It's not even dawn yet when their group—five of them now, with Ranjit having joined them—slinks quietly from their room in Lothering's inn. The building creaks, wooden floors groaning with their movement, but the snores of other sleeping travelers are louder still, and they pass without notice down the steps and out into the dark grey morning air. The only sign of their departure is the key Tali leaves on the bar.
"Tali." Outside, in the dim light, Savreen is the first to speak.
"Hmm?" She catches Talvinder mid yawn, scratching at a tickle of hair across her forehead, and Tali swallows down the noise of it, trying to seem more alert than she really is.
"Can you collect our dogs? Meet us by the windmill."
"What are you doing then?"
"Gathering water." With a sigh, Talvinder acquiesces, peeling off from the others and tiptoeing around the side of the inn as Savreen whispers out a perfunctory order to be careful, almost an afterthought.
The stables are quiet and dark, what little pre-dawn light there is outside struggling to make it through the small gaps in the wooden slats and thatched roof. Tali hesitates to close the door behind her, not wanting to lessen the light even more, but with a sigh she pushes it shut and turns back to the stable. It smells warm and horse-ish inside—familiar, with an undertone of fresh hay. Softly, Tali whistles, then calls Sher and Abarie's names. They snuffle awake, bound to her side, sniff her palms, and wag their tails.
"There's a good girl," Tali says, ruffling Abarie's small floppy ears. "And a good boy, too." She pats Sher on the head and he lets out a little boof, a small bark mostly in his chest, more air than noise. It's almost as if he knows they're being quiet. "Now, let's go and join the others, shall we?"
Tali pulls on the barn door, slightly ajar, letting a bit of light into the room, and freezes at the press of cold steel on her neck.
"I told you I can be of help," Leliana says, her face mostly shadowed and her barely visible lips quirked up in a faint smile. At Tali's side, Sher and Abarie wag their tails ineffectually, and as quickly as she had moved before, Leliana withdraws her dagger from Tali's throat and tosses some small biscuits to the hounds, crooning lightly as she does so.
"And you thought the best way to prove that was by cornering me in the stables and almost slitting my throat?" Indignation ripples through Talvinder. She isn't hurt, and maybe she's exaggerating—Leliana had pressed the flat of her dagger to Tali's skin, after all, not the blade—but she whistles a warning to Abarie anyway, disliking the way the dog is bounding about the stable, happy to see Leliana.
"They say mabari are the best judges of character," Leliana offers, pushing the door open a bit further, revealing that she's replaced her chantry robes and skirts with tooled and studded leather. She's kitted out: a bow on her back and a quiver at her hip, buckled around the worn, once fine leggings that she wears, with daggers seemingly dripping about her person.
"You expect me to believe you because my dog likes you?" With a shrug, Leliana seems to believe she's proven her point, crossing her arms and fixing an expectant gaze on Tali's face. It's unfortunate, because Talvinder knows full well that the Fereldan saying about mabari is true—they're the shrewdest judges of character she's ever met. So she changes tack. "Why do you want to come with us so badly, anyway?" A ripple of embarrassment crosses Leliana's face, and she stiffens for a brief second before softening, sighing.
"I suppose I knew this question would come sooner or later. You may think I'm…you may think I'm insane."
"I would say that ship has sailed. Sailed when you spilled ale all over me, really." Leliana ignores this.
"I had…I had a dream. A vision." Her eyes, a greyish blue, dart over Tali's face, taking in the way her eyebrows raise with evident disappointment. Frustrated, Leliana looks away.
"A vision."
"I knew you wouldn't believe me."
"No—no I didn't say that!"
"You had an expression."
"An expression? It's just my face!" Hands in the air, palms out, Talvinder tries her level best to look as though she doesn't actually think Leliana insane. She must be bad at hiding it, because Leliana narrows her eyes, raises her own eyebrows, and then sighs.
"I can't explain it, not really. But the Maker—I believe he has called for me to go with you. And I can't ignore that." If Tali only thought Leliana was insane before, now she feels quite sure of it.
"Chantry teachings say that the Maker doesn't speak to anybody."
"I thought you weren't Andrastian?"
"My mother is. Or—was—it doesn't matter. I know enough."
"I see." Leliana looks at Tali for a long moment, and as Abarie nuzzles at the redhead's hand, seeking more treats, it is Tali who is forced to look away. The pity on Leliana's face is unbearable.
"So, what makes you think the Maker would speak to you rather than anyone else?"
"I—I don't know. But I know what I have to do. Surely that's enough." She seems honest and earnest enough, Talvinder must admit: though Leliana was good at putting on performances the night before, she'd almost always had a tell, and Tali sees none of that now. And what's more, though she knows she may come to regret it, there is something about Leliana's devotion that tugs at her. Could Tali abandon a mission if she believed she was called? In the name of the Gurus? Would she even try?
"I can't promise the others will be happy," she says finally, crossing her arms, "but I'll vouch for you." Leliana's smile makes her look so painfully young, and with another sigh, Talvinder moves to open the stable door once more. "You have to stop spilling things on me, though."
In a masterful feat of deduction, Talvinder is correct. The others are not at all happy to see Leliana following her and the mabari.
"I thought mother to be collecting fools when she rescued you, but 'tis nothing compared to this," Morrigan remarks. An expression approximating pain and indigestion crosses Alistair's face, and he groans.
"As much as I hate that she's right—"
"And yet 'tis such a frequent occurrence!"
"Are you sure it's such a good idea?" Alistair's glare has no effect on Morrigan, who is intently interested in a speck on one of her nails.
"Like I said last night, I'm sure we can't turn away help when it's offered." Tali tries not to let her annoyance show—she'd expected this, to be sure, but it doesn't erase the sting of being thought wrong. Her words, though, silence the others.
"My lady—I mean, Talvinder has a point," Ranjit says after a moment, standing there awkwardly. Morrigan's eyebrows shoot up, almost disappearing in her hairline, and Alistair scrunches his lips together as though he is trying so, so hard not to disagree.
"You cannot be serious." Thankfully for Alistair, at the very least, Morrigan speaks before he must voice his opinion. Tali catches him looking at her with a faint grimace of apology, and despite herself she smiles. There's something so funny about the earnest way his eyebrows stretch upwards, a canyon of concern etched into his forehead.
"No, I agree," Savreen says, though it seems to be a bit reluctant to Tali.
"'Twould seem your skulls were cracked far worse than Mother thought, if I am to agree with Alistair alone."
"Oh yes, because I'm a fool, is that what you mean?"
"You said it, not me."
"You—"
"Well, that settles it! Three against two." Sav claps her hands together, trying to force Morrigan and Alistair to focus. "Leliana will come with us and help as she can." Morrigan harrumphs and crosses her arms, but she doesn't argue, and Alistair sighs once, brittle and short, but gives it up.
"You will not regret this, I swear to you." Leliana is the only one smiling broadly, but she doesn't let the moods of the others affect her at all. "Now, what is our course?"
"You aren't leaving just yet."
The interruption is unexpected, and Talvinder whirls around, hand on her sword, to face a group of about ten men, all weary and thin, most of them appearing to be refugees or farmers.
"We saw that decree what was posted at the Chantry," says one, carrying a pitchfork, his reddish hair greying at the temples. "You're them Wardens, the gray ones. Dunno if you're really guilty like they say, an' Maker help me, but I don't care. That reward—"
"Don't do this, please." Sav's plea is as much a request as it is a warning, her hands already raising to reach for the hilts of her own swords.
"That reward'll feed our families for a month," another man echoes bluntly, voice grim. "What choice do we have?"
"You have every choice—"
"They have already made their choices," Morrigan interrupts, frustration rising in her voice. Hands slide toward weapons, and Tali notices more pitchforks, wickedly sharp knives meant for hacking at undergrowth and crops, axes. This will not be a bloodless fight, and, heart in her throat, she raises her hands in front of her, palms out.
"We mean you no trouble—"
"Yet they mean us every trouble!" Morrigan's fingers spark purple, bright in the dawn dimness, and she readies her staff.
"Morrigan." Savreen's voice is a warning, low in her throat, and it makes Morrigan sneer.
"We have our families to think about," the man with the pitchfork and the grey hair says, and he almost sounds apologetic as he does, and for just a heartbeat, Talvinder's eyes meet his, and she feels the insane urge to say, to tell him, I forgive you. Then it passes, and the men advance, makeshift weapons drawn, and Tali pulls her sword from its scabbard instead, fitting her shield to her arm as quickly as she can.
But before anyone can land a blow, a figure, large and solid, steps between the two groups.
"There is no honor in fighting those you do not believe guilty," they say in a deep, slow, even tone. "Not for coin alone. Go back to your families."
"You can't—"
"Your deaths will kill those you wish to provide for more surely than want of coin. You are farmers. Not warriors. Go back to your families, now."
To Tali's surprise, the figure's words work. Slowly, most of the men lower their weapons and step back, some with scowls, others with expressions of shame. One man throws his mallet to the ground before storming away. But no matter how, one by one, they all turn and leave, abandoning the fight, abandoning the reward.
Tali knows she shouldn't feel guilty, shouldn't feel bad—they've narrowly avoided a fight, and she should be glad. Yet still, she wants to run after them, press whatever coins they can spare into the hands of these desperate men—fathers, brothers, husbands, sons. It's a foolish impulse, and it vanishes quickly, but still, it's there, and for the instant she's aware of it, Talvinder is so very bone achingly tired, deep in her heart.
"Thank you—" Savreen begins to say, addressing the figure in front of them, but they don't let her finish.
"It was foolish of you to not be prepared for their attack," the man says, turning finally to face the group as he rebukes them. There's no real malice in his words; he speaks as though making a plain observation.
"Yes, well—"
"They called you Wardens." It isn't a question, and he regards each of the group in turn as he waits for a response. His silence gives Tali the time to realize that he is Vashoth, tall and broad with the faint hints of horns evident at his brow and hairline. In the dawn light, his cool-toned brown skin and the ashen braids of his hair appear in deep contrast to each other, dark eyes glittering faintly under his furrowed and thinking brows. When no one speaks, he frowns slightly. "Are you not Grey Wardens?"
"We—yes, we are," Alistair offers, raising his hand and waving awkwardly. The man regards him with an appraising stare, and slowly Alistair lowers his hand again.
"Are not Wardens great heroes?"
"Uh…yes?" Alistair is quieter when he answers this question, his voice tilting upwards at the end of the word as though he is the one asking the question.
"I do not understand. You look like children."
Morrigan bursts into laughter, raucous and giggling. She's the only one who does so, and next to her, Alistair looks as though he would quite like to hit her for it.
"Perhaps you could tell us your name, so that we can thank you properly?" Sav has to raise her voice slightly to be heard over the peals of Morrigan's laughter, but the man hears her well enough and seems to understand that the subject has been changed.
"I am Sten of the Beresaad. If you desire a name to call me by, you may call me Sten." So not only is he Vashoth, Tali realizes, but also Qunari.
"Beresaad—isn't that the vanguard of the army of the Qun? Like scouts?" she wonders aloud, not quite remembering her lessons on the history of Par Vollen. Sten regards her a moment, then nods almost imperceptibly.
"It is a crude approximation, but it will do."
"But why are you…here?" He considers her question, and then (and Tali would swear he smiles ever so slightly, as though finding his words a great joke) answers.
"I am here because my company travelled south." Tali represses the urge to groan. Alistair doesn't.
"No, but—why? Why here?" This time, he gives a real answer.
"The Blight is of interest to the Arishok."
"Your leader is interested in the Blight?" Sav asks, eyebrows furrowed.
"It will consume the world if left unchecked. All good leaders should be 'interested' in this Blight."
"But that doesn't explain why you're here, in Lothering," Tali adds. As she looks at Sten, she notices he's suspiciously low on supplies and weapons, his armor covered in the dust of the road and stains of dried blood. And alone. He's alone, which she should have realized before now.
"I am here because we travelled south, toward the Tevinter fortress."
"Ostagar?"
"It was said that your king would be launching an assault there."
"But we didn't see you there," Alistair interjects.
"That is correct. We intended to scout in the Wilds, to observe the battle and its outcome."
"You intended?" Savreen's gaze is sharp, as though capable of cutting through Sten's affect and into the truth of his words. He returns it with crossed arms, but after a moment relents, uncrossing his arms before speaking.
"We intended. We were waylaid. Darkspawn attacked us in the swamps."
"You were the only one to survive." There is understanding in Sav's voice, and perhaps the slimmest hint of pity.
"Indeed." Sten falls into silence, hands clenching and unclenching in their gauntlets at his side. Tali notices the empty sheathe of a greatsword across his back, ribboned in red and inscribed with words in the script of Qunlat—vaguely similar to Gurmukhi, or at least more so than the common script, but still worlds away. When she looks back to Sten's face, he is staring back at her, and her eyes meet his. For a moment there is sadness and anger there, and then he walls them away, and Tali knows he is far more lonely even than a man alone, lonelier even than her and Sav and Ranjit and their memories of Highever.
"Join us," she finds herself saying. Her voice is quiet, and she clears her throat before repeating herself, attempting to match Savreen's authority. "Join us, Sten of the Beresaad."
"And why should I? Why should I join children as they fumble in the dirt?" He appraises her, just as he had before done to Savreen and Alistair, and Talvinder somehow finds herself rising to his gaze. She looks to her side, at Alistair and Savreen, Ranjit, Morrigan and Leliana, down even to Sher and Abarie. Despite the incredulous irritation on Alistair's face, and the sour expression of suppressed laughter on Morrigan's, Tali knows exactly what it is she will say.
"If you think we're children," she turns back to Sten, fighting the smile as it rises to her lips, "all the better for you to escort us. Children or no, we are Grey Wardens, and the Blight is ours to fight. Join us, and you can return home to tell your Arishok everything." Once more, Sten regards her. He looks to the others, and Tali imagines what it is he sees: Savreen standing defiant and proud, Ranjit behind her, shadowing her; Morrigan glaring as Leliana fingers a dagger at her thigh; Alistair frantically shushing Abarie as she growls. And Tali, before him in her armor, hair tied up in its patka.
It's a ragtag group, and a faint glimmer of panic creeps into Tali's stomach, turning her smile. Perhaps she'd been foolish to be so confident that this Qunari would want to join them, after all. But then he nods, reaches to pick up a bag of supplies resting at Ranjit's feet and shrugging it onto his shoulders.
"You will need more of an escort than even I can provide, but it will have to be enough." Tali successfully fights the urge to whoop, jump, punch the air. Instead, she lets the smile resurface as Sten heads toward the Imperial Highway in the distance, assuming their path correctly. The others begin to follow him, and when Savreen passes Tali, she reaches over and squeezes her younger cousin's shoulder.
"That was well done, Tali."
And now they are seven, and Tali feels as though this whole quest might just be possible.