistair quickly made his way toward the mages, using his templar abilities to render them useless.

Roland had smashed his shield into Kolgrim's face, knocking the older man to his back.

Morrigan sent out blasts of cold against their foes before transforming into a huge, brown bear.

Zevran had vanished into the shadows, but a scream of agony to the side alerted Adela to his whereabouts.

Quietly, she swept passed the main bulk, swinging up behind the furthest mage. Quickly, precisely, she buried her daggers hilt deep into her back, twisting them before pulling them out in a spray of blood. A shriek of agony erupted from the cultist's blood flecked lips, and she slumped, dead, to the ground. Sheathing her blades, Adela pulled her bow, and quickly sent a shower of arrows into the bulk of the cultists who erupted like lava from behind the many alcoves and rubble of the chambers.

Alistair neatly divested the remaining mage of his head, and then turned his blade and shield on those cultists that had vomited forth into their midst. Zevran and Roland had Kolgrim down onto the ground again, the assassin clutching at a wound in his side. Grimacing in pain, he danced aside as Roland's blade descended upon the cult leader, piercing between the plates to split his heart in two. The assassin nimbly threw a dagger, catching a cultist in the eye, dropping him unceremoniously to the stone floor.

Adela aimed at an oncoming warrior, his blade up and ready to strike at the elf. Forcing herself to remain standing, she let the arrow loose, barely taking note as it scored a hit to the man's shoulder. She quickly drew and nocked another arrow, but not before the man had intercepted her and sliced downward. Dodging to the left, she threw her arm and bow out, twisting the blade into the sturdy wood of her Dalish made weapon. Agony raced up her arm as the blade cut deeply into the flesh of her forearm slicing up to her elbow, but she followed through, twisting the blade free of the cultist's grip. Bereft of weapon, the man swung out with his fist, hoping to catch the wounded woman. She ducked, blood pouring from the gaping wound of her arm, and twisted around, dragging a dagger free of its sheath. As she rose, she swept her off hand out, catching the man in the thigh with her sharp ironbark blade. As he cursed, swinging at her again, the elven rogue straightened, flicking her fingers into his eyes, momentarily blinding him. It took only another moment to drag her blade across his throat.

A burning pain shot up her arm. Hissing, she grasped her arm, falling to her knees as the blood dripped from the wound to the ground. Morrigan, the first to notice, sprinted toward her friend, pulling a healing potion from her pack as she recalled a spell. Dropping beside the elf, Morrigan forced the potion down Adela's throat, and then grasped the injury as she sent a healing spell flowing through her fingers. The wound was deep, but not life threatening and Adela admonished Morrigan when she saw how Zevran clutched his side, blood seeping from his fingertips.

"Your injury was the most obvious," the witch protested as she turned her healing talents to the assassin.

"Ah, my lovely raven," the former Crow purred as he slumped to the floor beside Adela. "Glad I am that my handsome mage taught you healing arts," he sucked his breath in between clenched teeth as Morrigan prodded his wound.

"You should be quiet, elf," Morrigan sulked at him as she pressed a poultice into the wound. "Lest you find yourself lying upon the floor unconscious."

"Ah, but lying upon the floor beside you," he persisted, "would well be worth it, no?"

"No," Morrigan stated quite firmly as Adela rose to join Alistair and Roland. The tone of her voice left no opening for the assassin, and so he sat quietly as she tended to his wounds.

After divesting the corpses of any usable supplies - such as healing poultices, lyrium potions, and such - the group left the cavern, and stepped out into the bright sunshine.