The Estate of the Arl of Denerim
Rendon Howe looked out from the window of his mansion to see columns of beaten soldiers marching back into the city. He had to admit that it was a testament to Loghain's leadership that the army returned in some semblance of order and light cavalry could be seen in the distance, screening the massive retreat. Wagons full of wounded rolled over cobblestone streets to the Chantry, where the revered mother and her flock attended to their injuries. Some were beyond any hope though.
Howe sighed and stroked his little gray soul patch. Everything would change. When he read the dispatch of the battle and rout, his legs gave way and he sat for hours in the dark, imagining the Warden at his door. The defeat of the army would fire the imaginations of the rebels and miscreants would flock to their cause, hoping for a bite of the dying beast.
Everything had changed. His face still burned at the humiliation he had suffered at the hands of unknown agents. Posters, showing Howe kissing a transvestite dwarf with a whip sprang up around the city and comic songs were sung in low places about Howe inserting a nug where the sun didn't shine and then having to extract its stuckage. Just at that moment, a woman's melodious voice rang up through the streets, accompanied by lutes and flutes.
"Do you like fried mush and nug?
I do not like them, Mister Howe.
Is it because you take a bow?
And the nug becomes your plug.
"Would you hump one on a rug?
If you do, you should get a hug?
I would not hump one on a rug.
From one, I do not want a hug.
So, up your butt, have you a bug?
Or, up your butt, have you a nug?
I have a nug plug, squeaked Mister Howe.
And when I get it, I give a growl.
Howe, I have an extraction tool.
But why you need it, you are a fool.
Raucous laughter wafted up after the song and Howe's face became as stone, his fists balled hard. To add insult to injury, nugs had snuck into his pack at the Magister's Shield and hitched a ride home. Now, the…his estate was full of the vermin.
He pounded on the wall. "Guards, seize those minstrels!" he ordered and armed men ran down into the street as musicians scattered, guffawing as they fled. One strawberry-haired woman in lay sister robes tittered as she scurried away, waving her lute over her head. His iron grip on the city was failing and he was a laughing stock now.
The Arl wracked his brain to think of who might have leaked the scene. It had to be one of his soldiers. They would pay as did all the others who had crossed or denied him. But, there were other worries as well. Now, that schemer, Arl Eamon, would take full advantage and try and put his pretender on the throne and he would control the young fool like a puppet.
Perhaps all was not lost though. Howe had an ace in the hole though and his careful planning would soon come to fruition. He walked over to his armoire and unlocked a cabinet where he had hidden secrets for many weeks. An open box, lined with silk and velvet, bore two golden rings, one with a massive diamond. Behind the box sat a mannequin head bearing a crown. He took the jeweled circlet and put it on his brow, adjusting the fit. "Ah, it feels so right," he said and then turned to a nearby mirror. The Arl bowed low to his image. "Your Majesty, the King of Ferelden."
The regent probably wouldn't approve of him marrying Anora, but then, the regent might not be around that much longer. Come to think of it, neither would Anora. And the Warden could take the blame for it all.