Support Staff
Something you have been meaning to do is pick up more support staff. In truth, you would be most comfortable with more warriors, but they simply will not be ready in time. Thus, you must ensure that what you do have goes as far as possible. That means hiring people to fill in the various non-combat roles available.
There are several options available to you. You could hire blacksmiths, cooks, teamsters and the like. The kind of people who can follow an army around carrying stuff, fixing things that break and generally keeping morale up. This is certainly an option, though it is not the only way you could gather such a group, armies have a tendency of attracting people to support them.
Another option is to pick up more craftspeople. Woodcarvers, potters, essentially anyone who can make something. Establishing a last minute crafts workshop would go a long way to ensuring you have the funds for an extended campaign. If you choose your crafts carefully, they might be able to pull double duty in preparing for the war at the same time. You are thinking weavers, tailors and cobblers as an example.
A final option is to hire entertainers, musicians and all the various sundries that graced your grandfather's courts. Your instincts recoil from the thought, decrying such spending as wasteful and frivolous. Yet more evidence for how much the young prince has been ground down beneath the hardened warrior.
Despite the gut reactions of the warrior, it would have its place. If you want to become a significant player in the politics of Ferelden, a court famous as a place to experience is a necessity. That said, it is certainly something that could wait, there is a Blight on the horizon after all.
In a mixture of deep thought and distant melancholy you pass through the lands of your neighbours. Some recognise you as you pass, waving or smiling. Most do not. It is late autumn; final harvests are coming in and everywhere people are preparing for winter.
You hear chatter on the roads, of how the winter is looking to be a relatively gentle one. There are a number of sayings and snippets of local wisdom you do not understand, but the gist is that the signs of winter are coming late, which usually means it will be mild.
Some are even discussing the possibility of an early spring, but most such people are dismissed as being overly optimistic. For your part, you think they might be right. There is a certain something in the air you cannot identify, some lack of chill on the breeze that suggests that winter will be short and warm.
You know better than most not to put too much trust into such feelings, as they are wrong just often enough to cause problems. So, you say nothing to those you pass, merely focusing on your goal. Acquiring any kind of skilled worker is going to be hit or miss in this environment.
Seasonal workers will be looking forward to a break over winter, but skilled craftsmen will not. Though, such people will be relatively stable in their profession so in the end it makes no difference.
You put out your notices on the job boards, mostly as a formality, and then you set off to find people who you can recruit directly.
There's a number of different options available. Given the deal you made with the dwarf earlier in the week, there is a strong temptation to hire some lumberjacks to take care of the problem for you. A good fifteen of them would ensure that you would not need to worry about the matter again, beyond the occasional inspection or personal involvement.
You quickly dismiss this option, you have labourers for a reason, and they are more than capable of covering for a week or two if you decide you need a dedicated force. You certainly do not want to give anyone a hope for permanent employment when you do not intend for it to be so.
Thus, you focus instead on the slightly more distant goal of the oncoming Blight. It should be, oh four months or so off, if you have read the signs right. It might be earlier, though you doubt it, and obviously it could be later. You doubt it though, your impression of Cailan is that he is rather impatient.
Thus, you will need support staff in order to keep your army in best shape. There are a number of different configurations, depending on a number of factors. More following the actual soldiers means slower movement, but less demand upon the individual solider. The opposite for fewer followers.
What you need most is blacksmiths, to repair weapons and armour and the like. Fortunately, you already have a fair number of those, so you should only need a few. Then, it might be useful to have dedicated wagoners, people whose job is to pilot your wagons.
More herdsmen to bring larger numbers of animals along is an option, but honestly that is more of a task for when you are purchasing animals. Tailor and cobblers to fix clothes and shoes. Domestic staff to wash clothes, cook meals and other general tasks.
All of that before you even begin to think about expanding your capabilities with things such as engineers, or possibly by acquiring a quartermaster to oversee a supply chain. There are, quite frankly, too many things that need doing.
Unfortunately, your rise in need is met by a shortfall of supply. Most people are settling in for winter, not looking for new opportunities. Further, the fact that you are explicitly recruiting for a campaign in the coming spring, or perhaps even at the end of winter, does not fill most people with confidence.
Still, you are Nelyafinwë. You might not be able to charm birds from the trees, but you maintain that is solely due to the language barrier. Turko had sabotaged your attempts to prove it, and you will hold that opinion until your final hour. Humans are much more susceptible to your words than birds are anyway.
What most you speak to do not realise is that your painting of a relatively bleak picture is deliberate. This time, you do not come offering the certainty of safety and your oath of protection. You want people willing to take a risk and face the tribulations of life on campaign. It is better to find out now who will fold under pressure.
Thus, you do actually manage to find some people willing to join you in the upcoming battle. They are even willing to come to Endataurëo and study and integrate with your existing forces. That is worth much more than a larger number of people with promises and little else.
When your rounds are done, you stop and take stock of the people you have recruited, counting them and making sure that everyone who said they would join was there.
The first group you manage to sway were a set of apprentice cobblers and tailors. They were sitting in a group in a tavern, grumbling about their masters in the manner of apprentices everywhere.
You approached them and asked to join, which they had cautiously agreed to.
"Tell me, young ones." You asked. "Are you happy with your lives?"
Several of the young men had scoffed, and one had replied. "Could be worse. Plenty of people starving. Cobbling's good business."
"That it most certainly is." You agreed warmly. "I myself have always found it a profession worth great respect. None know the value of a good shoe better than the warrior."
That comment had seen the cobblers relax somewhat, the other two had not, but they were easily drawn into a conversation about their own trade. Soon the four were happily swapping tails of their work.
"I must admit," You said, when they were relaxed. "That I did not approach you entirely for pleasure. As much as I have enjoyed your company, I am in the market for tailors and cobblers, do you perhaps know any who might be amenable to moving to my hall to work for me?"
Their enthusiasm was a surprise. The sentiment 'anything to get away from my master' was commonly cited. You do not question why, it is not important, though you do find it somewhat strange.
From there you move to the most surprising pair you have managed to find. Robert and Wendolyn, Bob and Wendy as they insisted on being called, were engineers. Which is a profession you would not have expected out here, let alone among humans.
They had come to you, rather than the other way around. They found one of your notices and sought you out due to there being 'not much opportunity around here'. Their tale was a rather dull one, they had both been related to merchants who had paid to have them educated in Orlais, but found there was little demand for their skills within Ferelden.
You had led them to a table and discussed their knowledge with them. How was their ability to construct bridges? Decent, as such things go. They asked the right questions, discussed ideal materials and when the bridge would need to be finished.
From there your discussion grew more and more specific to their likely tasks. Could they lead a team to put up a village wall? Had they any experience with city design, or how to maintain sanitation? Could they build siege engines?
Most of these questions met with either a negative or a qualified agreement. It was not their specific talent, but they did have a wide base of understanding regarding building and the fundamental forces of the world. You were confident they could learn what they did not know quickly.
You smile as you finish the inspection. Wendy and Bob are making somewhat awkward small talk with the apprentices, and no one looks to be planning to leave at this point.
It has been a reasonably successful recruitment trip.
Know Thy Enemy
Recruitment finished and recruits dropped off in Endataurëo; you have one last stop ahead of you. Duncan mentioned that he is staying in Denerim at the moment. Though he made no promises of being there, he did say that he will either be there, or return there so a message can reach him that way. The Grey Wardens are apparently permanent guests of the king, and a message to the castle will eventually reach him.
You ride through Denerim, grimacing at the smell once more. There are, in your opinion, far too many animals in the streets. It results in a rather unpleasant atmosphere, one the castle is hardly immune to.
When you reach the gates you find them closed.
"Hello the gates!" You call.
"Ain't no room for no beggars or loiterers." A voice calls back. "Sod off elf."
You narrow your eyes, but keep your voice calm. "I am Nelyafinwë Maitimo Russandol, lord of Brecilian Forest. I have business with the Grey Warden Duncan."
"That ain't even a real title." Another voice calls out. "You think we're just going to let you in 'cause you know the name of a Warden?"
"My title is as real as you are." You reply, somewhat irritated. "I have the paperwork to prove it."
You hear grumbling from the other side of the gate, and a whispered argument from what you presume is the gatehouse. Then footsteps reach the gate and a small slit opens up.
"Show me this 'paperwork'." The guard says with heavy sarcasm.
Biting back some vicious comments about the man's choice of words you unfurl the proclamation and lift it up to the eye slit.
"Right. Obvious forgery. Scram." The guards says almost immediately.
"You have not read it." You reply hotly.
Even you cannot read a proclamation in the second that it has been before the slit.
"Dunneed to. Don't got the kings seal." The guard says smugly.
"Yes, it does." You reply, almost more confused than angry. "There at the bottom."
The guard coughs. "Obviously that's a forgery. There's no way an elf would have been made a noble."
Your rage bubbles to the surface, in a cold voice you ask, "Are you a duly appointed magistrate?"
"What?" The guard says.
"Are you appointed by the king or his representative to administer the justice of the realm?" You explain, knowing full well that this land does not have such an office.
"Listen buddy, I'm the gate guard, I decide who comes in, don't need no stinking magistrate." The man snarls.
"Yet, if you wish to accuse me of high treason then you must do so before an officer of the law. Unless you are derelict in your duties." You state.
"What're you talking about?" The guard asks contemptuously.
"Forging the king's seal is high treason. This is a capital crime punishable by death." You remind him. "Thus, surely a loyal guard would bring this matter to the nearest officer. Since this is the king's residence, he would be the closest and the best choice."
There is a moment of silence as you allow your words to sink in.
"Should we go and ask him if this seal is legitimate?" You asks sweetly.
After a few more moments of silence, the gate opens.
Naturally, your problems do not end there, the stables have 'no room' for Orundómë, and your assertion that he is more than capable of caring for himself does not sway them to let you keep him in the courtyard. Spitefully, you leave him just outside the invisible border of the castle, confident that anyone who tries to steal him or drive him off will have an unpleasant experience.
The servants are much more helpful, gladly taking a message to Duncan for you, and reporting that he happens to be present at the moment. He even agrees to meet you with a minimum of fuss. You do have to wait a short while, time you use to pay your respects to Teyrn Loghain and the king. Both are too busy for a proper meeting, but it never hurts to be polite.
Shortly after that, you are sitting across from a table, Duncan sitting across from you.
"I wasn't expecting you to get in contact with me so soon. It is only just over two weeks since we last spoke." He says after the pleasantries of meeting are complete.
"In truth, I would have come sooner if I had no other commitments." You admit. "I find myself feeling rather blind of late, desperately searching for any information that might help me understand the coming events even slightly."
"Yes. The Blight comes rarely, this will only be the fifth in history. Many are understandably ignorant of what it involves, I will be more than happy to answer your questions." The Grey Warden says.
You raise an eyebrow at Duncan's comment. "I was not aware that they were so rare. How long is this history?"
"Regarding Blights?" Duncan waits for you to agree before continuing, "Approximately fourteen hundred years."
A few quick calculations later, you say, "That is one every three hundred years. They are not that rare."
The Grey Warden laughs softly. "What a strange sense of time you must have if you believe a once in three hundred year event to be common. It matters little, as they are hardly so regular."
Your war against Morgoth had taken the better part of six centuries, that could very easily have included two Blights. Truthfully, if something happened every three hundred odd years, you would be much better prepared for it.
You say none of this. "Why is that? What causes a Blight?"
"A Blight begins when the darkspawn find and awaken an Archdemon." Duncan explains.
"Which is?" You prompt.
"That is not an easy question to answer." Duncan says, scratching the back of his head. "Some say they are the ancient gods of the Tevinter Imperium, while others maintain that they are merely dragons and that the Maker is the only god. Still others believe they are some fundamental part of the darkspawn, innate to their existence but scattered and sealed by some great defeat."
The words 'ancient gods' cause your eyes to narrow and heart to race. "Dragons? Is that what they look like?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact." Duncan answers, sounding slightly confused.
"They never have another appearance? Not even in legend?" You press, needing to be certain. "No one has ever described one as a creature of shadow and flame, or perhaps as a being of inhuman beauty that spoke of things none knew?"
Duncan laughs, more deeply and certainly than earlier. "You have been listening to far too many stories. No, whatever they are, treating them as Blighted dragons is more than sufficient."
You sigh, relaxing back in your chair. "Well, that is something. Still, the last thing a dragon needs is yet more power, let alone an army to do its bidding."
"Is that all?" Duncan asks. "Do you have any other questions?"
"If you are willing to entertain all my questions, then we should send for some food. I have rather a large number." You reply, smiling.
Duncan smiles back politely. "I'm afraid I don't have time for that, I have other commitments later today."
You shrug. "I shall have to content myself with what I am able to ask in the time we do have."
You pause a moment, gathering your thoughts and choosing the questions you deem most important. Duncan waits calmly until you speak.
"How many darkspawn are we likely to face in the Blight?" You ask.
Duncan sighs. "That is a difficult question to ask, one that has been asked of me many times of late. I can only say that there will be thousands."
"There is a world of difference between five thousands and a thousand thousands." You point out. "Surely you can be more specific than that."
"I'm afraid not." Duncan says tiredly. "The numbers fluctuate somewhat wildly, depending on how long a Blight takes and a number of other factors. It is safe to say that there are more darkspawn in the world than can be killed by men alone."
You tilt your head slightly in thought. "True enough I suppose, the better question is how are the darkspawn organised?"
"What makes you think they are?" Ducan asks in a jesting tone.
"They are a whole, thus there must be some level of organisation." You argue. "Even if it is as simple as having a shared purpose, else they would fight each other, and all around them without cease. An annoyance certainly, perhaps even a threat, but nothing so distinct as a Blight."
"True enough." The Grey Warden sighs. "The Archdemon is the sole commander, and lower level darkspawn organise ad-hoc squads around alphas. Those are the larger, more ornately armed darkspawn."
"I am familiar with them." You reply absently. "What about supply lines? Do they need to eat, to drink?"
"Not in the traditional sense." Duncan says, grimacing. "The closest thing would be the Broodmothers."
"I sense from your tone that I am not going to like the answer to this question, but what are the Broodmothers." You ask, bracing yourself.
"Darkspawn sometimes capture women and well, they feed her Taint until she transforms and begins to…" Duncan closes his eyes and takes a steadying breath. "Birth darkspawn. It is an, unpleasant, sight, and completely irreversible."
Once the mere thought would have seen you retching, reeling at the thought of such horrors. Yet, after all you have heard of Morgoth's deeds, and whispers in dark corners of theories of what might be involved in the creation of orcs, you do not.
You sigh through your nose, feeling exhausted. "Of course they do."
Duncan gives you a surprised look. "That is not quite the reaction I was expecting."
You take a moment to rub at your closed eyes. "I believe I have spent all horror that I am capable of at this point, I would say there is nothing the darkness can do that I would consider beneath them if I did not believe they would take it as a challenge."
You open your eyes to see the corner of Dunca's mouth twitching.
"I suppose that explains what they are doing attacking the Chasind then." You muse, pleased with your decision to extract those you could.
"The darkspawn are attacking the Chasind?" Duncan asks in clear surprise. "How do you know that?"
"When I discovered what kind of darkness was brewing in the south, I decided to investigate." You explain. "During that time I met the Chasind and, through a series of events that is too complex to explain and too comical for this conversation, they mistook me for a divine messenger."
"What did they tell you?" Duncan asks intensely.
"Mostly that they were under attack." You reply. "I found another clan who was all but destroyed and managed to extract them at great difficulty. I assume other clans are having a similar experience."
"How strange. I was also in the south, and I never saw a Chasind." Duncan says thoughtfully, stroking his beard.
You shrug. "I am given to understand they mistrust the 'men of iron', and it had been more than six months since the Blight began, I doubt many were left by that point."
"Six months…" Duncan's face takes on an intense cast. "Tell me everything you know about the Blight."
A moment passes, then you turn to a servant. "You. Bring me a map."
"My studies of the darkspawn began with many assumptions and few certainties." You explain, rolling out the map on the table. "I met a small patrol within the forest and slew them."
"How did they get into the forest?" Duncan asks frowning.
"There is an entrance to those tunnels they dwell in somewhere near my hall." You explain with a wave. "It is a solved matter."
Duncan nods slowly. "If you are certain. What did this patrol tell you?"
"Well, I immediately noticed the corruption that seeps from their blood, it caused a rather violent reaction within me." You explain.
Duncan immediately turns to look at you. Eyes narrowed he focuses on you for a long moment, eventually closing his eyes though his concentration did not seem to fade.
"You are not tainted." He says, surprised. "How is this… Ah, the spell."
You shake your head. "I fear not. My people are simply naturally resistant to corruption of that nature, much as dwarves are. The spell only functions within a very narrow window, as the nature of the Taint is to bind itself to its host, making it effectively indistinguishable to all arts that I know."
Duncan sighs, running a hand over his eyes. "No matter. What else do you know?"
"Once I had established what was coming from Alistair, I immediately decided to travel to the south to witness it with my own eyes." You continue. "There I ran into an ambush, which left me rather heavily injured."
"An ambush?" Duncan asks.
"A small patrol led me to a place where a host was waiting in hiding, and they sprang forth an assaulted me." You reply. "Perhaps it was mere coincidence, but I believe it an ambush."
"Why would the darkspawn ambush you?" Duncan mutters to himself. "They can't have known you were coming."
A comment about never underestimating the enemy's spies dances on the tip of your tongue, but you hold it back. If Morgoth himself has returned to lead this Blight, then you doubt you would have survived the ambush. He fears the house of Finwë, and rightly so. There is no need to raise panic about potential spies if this 'Archdemon' cannot match Morgoth's talent for espionage.
"That was when I was rescued by a Chasind. They explained that the darkspawn had been attacking their villages, I assumed to swell their numbers with the fallen. Though, in light of what you have revealed…" You trail off, as though speaking of the matter will make it somehow more real.
You truly are an old fool these days.
"Yes. That makes a great deal of sense." The Grey Warden sighs, looking at the map. "Where was this ambush? And the villages?"
You gesture at the rough area, somewhat uncertain of the specifics, given the low quality of its recording of the Wilds.
"I extracted who I could and spoke to a creature dwelling within. Beyond that, I have obviously studied the nature of the Taint in as much detail as possible." You explain. "There is a great deal to be said on the matter, many details that are interesting in the abstract, but concretely I fear I add nothing to the conversation beyond what has already been shared with Merrill's spell."
"Yes, I remember you discussing the matter when it came to Avernus' notes." Duncan notes. "Tell me, what is your view on the situation? What would you do if you were in command?"
"Well, I would immediately begin making friends with anyone I could." You say. "The numbers of the darkspawn are not to be underestimated. Then, I would move into the wilds with what forces I do have to deny the foe as many resources as possible."
You should have done so in Beleriand, during the siege. Too many elves were captured and turned by Morgoth while you had sat in your fortress, confident he was harmless in Angband. You had been wrong then, and you refuse to make the same mistake twice.
"Ferelden cannot afford an extended campaign in the Wilds, the Chasind are too hostile." Duncan replies.
You shrug. "Then my efforts to make friends would have to start there. It matter little, you asked for my advice and I have given it."
"True." Duncan closes his eyes for a moment. "I fear that, as much as I would like to continue this discussion, I must depart."
"One last question before you go." You say. "Tell me, what exactly is being done to combat the Blight?"
Ducan smiles wryly. "I am making friends with anyone I can, and seeking to expand the forces of the Grey Wardens."
"Well, if you should need a diplomat, I have some talent in the area." You offer.
The Grey Warden shakes his head. "I will keep that in mind, but unless you have also stumbled upon the treaties of our order in your investigations, I doubt there is much you can do."
Buying and Selling
It is one thing to say that he will go on holiday in a few weeks, and quite another to actually do it. Delora might be able to take over most of the complex tasks that require training, but there are a number of unskilled tasks that simply need more hands.
The particular problem that Martin is working on today is the loading of the carts and the subsequent delivery of materials.
"We could just have a teamster follow me around as I take them to all of the customers we have." Delora proposes.
"That still leaves us with the problem of it taking twice as long for you to complete all deliveries." Martin objects.
Delora looks at her human co-worker. "It's still faster than me going back to pick up a second load. Wine keeps forever, so there's no hurry."
"Unless we lose buyers as they think we're de-prioritising them. You know how nobles and rich people get." Martin rebutted.
"What's our other option?" Delora asks.
"I take one of the spare labourers with me this week, and maybe next week as well." Martin explains. "I show them the route, exactly as they'll do it. From loading to delivery. That way they can operate my route while I'm gone."
Delora bites her thumb nervously. "You'll need to introduce them to the clients. And they can't be elves. Rich types are skittish about scams."
"Good point." Matin says, sighing heavily. "That means I'll need to get one of the famers to do the work, have a labourer cover them."
The two merchants continued their deliberation as their wagons filled.
Travelling with a companion is not new to Martin. He had done so with Delora and doing so with another elf isn't any more nerve wracking then that was.
"You have driven a wagon before?" He asks.
The elf shakes his head.
"Alright. When we reach a straight I'll hand you the reins and you can get a feel for it." Martin says.
The elf nods.
Martin supresses a shiver. If there was ever an elf that he would not want to meet in a dark alley, it was the worker who had been chosen to cover his route. He was huge, even by human standards. Broad shoulders, long arms, bald head, even a facial tattoo that Martin would have mistaken for a Dalish marking before he'd spent months getting to know the Dalish closely.
At this point, Martin just hopes that he makes it back home alive.
"Here, now gently. Good." He says to the elf. "Just like that, remember you're guiding them, not dragging them. You're doing really well."
The huge elf's lips curl back to reveal teeth.
The human merchant shudders again.
Despite Martin's worst fears the large elf causes no problems on the trip to their destination. He doesn't speak much, mostly nodding or shaking his head, which does not help Martin feel more relaxed.
He also proves unwilling to interact with the customers in question, leaving Martin to explain what is happening and make arrangements for his holiday. Most of their customers don't really care, happy to just to treat the elf as a servant delivering what they ordered.
From there the two go to pick up the carts that Martin has been arguing for, for some time now. He stresses to the silent elf that this will be his chance to show what he's learned by driving one back. Delora meets them to take some of them back with her, since hitching more than one cart to another is a recipe for disaster.
The elf slows the pair somewhat, his lesser experience seems to make him hesitant in ways that surprise Martin. In fact, if it weren't for the elf's generally intimidating presence he would describe him as nervous.
Still, they arrive at Endataurëo without too much trouble. The journey might have been frustrating at times, but nothing worth much comment.
As Martin puts away their carts he hears the elf whisper something.
"What was that?" He asks suspiciously.
"Thank you." The elf says shyly. "For teaching me."
"Ah." Martin hesitates, feeling uncomfortable. "It's fine, part of the job."
The large elf smiles brightly. It looks terrifying.
Weekly Report
Letters from your informants, something about mutters of the Teyrn coming for some kind of gathering. The exact timing of this potential visit is rather hard to pin down. Weapons and armour are still being prepared; a tax hike has been announced on the upcoming harvest. Nothing you were not expecting really.
Ranger's progress is exactly as expected, no complications or crises. Merrill has entered into correspondence with Wynne from the Circle, though nothing looks to be coming of that anytime soon.
On the home front, your warriors and blacksmiths are on track to be fully trained by year's end.