Time to Rhyme

Those three weeks it took to found the Dalish were definitely the best part, so far. Everyone was fed up with arguments and tension, so they carefully avoided any painful topics, and tried to be as bearable as possible. The evenings were the best. Sometimes Leliana would sing something, usually some Orlesian ballad, sweet and sad, or sometimes she would tell a story. Sometimes, Wynne would tell a story too, though her stories were more like history lessons with morals attached. But usually, he would spend the evenings talking with his little Warden, or with Morrigan, often teasing Alistair until he was as red as a beet.

And when they finally entered the forest, it was like a soothing balm not only on their nerves, but on all their senses. The mild light shining through dense branches, soft leaves under their feet, calling of unseen birds hidden in the treetops, made them forget, for a while, their mission, the desperate race against the Archdemon. For a few days, they were just group of friends on a journey in the forest.

Yes, it was great while it lasted. But then they finally found the elves. They were already tired, looking for some nice spot to set their camp up for the night when Leliana, who was scouting a bit ahead, returned and told them about the elven warriors guarding the path. Amused, he saw Airam's eyes light up – the kid was really looking forward to meeting the Dalish. He could only hope this would not be as disastrous as his own first meeting with the proud elven warriors.

But the moment the guard opened her mouth it was clear that yes, this was going to be as equally bad as that first time. "Hold right there! Where do you think you're going, shemlen?"

"We are not all humans, as you can see," Airam replied before he could stop him. Damn it. He should have told the boy to leave the talking to him this time.

"Flat-ears like you are hardly any better," she almost spat.

Airam stared at her as if she sprouted another head. "My ears are not flat," he said in a tone he would use with child trying to argue that the sky was green and grass was blue.

Perhaps he would manage not to laugh, but the expression of disbelief and confusion on the guard's face was more than he could bear. And the others thought the same, judging by the mad giggling behind his back.

The only ones who were not laughing were Airam and the guard, and both were looking more and more impatient and annoyed by every moment. Swallowing his laughter, he turned to the boy.

"Do not worry my dear Warden, your ears are quite lovely," he said, which caused another fit of giggles and chuckles from the others. "'Flat-ears' is the endearing name Dalish elves use for poor souls like you and me who did not have the ultimate privilege of growing up as Dalish, but with humans - be it in an alienage, or in the Magi Tower. Such elves, they believe, try to assimilate with humans so much that, if they could, they would even flatten their ears just to look more like humans."

His explanation did nothing to improve Airam's mood; in fact, the boy looked rather angry right now.

"That's so… oh, sod it. I don't care." He turned to the guard, and he had that menacing look again. "I don't care what you think about me, or my friends. I'm a Grey Warden, and I'm on an important mission. Take me to your leader, immediately."

"And how can I be sure you really are Grey Wardens?" The guard obviously decided to be stubborn. It was a rather foolish idea, really. Thankfully, before Airam could snap back with something equally foolish, Alistair decided to step in.

"So… you have many visitors who claim to be Grey Wardens? And how do you prove if they are real ones? You have some handy darskpawn to test our skill or what?"

"I guess it's not a lie many would come up with." The guard finally lowered her bow. "Very well. I will take you to the Keeper. But keep your hands where I can see them. And act respectfully. If you make any troubles, you won't get out of the camp alive."

"Charming, to be sure," he heard the boy grumble softly as he followed her lead.

All annoyance was quickly forgotten however when they entered the camp. It was not a camp as much as it a field-ambulance, really. Most of the hunters were injured and screaming in pain, many unattended - as there were not enough nurses for everyone. The rest, mostly elders and children, looked absolutely terrified. The few remaining warriors were positioned all around the camp, fully armed, as if they expected an attack at any moment.

Nobody paid any attention to them, until the guard stopped in front of one elf. "Zathrian. These people claim to be Grey Wardens. They say they have an important mission and need to discuss it with you."

"I see. You came because of the treaty our ancestors signed so long ago. Trust me, normally I would not deny our help, but as you can see, our clan has its own problems right now. There simply aren't enough of our warriors left," he explained, grimly.

"That I can see," Airam barely whispered, and Zevran remembered how the boy blamed himself for coming too late to Honnleath… and this was worse, much worse. "What happened here? Did darskpawn attack you?"

"No, it was not a darkspawn attack, but it was equally bad. We were attacked by werewolves."

The boy winced and the Keeper shot a suspicious glance at him. "But, I thought… So werewolves really exist?"

"I assure you that the beasts that attacked our camp were quite real," the Keeper snapped, irritated. "Brecilian forest is a special place, and you will find that many legends walk alive here. But that doesn't matter right now. As you can see, there's nothing we can do for you, so perhaps you should leave now."

He knew what Airam's reply would be – and was, in fact, relieved that he was right. "Is there nothing we can do to help you?"

The Keeper looked at him, as if he only really saw him now. "You would help us? It would be probably easier and faster for you to find another Dalish tribe," he said. "But if you are really willing to help, it is more than welcome. It will not be an easy task, however."

"Good. Here I was afraid we'd get out of practice," Alistair grumbled. "So what is it we have to do? I just hope there are no dragons involved this time."

The Keeper frowned at that, apparently thinking that Alistair was mocking him. "No, there are no dragons involved. The werewolves… are cursed beings. When they bite someone, the unlucky victim is slowly, but unstoppably, turned into a werewolf as well. Our warriors… have some four or five days, before they will turn into beasts."

"And there is no cure for this?"

"No… not yet, at least. I think I can make a cure, but for that I need… one very special ingredient. The heart of the wolf from which the curse originated."

"But that was surely a long time ago," Wynne pointed out. "Wouldn't it be dead by now?"

"I… have certain reasons to believe that it is still alive. Witherfang, as the Dalish call it, is not a normal beast, after all."

Airam nodded. "Find Witherfang and get its heart. I get it. Anything else?"

The Keeper frowned even more at that cheeky answer. "Do not underestimate Witherfang, Warden. This attack was the worst, but hardly the first. We have lived with this threat for centuries, and many of our hunters have tried to accomplish what you want to do now. None of them returned."

"I do not underestimate it, Keeper. But you should not underestimate us, either. We are good at extraordinary tasks."

He shot a surprised glance at Airam. What was with all the cheeky answers? That was so unlike him. The guard was too harsh, but given the circumstances, he really didn't blame her. And the Keeper was civil enough. There was no need to provoke him like that. It could cause more trouble than he cared for, so he quickly turned to Airam.

"Well, now. We better go and prepare ourselves, yes?"

"Yes," said Wynne, who obviously also sensed the danger. "Would you please be so kind as to show us where we can set up our tents? If we are going to fight such a strong and powerful enemy, we should rest and prepare ourselves properly."

oOo

The Keeper invited them for a dinner that night. Maybe he wanted to make up for his cheeky comments before, or maybe he was just eager to eat something else rather than stew from dried lamb meat – whatever the reason was, Airam agreed. And the dinner was excellent, better even than at Redcliffe castle – a roasted deer, with a lot of aromatic herbs, forest fruits, and fresh bread, the kind that only Dalish made, thin round loaves with a golden crust, and bittersweet mead.

Alas, the atmosphere did not match the excellent food. The Dalish watched their guests with curiosity and suspicion, and a few times they heard "flat-ears" and "shems" whispered accusingly. But none of them dared to challenge them openly, and it seemed that although not as pleasant as it was supposed to be, the dinner would end in peace. Then, just as they were going to retire to their tents, one of the elves asked if they thought they would be able to succeed where the Dalish hunters had failed. He was bit anxious as to how the crazy kid would react, but Airam just smiled.

"If we are lucky, yes," he replied warily. And it should have ended there, but it didn't. The Dalish elf didn't want to let go that easily.

"Oh, I see, if you're lucky. Our most skilled hunters tried, and now are dead or worse, but for… outsiders like you, a bit of luck is all it takes, is that it?"

Even the other elves squirmed a bit at this open provocation. "Sarel! Please don't mind him, Warden. He… lost his wife in the attack… hasn't stopped drinking since," explained the woman that sat next to Zathrian.

Airam gave her a sad smile. "He only said aloud what all of you whispered the whole evening," he said bitterly. "Humans despise me because I'm an elf; you despise me because I grew up with humans. But you don't even know me. For all you know, I could be Dalish, too."

There was a ringing silence after those words. The boy just shot one last angry look at them, and then simply walked away, without turning back. They hurried after him, followed by a cold quietness.

oOo

The next morning they left before the sunrise – and before most of the elves got up; Airam obviously didn't care much about sharing another friendly meal with them. Pity. The food would have been good. Wynne decided to stay and try at least ease the pain of the wounded hunters, and Airam asked Sten and Leliana to stay as well, in case the beasts decided to come again, he explained. It wasn't likely to happen, but nobody was eager to start another argument.

Regardless, this was the strangest forest Zevran had ever been in. Then again, he didn't go into the woods often. His longest stay in the forest was when he so foolishly ran off to the Dalish, fresh from apprenticeship. The stay in their camp was much shorter than it took to find them… He could still remember the disappointment he felt then and the feeling of emptiness when the Keeper told him he could not stay. A flat-ear was not welcome, and he had no proof to his claim… There were also a few other times, when his marks naively thought that they could hide from the Crows in some forest hut. But there were always many little birds willing to sing where their former friends were hiding, if not for money, then to save their own necks.

All those forests were dark, dirty and boring.

This one was dark, dirty, and full of nasty surprises. Like possessed trees.

When they encountered the first one that jumped in their path, waving it massive wooden hands and trailing roots behind it, Airam let the out a squeak for which they would be teasing him for many months. Though with his quick temper, the crazy kid could decide to turn them into the ice statues…

And it wasn't as if they weren't scared as well. The damned creature just jumped in their path, waving its big wooden hands, trying to imprison them in its branches, trailing roots behind it, with the sound of cracking dozens of sprigs at every step. Who wouldn't be scared?

They were so totally bewildered that they would have been easy prey, if Alistair hadn't realized that if it was wooden, it should also be flammable. He was furious – the idea that it was the Chantry boy who managed to keep his head clear, while he, a Crow, was quickly loosing to a piece of animated wood, was simply maddening. So when they met the second walking tree, he took it as an opportunity to get his revenge. And if he had any say it, these trees would soon become extinct.

The werewolves didn't look like he imagined them, either. He always thought they would look more or less like humans, but bigger and stronger and with yellow eyes and sharp fangs. Instead, they were animals, big, smelly and constantly trying to catch fleas in their fur. Well, at least the fangs part was correct.

It seemed they were waiting for them – a group of ten or so big, ugly beasts, led by the biggest and ugliest, of course. They didn't look very happy when they saw his little Warden. Apparently, they'd been waiting for the Keeper. Disappointed, the leader called Airam "the servant of Dalish." Which didn't exactly endear them to the boy.

"I came to kill Witherfang," he informed the beasts calmly. "Either tell me where he is or get lost before I lose my patience and kill you."

For some reason, the werewolves did not appreciate his kind offer, deciding to attack them instead. At least this time he expected it. It still wasn't easy. Their strength, speed and reflexes were… well, beastly. But even werewolves die, eventually, if one stabs and hits them long enough. They had killed four when the leader called the rest off and ran away, muttering something that the forest will protect them.

"That was invigorating," he panted, grinning madly. And he meant it – after all, winning in such battle, being alive while your opponent lied dead at your feet, nothing could really match that feeling.

Alistair just frowned at him. "You know, Zevran, the next time you wish for a bigger diversity of our foes, please ask for some cute fluffy bunnies, will you?"

"It's not my fault we have such an excellent leader that so readily fulfills any of our wishes," he chuckled.

The leader in question, completely drained of energy, was sitting amidst the heap of bloodied ice shards slowly melting into pink puddles, completely ignorant that it was ruining his robes. But as he was trying to fix a poultice on his right arm, which had a nasty looking scratch, perhaps he could be excused.

"Of course I do. I'm the leader of the saviours of Ferelden, remember? We're the best of the best and I'm the best of you." He tried to grin, but it was bit strained.

"Here, let me help you," he offered. It was a pity that Leliana stayed in the camp – while he always enjoyed Morrigan's snarky comments, she wasn't that willing to clean wounds and help with healing. Or just help with anything.

"Thanks. May I suggest a lunch break? Let's find a nice spot where we can set up a fire."

The spot they found was too nice. It was a complete camp – with a fire burning, neatly arranged bedrolls, and cosy tents, all looking as if it was prepared just a moment ago for them. It all seemed so peaceful... As he listened to the crackling of the fire, all he wanted was to lie down on one of the bedrolls and sleep, and forget all about werewolves, Crows, or anything else. Just sleep…

"There's strong power here. We should leave," he heard Morrigan say, and he wondered how she could say such thing. This was clearly the most perfect camp he had ever seen.

"I wonder if the Dalish hunters set this camp… Do you think they would mind if we rested here?" Alistair's voice sounded tired and sleepy.

Airam shook his head. "No, Al, I don't think so. If they left just for a moment, there would be some things in their tents, and if they left for good, they wouldn't leave all this behind – especially a burning fire. Morrigan's right, there's something fishy going on here. Come on, guys, we should leave."

Even Rask whined in protest – the clever dog was already lying on one of the bedrolls. But they obeyed. They all turned to leave –

And then he woke up. What a strange dream it was. Something about him leaving the Crows and fighting the darkspawn, with some crazy kid and his friends… The weirdest dream he ever had. Taliesen would like to hear it. He was almost disappointed it was over –

"Zev. Zev! Can you hear me? Look at me! Come on, snap out of it!"

He opened his eyes – and realized it wasn't a dream. His little Warden was kneeling next to him, looking slightly worried. He breathed in relief.

"What happened?"

"Are you finally awake? How do you feel? Can you get up?"

"I think so, yes." He tried, but he was feeling dizzy and nauseated, and had to lean on the boy for a balance. Looking around he saw that Morrigan and Alistair looked just as shaky and weak as he felt. At least he wasn't the only one who passed out.

"What a disgusting demon," snarled Alistair. "Preying on random travellers, catching them into his net like a spider, for who knows how long."

"'Tis good that at least one of us resisted the urge to sleep. Or we would all be dry bones, just like the others."

Others? He finally looked around, and saw what Morrigan meant. The camp was gone. Instead, there was just a small clearing, covered by heaps of human and elven bones, some dried and whitened during the years, some looking rather fresh, not older than few days.

"So our fearless leader saved us again?" he asked.

"Your fearless leader is now even hungrier and more tired than before," snapped Airam. "So for the Maker's sake, can we now go and set up some real camp and call it a day?"

"Of course. Come, lean on me. How's your arm?"

He cursed under his breath as he watched Alistair supporting the boy, just when he wanted to do the same. Why wasn't he faster?

"Thanks, Al. I'm fine; worse thing is I had to drink several potions to be able to fight that blasted thing. I only have few left now."

"No need to worry, I still have more than enough. And we can always mix some new ones when we make camp," offered Morrigan.

Airam didn't look very happy. "Yes, but it will take half the night," he complained.

He didn't say anything, still feeling bad for falling on such silly trick again. If he had managed to stay awake, he could have been able to help Airam with the fight and he wouldn't be this exhausted now and would be able to have proper rest at night. It seemed that he was always failing him… But he was trained as an assassin, not as a demon slayer. What he would give for a bunch of mercenaries or assassins. It would be nice to fight some normal humanoids. Werewolves and they flies didn't count.

They progressed slowly, because with Airam injured they didn't want to risk further fights. He took Rask and scouted ahead for any werewolf or walking trees, but they were lucky and didn't find any. An hour or so later, they saw another clearing, with only one big oak tree in the centre. It seemed ideal for a camp – until the tree spoke.

"Hrrrrm... what manner of beast be thee that comes before this elder tree?" it thundered in deep voice.

"I'm an elf… Aren't you going to attack me?"

"Have no fear, I wish no fight. It always worsens my twig blight," it replied.

Zevran gazed at it with an utter bewilderment. Nobody was ever going to believe this, he realized.

Airam was now grinning. "Oh! That's excellent, then. We also have problems with the Blight, you know, and don't want to fight unnecessarily," he said. "We're Grey Wardens."

"Allow me to welcome thee. I am called the Grand Oak, sometimes the Elder Tree," it replied politely.

"It's… rhyming. It's a rhyming tree. Maker knows what spirit is involved here. Better be careful, Airam," said Morrigan suspiciously, and he nodded in agreement.

"I've never heard of rhyming tree," the crazy kid ignored them completely. "Why are you rhyming?"

"I do not know, why dost thou not? Thy words seem plain, a mundane lot. Perhaps a poet's soul's in me... Does that make me a poet tree?"

"Poet tree! Oh, you're good! Me, I suck at rhyming. Believe me, you wouldn't want to hear it. Couldn't make a good rhyme if my life depended on it," replied the crazy kid enthusiastically.

"Would you allow us to set up camp here? We are rather tired. And at least we could talk more about poetry, if it wouldn't bother you," suggested Airam..

Even Rask rolled his eyes at that. But it was no use to argue. Their fearless little leader had just found another kindred spirit. They could only hope the tree would not go mad during the night and crush them in their sleep.

"Thou are polite and quite bright; yes, thou can stay here for a night," thundered the tree.

It actually seemed quite happy to have some company, and after they set up camp and ate their cold dinner – they all silently agreed that it wouldn't be clever to make a fire here – they sat for long hours, listening to its rhymed tales of other walking trees, which he called Sylvans, elves, werewolves and old wars. It was interesting, and its rhymes were quite good, but he refused to relax, not after what had happened before.

Airam, on the other hand, seemed quite relaxed. He was the best audience ever, always gasping or laughing at right places, and asking many questions. Especially about Witherfang. Well, they did find out quite a lot about werewolves, and maybe it would help, but he didn't like how the tree looked at the boy. It was up to something, he was sure about it.

And he was right.

"Unless thou thinkst it far too soon, might I ask of thee of a boon?" It asked, when all stories were told and nobody had any further questions.

"Of course," came the unsurprising answer. "What can I do for you?"

"I have only one desire, to solve a matter very dire: as I slept one early morn, a thief did come and steal an acorn."

Airam blinked. "An… acorn?"

"All I have is my being, my seed. Without it I am alone indeed. I cannot go and seek it out; yet I shall die if left without."

"You would die? Don't worry, we'll – "

"We will not. Why should we?"

"Morrigan! How can you say such thing? The Poet Tree will die without it! Even you can't be that heartless!" Airam sounded shocked, but he had to agree with Morrigan. They had enough problems without hunting a thief that stole an acorn.

The tree looked at the boy sadly. "I do not ask the help for free. Help me, and I will help thee. The way to Witherfang I can teach; without me he stays beyond thy reach," it said, sounding slightly disappointed.

"I apologize for my friend," said Airam quickly, shooting an angry look at Morrigan, "she's… not exactly the artistic type. We would appreciate any help you can give us, but we will bring the acorn even without it."

Airam looked directly into its eyes, and after a moment, the tree hummed approvingly. "Thy words I trust. Now have some rest. Thou need thy strength back for this quest."

He had a feeling that if it could make its big wooden face smile, it would.

oOo

The keeper said they had four or five days. One and half days was already gone, and they still weren't any closer to Witherfang than when they had started. They had killed what felt like hundreds of werewolves, Sylvans, and bears. It slowed them down. The atmosphere was grim – nobody felt like joking, and they walked in silence, each of them lost in their own thoughts.

Then they found the camp. Empty. Everything prepared, tent up, fire burning, but nobody around. And a lot of magic in the air. Both Airam and Morrigan were tense, staffs ready, looking warily around them. Rask was quietly growling ever since they noticed the flickering light of fire through the trees.

So when a man popped up out of the thin air right next to Airam, they almost killed him right then. The poor guy was barking mad, spouting paranoid accusations that they sent them to take him back. He also insisted on silly games of questions- ask a question, and you'll get a question, give an answer and you will get the same, as he explained. Anyone else except his little Warden would simply kill the fool, but no, he had to accept the madman's rules. For a while, they were exchanging nonsense, before Airam asked the question in which he was really interested.

"Was it you who stole the Poet… I mean, the Grand Oak's acorn?"

"Yes! Yes it was me, it was easy! The stupid tree should have guarded it better!"

Airam looked at him pointedly, before starting another banter with the man. After a moment, when they were deep in the same game again, he melted into the shadows. He checked the tent first, but there was nothing except the dirtiest bedroll he had ever seen and bunch of equally dirty clothes. Then he went to check the two chests he noticed outside, but there was just useless junk inside. He heard Airam's voice, more desperate every moment, trying to come up with another silly question.

"So… errr… have you ever been in love?"

Tch. He better find that acorn – and quickly. Looking around, he noticed the tree stump nearby. It was hollow. A perfect hiding place for valuables. He quickly knelt down next to it. It was trapped – nothing he couldn't disarm, but it definitely meant there was something valuable there. Carefully, inch by inch, he slid his hand inside… Yes. There it was. Something small and round. He pulled his hand out and looked at the acorn in his palm. So much trouble for something so small and trivial.

He silently stood back behind Airam, trying to pretend as if he never even left. The madman eyed him suspiciously, but he was the perfect picture of innocence. Soon after Airam happily said his goodbyes, and they walked out of the camp as quickly as they could without looking too suspicious.

When they were reasonably far away they started running, and didn't stop for almost half an hour, panting and laughing loudly.

"Maker, Zev, you're really the best! Now, let's run back to the Poet Tree, and see how he can help us to get to Witherfang. Morri, please, let me speak this time, all right?"

Morrigan disapproved – and on their way back she expressed it at least twenty times. The first two or three times were rather funny, but then it became boring, especially as Airam remained silent and refused to answer back.

Regardless, the tree was beyond itself with joy, and immediately composed several sonnets. Or were they odes? It rhymed, anyway. It was already night and the tree ensured them that it would show them the way tomorrow. So they had another cold meal and listened to a lot more rhymed stories – all except Morrigan, who stubbornly retreated to her tent. It didn't seem the tree minded.

The next morning, the sun still wasn't up when the tree woke them up and took them to the crossroad. "Thou shall follow this path down. At its end lies an ancient town. There thou will find whom you seek, but be wary for he is not weak."

It then gave to Airam what looked like a common branch. "This once was my own living wood; it has my power and will serve you good," it explained. Suddenly it looked very lonely – just an old, fragile tree that could be easily broken by a bit stronger storm.

"I wish thee well, my little friend. I shall remember thou till the end. May the sunlight find thou, thy days be long, thy winters kind, and thy roots be strong."

"Hey now. This isn't goodbye forever. I will come to visit you, once the Blight is over."

"Thy words are kind. Then I shall wait till here brings thou again thy fate."

Airam smiled and nodded. "And the sooner we get this over with, the sooner we'll be able to stop the Blight and enjoy quiet days full of sunshine and poetry. Let's go, guys."

They left in silence. After a while, when they reached the point where the path winded to the left, they turned back. The tree was still there, bathed in the first bright rays of sunshine, a lone remainder of a long forgotten history that nobody cared for any more.

Except his crazy kid, of course.

oOo

Perhaps it was the power of the wood the Poet Tree gave them, perhaps it was for some other reason, but none of the Sylvans they passed on their way attacked them. After several hours of swift and undisturbed walking, they found the ruins the tree mentioned. It was ancient and overgrown with moss and bushes, but it still looked rather impressive.

What didn't look impressive at all was the large group of werewolves waiting for them in the front, led by one of those that attacked them two days ago.

"You should not have come. This is not your business, elf. Leave."

Oh come on. You can't really mean that. Look. I'm only looking for Witherfang. There's no need to – "

"I will not let you hurt the Lady! Attack!"

Lady? Wasn't Witherfang supposed to be a big, old male wolf? But there would be enough time to muse over that later, after they got rid of these pesky werewolves.

When the attack started, Airam automatically used the weapon he was holding in his hands – which was the branch from the tree. The werewolves howled in fright when they noticed it. "That's from the Elder Tree! It betrayed us! The forest betrayed us! "

Airam stared at them, then at the branch and then tried to use it as a staff. Magic burst out of it, hitting the nearest werewolf and throwing him back with an enormous force. The werewolves howled again and retreated for a few steps. The only one that didn't seem afraid was the leader.

"Do not retreat! Fight! We must protect the Lady," he barked at the others and they stopped and took the fight pose again.

"Ha! Come then, face the Power of the Poet Tree, and despair!"

Encouraged by the sudden reluctance of their opponents, they plunged into battle, fighting with all their might. It would take ten times more werewolves to match their power and determination. Soon, half of the werewolves were lying dead or heavily injured, unable to fight, and the other half ran away into the ruins. All that was left to do was to kill the leader and proceed into the ruins.

Then a huge white wolf jumped between the leader and them, baring its teeth on the boy and growling angrily. But it didn't attack, and neither did boy.

"Hold on," he ordered, and they lowered their weapons and watched as the wolf and the leader of the werewolves retreated into the ruins.

"Why didn't we kill it? That had to be –"

"Witherfang. Yes, Morri, I know. But… something's odd. Something doesn't fit. I'd like to know what's going on here."

Alistair frowned. "So what now? We knock on the door and ask them politely if they would answer a few questions before we kill them?"

"And why not? A bit of good manners never hurts," he chuckled, but Airam just sighed

"Stop it, Al. And you, too, Zev. Now is not the time for clever remarks," he ordered.

"Is that so? And what about the 'face the power of the poetry'?"

"That, my dear Zev, was something quite different," snapped the crazy kid haughtily. "Besides, it's not poetry but Poet Tree and it's the name of my new amazing weapon. And before you start another word battle, which you would lose anyway, we should really move on."

oOo

The ruins were big, mouldy, dirty, and after few hours he hated it from the bottom of his heart. There was nothing there except ruined, mouldy, dirty junk… and locked chests. The first two he managed to unlock somehow, but the third was complicated like hell, the fourth took him almost an hour and when he saw the fifth he lied that he didn't have any lock picks left. Which earned him an amused – and very knowing – look from the crazy kid.

Most of the things inside the chests were rusted, eaten by woodworms, or decayed – not even worthy of the trouble it took to open the locks in the first place

The only interesting thing was a small phylactery they found on a shelf in one of the halls. Airam carefully picked it up, and, to their surprise, started talking to it. Then he gently put it on the nearby altar. There was a bright light, the phylactery cracked, and they had a feeling as if a sudden breeze brushed their cheeks before disappearing again. Which was not likely, as they were deep under the ground. Airam then explained that there was the mind of a mage trapped in there and that the mage taught him some new skills. It sounded completely crazy, but he learnt long ago that if his little Warden was involved, anything was possible.

Besides that, there were only more werewolves and some animated skeletons. Few times, they had a close call, like when Airam banged into the room full of werewolves, but otherwise they did surprisingly well. The worst thing was that it slowed them down. The third day was almost over and they still hadn't found Witherfang.

They were just about to settle for the night, when two werewolves approached them, hands lifted to show they were unarmed.

"We bring a message from the Lady, elf. If you want to find out the truth, come with us to her. She is willing to talk to you."

"And how do we know this is not a trap?" asked Alistair.

"We do not wish to fight you any more. You have already proven how strong you are and we have no wish to anger you further."

"All right, then," agreed Airam, "but only if she invites us for dinner."

"That can be arranged," one of them said, humourlessly.

They quickly gathered their things and followed the werewolves deeper and deeper into the ruins. Soon, they were totally surrounded by werewolves, though they behaved peacefully and did not attack. For a moment. He wasn't going to risk it, and so he kept his hands on his daggers, just in case.

Just when he started to wonder how much deeper could they go, they stopped in front of a set of massive doors. The werewolves opened them, one at each side, and told them to go in. Looking around for any sign of an ambush or a trap, they entered. It was a big hall that once had to be just as majestic as Andraste's Temple. At the end of it was some kind of a throne, and sitting on it was the strangest creature he had ever seen – half sexy woman, half a tree, with slim, twig-like fingers and long mossy hair.

"Welcome," she said. "I am the Lady of the Forest. Also known as Witherfang."

A million thanks to my awesome Beta Brelaina! Thank you for your help.