The Hinterlands sucked.
Somehow Edmund had failed to realize they'd be passing through that portion of Ferelden on their way to Redcliffe, but here they were, making their way through the hills. It would be another ten years before the crossroads and the surrounding countryside was ravaged by the mage-templar war… but the Blight wasn't doing the location any favors either. While not as noticeable as it had been in the Wilds, the land felt sick and wrong in a way that made all of them uneasy.
They passed a lot of empty farms. Animals and crops were left behind as the families that once inhabited them picked up what they could carry and fled. He imagined most of them probably went to Redcliffe in search of the safety promised by an Arl and his forces only to find out that it was, in fact, not safe at all.
The abandoned structures would have made for convenient places to stop and camp or take cover from the elements if they weren't more often than not already occupied by bandits and deserters. There was no convenient blood trail on the map suddenly interrupted by crossing swords to give them a heads up when they were going to come upon an enemy. Sometimes they just opened the doors to an abandoned barn in search of shelter from rain only to find a group of bandits that immediately attacked them with the intent of killing them and stripping them of their gear.
The fact that it'd happened more than once on their four day journey to Redcliffe was actually impressive from a certain point of view—their luck really was just that bad.
More than once Edmund noticed a specific pair of dwarves help themselves into these empty homes and come out with some goods to add to the 'wares' they carried on their cart, which they'd more or less attached to their group.
"For protection," Bodahn had said when asked by Aothor why they'd been following them. "And we're all headed the same way anyhow."
And without much more ado, the father-son duo of Bodahn and Sandal were attached to their ever-growing entourage.
Edmund glanced down from his position in the tree above their campsite at the dwarven merchant and his son. Sandal stared back up at him, enormous eyes unblinking. Edmund broke eye contact first. He hadn't gotten up the courage to talk to the kid yet but more than once he'd felt himself being watched and looked around to find Sandal staring at him like he could see straight through him.
Being the oddity he was, Sandal would probably have something interesting to say about his… situation. But after his confrontation and conversation with Flemeth, he felt like he already had enough to be driving himself crazy with and didn't need to be in any hurry to add more to the list of reasons why he was probably insane.
Answers and non-answers. Riddles and frustrations. Thedas and it's fantastical inhabitants seemed hellbent on giving him half-clues on his situation and making him puzzle it out for himself rather than give any actually helpful information. He could probably expect more of the same from Sandal in some fashion.
That… or maybe just a good old fashioned "Enchantment!" and that would be it. He hoped for the enchantment option.
Edmund shook his head, trying to put the curious dwarf out of his mind and tightening the wire he'd fixed around one of the thick branches.
"My side's good!" he called across to Rosaya, who was up in a tree opposite him across the campsite, also fastening the wire. This had become a regular post-dinner operation: secure all the foodstuff up and above in the air to keep the bears from coming and getting into it.
Because that was another awful thing about the Hinterlands—the fucking bears. Fortunately Rosaya's background as Dalish used to surviving in the wild meant she knew a lot of tips and tricks to minimize risk of them getting mauled in their sleep.
The young elf had become the backbone of their travel success. Aothor was the guy with the plans and the leadership, sure, and Isefel the one helping them keep their heads on straight, and Cousland had familiarity with Ferelden's terrain and territories, no one knew how to journey like a Dalish. Without Rosaya's survival skills and crazy enhanced Blight senses they'd be having a significantly worse time of it. When it came to where to make camp, where to find clean water, and how to avoid or deal with hostile wildlife, Rosaya Mahariel's word had quickly become law amongst all of them.
"Double check just in case and that should be good for tonight," Rosaya said, already descending her tree. "Hopefully we won't need to worry about bear-proofing once we reach Redcliffe tomorrow." She said, raising a brow at him with the implied question hanging in the air.
"No bears in Redcliffe. Not as far as I know. But we gotta be ready for anything, right?" Edmund chuckled, checking the fastening again and managing to descend the tree with some measure of dignity. They didn't fight any bears or bear-adjacent creatures in Redcliffe in the game. But Thedas had been known to surprise even him from time to time.
Edmund started to help the others set up the tents. Cousland called Rosaya off from the others. She followed, two mabari following quickly behind. The noble and his dog had been showing Rosaya and hers the combat commands necessary for a mabari and their partner to be effective together in the field: charges, recalls, target changes, all of that. Barkspawn was already trained by whoever his previous owner was, so really it was Rosaya that needed to learn the standard commands, but both parties benefited from working on their synergy.
And despite all their obvious differences, from upbringing to cultures, training with the mabari proved a bonding point for Rosaya and Cousland. The two of them hadn't started out on the best foot, and Edmund personally found Cousland hard to get along with in the best of times, but the Dalish and the noble seemed to have found common ground in their mutual love of giant war dogs.
Unfortunately for the rest of them their training usually meant that there was a lot of barking and yelling as the sun went down and they all got ready for the night shifts. Which could be a bit grating. Particularly for Isefel, who Edmund noticed vanished from the vicinity whenever Cousland and Rosaya started their training with the dogs despite the fact she'd said she'd start training him in swordwork again.
Edmund was just privately yet deeply jealous he didn't have a mabari of his own. One of these days.
Over all, things were starting to feel settled in. Rosaya was coming out of her shell more, trading barbs with Alistair and Isefel on the regular and now Cousland as well. Leliana was starting to find her place in the group and actually struck up a quick friendship with Liri. Though, maybe the dwarven woman was just glad there was another person she was able to freely talk with at all and was making the most of it.
Sten was still a bit of a rough patch, but Aothor had been making some good-faith efforts to get to know the qunari. Edmund had made some light headway with him as well, starting to sneak into his good graces with conversation routes he remembered netting approval… but he still heard Sten mutter something about "bas saarebas" under his breath once or twice. It was something to work on at least.
Morrigan was still being, well, Morrigan, but that was just her being true to form.
And tomorrow they'd take on Redcliffe and all it's challenges. He'd been upfront with Aothor on what to expect: a village in panic with a terrified and poorly outfitted militia, dead walking out of the lake and the castle with even more within. An overall shitshow. But at least they knew what they were walking into.
"Hey, can I talk to you for a minute?"
Edmund finished tying off the tarp over the tent and turned, surprised to find Alistair standing off to the side with a nervous expression.
"Sure. I think we need more wood for the fire anyways. Give me a hand?" Edmund said, turning away from the camp and motioning for the other man to follow. Alistair signed in relief and did so, confirming his assumption that whatever he was about to say he didn't want anyone in the group to overhear.
He had a couple ideas on what this could be about, but nothing for certain. Edmund hadn't had a proper chance to really talk to Alistair yet. He suspected Alistair was actually avoiding him, though he wasn't sure because it was damned impossible to avoid anyone in the tight-knit group they traveled in. Much to his and Cousland's mutual dismay.
But Alistair was wary of him in a way that none of the others were. Probably because he was afraid Edmund knew he was Maric's son—which, to be fair he did know, so it wasn't an unfounded concern. It was kind of a bummer too, because Alistair was someone he'd actually been looking forward to befriending.
"I have… a weird request."
Edmund faltered a step, nearly stumbling. He quirked his head at Alistair, half wondering if he'd heard him right. There was nothing strange about what Alistair had said, sure… but Edmund was more accustomed to being the one saying it, not on the receiving end of it.
"Okay…?" He said uncertainly.
Alistair shifted in place, dropping eye contact briefly to glance back towards the campsite. "Soooo, you're a mage. Right? Right."
"Right," Edmund nodded. "Promise I'm not the kind that turns people into frogs."
"No, you're the kind that just sets people on fire, apparently," Alistair chuckled. He looked away again and continued his nervous shuffling. "So. Um. Know any spells that are good for plants?"
Edmund looked at him blankly before a few thoughts clicked into place and he had to fight a smile off his face to maintain a neutral expression. They'd just come from Lothering, after all. "Thinking of taking up gardening? Not a very portable hobby you know, but we've all got to keep busy somehow," he said lightly. If he's talking about what I think he's talking about…
His hunch was right on the money. Alistair, instead of responding with some quippy remark as was his default, just flushed a deep red as he reached into his bag and extracted a rose.
Edmund pressed his hands to his face in mock surprise. "Aw, Alistair, I had no idea you felt that way about me! I'm flattered."
Alistiar sputtered, blush deepening. "Wha—no! It's not for you," he said, struggling to keep his voice low. He turned his body away more, glancing surreptitiously over his shoulders as he concealed the flower away from the rest of the group with his form. Really, it was adorable.
"Aw, that hurts my feelings Ali, it really does. Our forbidden romance comes to an end all too soon. And here I thought we had something special." Edmund whipped away an imaginary tear. Then he smirked and folded his arms, leaning in with a side glance back at the rest of the camp. "So who is it for?"
"It's… none of your business."
"You are making it my business." Edmund tilted a brow. "Shall I guess? It's not like there's an over-abundant number of options to weed out."
He'd actually put a not-insignificant amount of pondering into it—into how the relationships would end up pairing off. Because a world-ending army of darkness and evil wasn't anywhere near as interesting as guessing which of his traveling companions were going to end up in the sack together. Obviously.
For Alistair at least he felt he could pretty easily rule out Liri. He didn't have a way to talk with her without him, Aothor, or Leliana assisting, so it was just unlikely that they'd formed a connection Edmund would have failed to notice until now. So that left the elves, and between Isefel and Rosaya it wasn't hard to guess where Alistair's affections were aimed. It wasn't lost on him that Barkspawn wasn't the only one that watched the Dalish elf with stars in his eyes.
The former templar always seemed to be about whenever Rosaya needed a hand with some task or other. Cracking jokes specifically aimed to get her to laugh. Listening raptly to her quiet voice as she offered advice or insight. And, passed through the gossip chain of the group to him via Liri, Edmund heard Alistair had been the one helping the Dalish with her kaddis/vallaslin substitute face designs.
He looked over and past Alistair's shoulder towards where Rosaya was running around with her mabari, her laughter ringing across the air as the dog happily bounded around her after a successful set of drills. Edmund looked back down at the little red flower Alistair all but cradled in his palms.
A rose. For Rosaya. Oh, the serendipity of it all.
Alistair cleared his throat awkwardly. He flushed even deeper as he watched Edmund puzzle it out—not like it was hard.
"I knew it. It's for Morrigan. All the loathing and insults were just a cover for the sexual tension this whole time." Edmund deadpanned.
"Maker, I knew this was a bad idea," Alistair said, mostly to himself and looking back to Edmund with a bit more dignity than a moment before. "Look, joke if you like, but I'm serious. It's just a small favor, and I figured you could be discreet about it, but if all you're going to do is mock me then forget I said—"
"Sorry, Alistair, I'm just messing with you—of course I'll help," Edmund said. Alistair sighed in relief and actually smiled. Edmund could practically see the Alistair approves 5 pop above his head. Good. Despite the relatively rocky start in the aftermath of Ostagar, he still had hope he could build a friendship with him. "So what do you need from me?"
"W-well, I picked this a few days ago. And I've tried to take care of it, but the leaves are starting to go brown at the edges. See? And. Um. Well, I'm not ready to give it to her yet. And I don't want it to be all wilted when I finally do. Soooo I was wondering if you could use magic on it to, I don't know, preserve it? Stop it from dying?" Alistair stammered, words starting to slide into each other as his nerves returned.
Oh, boy had it bad. He'd played a female Cousland and romanced Alistair before, but he didn't remember him being quite this smitten this early on. Maybe it was just a matter of perspective, what Alistair was showing him versus how he tried to present himself to his lady of interest. Or, again, just another difference between a game and reality.
Edmund finally took the flower from Alistair's grasp, turning it over gently in his hands. Theoretically what he was asking should be possible. He thought he remembered seeing some other apprentices practicing creation magic on some wilting plants in the Circle and reviving them, so it was definitely something that could be done. He just didn't know if he could do it. And given how things tended to combust when in contact with his power, he wasn't so sure he should chance it.
Ideally this would be something he could pass off to Wynne for help. But they didn't have her yet. And it might even be a couple of days until they did, in which time the rose might die completely. Which left…
He sighed and ended up passing it back to the former templar. "Look, I know I was joking about Morrigan earlier, but you're actually better off asking her for help than me."
"The day I ask Morrigan for help is the day cheese rains from the sky. No. No, no, no, I am not giving her any more ammunition against me than she already has," Alsitair said adamantly, folding his arms and shaking his head. "Come on, can't you just do it?"
"If I try it, I am 90% certain that your pretty little flower is going up in flames," Edmund said flatly. "Why jump through all the hoops with magic, anyways?" Edmund shrugged. "If you're sure about how you feel, you could just give it to her now."
"Are you crazy?" Alistair gaped, then shook his head and idly thumbed the petals. "Surely she'd think I'm nuts. I mean, I guess I am… we've known each other for what, a week? And here I am picking flowers. But no. I can't just give it to her now, it… it wouldn't be right. Besides, it would be nice if it could be something that would last. Like a proper token, if she even wants to keep it at all."
"Fine. Then if that's not an option, seriously, just ask Morrigan for help." Edmund shrugged. "She's really not as bad as you seem to believe, you know, if you'd just give her a chance."
"I'll take your word for it." Alistair snorted. He looked up, eyes alight with an idea. "If you think she's not so bad, you go ask her for me then."
Edmund stilled. "... no."
"Well I can't ask her! How do you see that going? 'Hey I know we despise each other on principle but do you think you could do me a solid and preserve this rose so when I'm ready to confess to the girl of my dreams, which could be never, it's not saggy and miserable looking?'" Alistiar said, then put his hands on his hips and pitched his voice upwards in a comically horrible imitation of Morrigan. "'I'm afraid I'm too busy being mean and nefarious, and because you are so stupid and bothering me with your dumb face, this is your dark retribution!' Then, it's zap! Frog time."
Edmund scoffed so he didn't laugh. "She wouldn't do that."
"How can you be sure? You might not be the kind of mage that turns people into frogs, but she definitely is!"
"You're a goddamn templar, you can literally just stop that from happening even if that was the case."
"And you're a mage, so can you!"
"In theory, sure, but I don't actually know how to counter other spellcasters," he said, then made a mental note to figure out how to actually do that. Because with the number of blood mages they were bound to face in the coming days it'd definitely be a useful skill. "Besides, she's more likely to just turn into a frog herself. You know. Shapeshifter."
"Not helping, still freaky and weird," Alistair shook his head and fixed him with a pleading look. "Please? You said you'd help. And since you can't do it yourself, help by asking the mean witch lady to do it on my behalf."
Edmund took a deep breath and braced himself. Do it for the approval. This is your chance to get Alistair to like you. There are a million ways this could go stupid, but do it for the goddamn approval. He reached and took the rose back from Alistair. "Fine. I'll ask her."
"She likes you better than she likes any of the rest of us, I'm sure you'll be fine." Alistair said with a dismissive wave and a grin as he moved to return to camp.
"Seeing as she doesn't much like any of you, that's not as reassuring as I think you think it is." Edmund called after him.
"No, I'm aware, don't worry," Alistair deadpanned.
"I'm worrying," Edmund responded in equal tone.
He tucked the flower discreetly into his bag, mindful of the delicate petals and leaves. A whole lot of drama for one flower. He just hoped it would be worth it. Rosaya and Alistair would make a cute couple if they ended up together.
Maybe this could be a good thing. Alistair would feel like he owed Morrigan a favor, so maybe he'd lay off the judgemental looks. And Morrigan might take it as a compliment to her abilities and hold back the biting remarks. And then they could all get along.
Or this could flare up and those two would just hate each other as much as before. That was equally possible. But nothing ventured, nothing gained. And Alistair's rose wasn't going to preserve itself… no matter how much he was beginning to wish it would.
God, this was so dumb. How the hell did he end up being the go-between for those two?
Do it for the approval.
Morrigan was, as always, separated from the rest of them. Once earlier in the travel Cousland had suggested she move her set up nearer to the rest of them so she wouldn't be by herself in case of emergency. It was a mistake none of them were eager to repeat, given how viciously she'd jumped down his throat about it.
She sat fire with a pot over the heat. Stirring a ladle in the contents, all she'd need to fully look the part of a witch was a pointy black hat. He thought better of telling her as much and just cleared his throat as he approached to announce his presence. She didn't acknowledge him beyond a small upwards glance.
Aothor was already over there with her actually, arms crossed and expression calculating as he listened to whatever Morrigan was saying.
"I think that sounds very useful," Aothor said with a nod.
"Oh? You're simply full of surprises, little man, aren't you?" Morrigan mused.
Aothor visibly stiffened at being referred to as little, but just sighed and turned away. "Thanks for your time, Morrigan. I'll leave you be. Edmund," Aothor said, offering him a nod as he walked past him and back to the main camp.
Edmund settled where Aothor had been standing just moments ago, glancing over his shoulder to watch the dwarven man as he left before re-focusing on the witch. She had a variety of herbs and plants set out that made him think she probably wasn't making dinner.
"Is that a potion, or poison?" He said, eyeing a few he'd recently learned could be used in either.
"It is useful."
"How ominous," he said as she failed to provide any enlightening information. "What did Aothor want?"
"To inquire about my abilities as a shapechanger, mostly," Morrigan said, lifting the ladle and inspecting the contents before adding a few more herbs to the pot. "I believe he is attempting to better understand the nature of my power in order to plan around using it in combat."
"Yeah, that sounds like him." Edmund chuckled. "I don't know if you saw his face the first time you shapeshifted in front of the others, but he might have pissed himself a little. I don't think he knew mages could do that."
"He mentioned as such, though without such details as that," she said with a wry smile. "And do you have questions about my abilities as well?"
"I'm full of questions," he said lightly. "Just not about that. For the moment, anyway."
"So what, pray tell, is your intent? I doubt you'd come over for such trivialities as idle conversation." Morrigan placed a lid over her pot and looked at him expectantly.
"I actually happen to enjoy your company. Mysterious cauldron of maybe-poisons and all," Edmund shrugged. "But… yeah. I need your help with something. It's going to sound stupid. So, before you dismiss it, know it comes with the opportunity to torment Alistair."
"Is this your opinion of me? That I could be enticed to action for such petty purposes?"
"So you don't even want to know what it is?" Edmund asked with a raised brow.
"I did not say that," Morrigan answered just a shred too quickly.
Edmund gave her a pointed look as reached for the rose and took it from his bag, only to wince and drop it on the ground as his finger cut on one of the thorns. He swore under his breath, bringing the cut to his mouth briefly before remembering he could just heal it with magic and doing exactly that.
"Our dearest Alistair would like to formally request your aid, Lady Morrigan, with the magical preservation of a humble rose." Edmund said with excess drama, picking up the flower again and offering it to the witch with a flourish.
Morrigan regarded the plant with the level of contempt normally reserved for horse droppings. "You cannot be serious."
"Sorry to say that I am," he said with a laugh, offering her a smile that was at least a little apologetic.
She scoffed, shaking her head. "And he could not ask me this himself?"
"He's afraid of you still, though he'd never admit it so directly," Edmund shrugged. "So he asked me to make the request on his behalf."
"Unfortunate you, truly," she said cooly. "Why bother me for such a simple task? This is hardly a spell that requires my specific skill set."
"I don't know if you've noticed yet, but really all I'm suited for is setting shit on fire. Whether that's what I'm actually trying to do or not."
"No, I hadn't noticed at all." Morrigan said sarcastically. "If you are not in control of your power it is a wonder the Wardens would have recruited you into their number."
"Not really, given that the m.o is pretty much 'kill darkspawn at all costs' and darkspawn are highly flammable." Edmund said pointedly. "Finesse is great, but often not needed when the goal is destruction."
"And so that leaves you unable to perform a simple rejuvenation spell?" she said incredulously.
"Giving a pile of ashes to a prospective girlfriend isn't very romantic," he deadpanned.
"One does wonder if this is a lesson you have learned through experience," Morrigan mused dryly. "Ugh. I have yet to see why I should care about any of this."
"Like you don't enjoy the idea of having something to hold over Alistair's head," Edmund chuckled. "He's all awkward and shy about this right now. I'm sure you could find some interesting ways to make him sweat about it—you're good at applying pressure when you want to get a rise out of somebody, and this'll just make it all the easier when it comes to him. Besides, I can think of worse things than the former templar owing you a favor."
"That is mildly compelling, but hardly a reason to trouble myself for his ridiculous sentiment." Morrigan conceded, but continued looking mildly repulsed. "Why would you care to aid him in what I'm sure is a pitiful attempt at courting one of your fellow Wardens? Seems like foolishness, to me. Surely you must have an angle of your own or you would not bother."
That sweet, sweet 10 approval.
"Entertainment. All this travel and fighting gets boring after a while… and it's fun to watch him stumble over her attention." Edmund smirked. "Besides, the fact that he came to me for help shows this means a lot to him. And that he was willing to get you involved means it's serious. And it's no skin off my back to help a friend out."
"Your mind works in curious ways, handsome lad," Morrigan sighed, relenting and holding out her hand for the flower. "Very well. I'll render my aid, but only because I suspect this will crash and burn around him when Rosaya inevitably rejects his affections. It should be amusing enough to watch his disappointment when this gets him nowhere," she said, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
"You think she'll turn him down?" Edmund said, casting a considering glance back over his shoulder towards the main camp.
"I would hope so," she huffed, eyeing the rose again with unveiled contempt. "She is a bright and capable young woman. She could certainly do better than him, should she be inclined to take a man to her bed."
"I guess we'll have to wait for him to work up the courage to tell her how he feels, and then we'll see." Edmund shrugged.
Rosaya might turn him down… really, there were lots of ways the interpersonal drama of the companions' love lives could play out. Only time would tell. In the interim he was plenty happy to watch the drama from the sidelines with popcorn and a comfortable chair. Not that they had any comfortable chairs or popcorn. Unfortunately.
"What utterly foolish weakness," Morrigan said under her breath, shaking her head incredulously. "I'll get this over with, then."
Her gaze focused on the flower in her hands. Her fingers traced the leaves, careful of the thorns—one of which was still a bit red with his own blood from when it'd stuck him.
Something like a breeze swept by, tousling Morrigan's hair and causing the embers of the fire to glow a bit brighter. A spark of energy—barely there yet verdant green—snaked up the length of her arm like a vine and encased the rose like a cage before vanishing a heartbeat later. The leaves, which had been browning at the edges, were lush once again as Morrigan's magic had restored it to life. There was a strange softness to the air around the petals now, like the rose was giving off it's own gentle glow, or reflecting the flickering light of the fire.
"That's beautiful," he said without thinking, not at all talking about the rose.
"Not all magic is a storm of power and fury. 'Tis oft the more subtle forces that mark true strength," She said, tone soft in a way that surprised him. Her expression hardened almost instantaneously though, and she held out the rose to him in a way one might pinch a filthy rag. "You'd know this, were you not so busy burning the world when you bring your talent to bear."
"Well, that's just kind of how I am. Go big, or go home. And I can't go home. So big's all that's left." He took the flower and rose to his feet with a light laugh and turned away. "Thanks for your help, Morrigan. Try not to torment Alistair too much, would you?"
"That is entirely up to him and how insufferable the simpleton chooses to be," Morrigan huffed, "But enough of such talk. Let us proceed, lest the dust gather on us."
He needed to get this rose back to Alistair and then get a fucking grip.
. . . . .
Cousland had been to Redcliffe before, when his family attended Arl Eamon's wedding. Granted, he'd been young enough that he did not actually remember the experience. Just some vague recollections of dancing, music, and his childish insistence to Mother that they return home at once because he felt shy in the presence of so many strangers.
Still, despite only half formed memories, his heart stirred with something nostalgic as they crested that last hill that had them looking over Lake Calenhad. The small village clustered by the water, the lingering fog of the morning curled about the distant castle… it was a scene from the history books of his school days.
"Isn't it beautiful?" Leliana said, standing beside him. Despite the smile on her face, there was something sad in her eyes.
"Ah… it's sort of like coming home again," Alistair said, but his expression turned flat and wry as he glanced back from the lake to the desperately assembling militia. "But you know, with more undead."
"Yes, yes, lovely. Let us soak in the vista before the massacre begins," Morrigan said lightly.
"Ooh, a windmill!" Leliana said, blue eyes widening with delight. She pointed to the structure she'd spotted on one of the cliffs positioned nearer the village, white sails turning slowly in distance. "I once took a ride on the sails of a windmill. Didn't turn out well."
"You rode on a windmill?" Cousland asked, a little taken aback and unable to help a laugh. "How did that even work?"
"Like I said, not well," Leliana giggled. "But it was very fun."
And then there was this woman, a puzzle all her own. While no one in this party could be called any semblance of the word "ordinary," somehow everything he knew about her felt just a little bit contradictory. Kind of like Edmund, except fewer possibilities for magic and demons and other weird shit.
"What would someone like you be doing in Lothering's Chantry?" Cousland asked as they all followed the road and drew nearer to the village.
"What is meant by 'someone like me?'" She asked back, brow raised.
"You know, a beautiful, charming woman like yourself," he answered easily. Yes, a beautiful, charming Chantry lay sister who handled daggers and longbows better than most trained scouts he'd met.
"And there were no beautiful, charming women in the cloisters, you think? Oh you'd be wrong." A smile pulled at her lips and she laughed. "There were many lovely young initiates in the Lothering cloister—all of them chaste and virtuous. Ah, it added to their mystique." Her tone dropped lower, bordering on sultry. "Because then… then they were forbidden, and forbidden fruit is the sweeter, no?"
Oh. So that was the game they were playing, then. "How about your fruit? Is it forbidden?"
"My… fruit? Well, it's not technically forbidden. B-but it's not freely given, either! Not everyone gets a bite." Leliana cleared her throat and blushed. "I cannot believe I'm having this conversation. But no, I did not take those vows."
"Fun way to dance around the question, but you still haven't answered what I actually asked," he pointed out, also thinking she was quite cute when she flustered. "Why were you in Lothering's chantry?"
Leliana cleared her throat once more before answering evenly. "The Chantry provides succor and safe harbor to all who seek it. I chose to stay and become affirmed."
There it was. "And why were you seeking safe harbor?"
"The Chantry does not pry, and you should? I desired time apart from the world," she said smoothly, and just a bit too dismissively for his comfort. "I was a traveling minstrel in Orlais. Tales and songs were my life. I performed, and they rewarded me with applause and coin."
"Minstrels are trained with bows and blades these days, are they?" Cousland asked dryly. Some maybe, but not to the degree she clearly was.
"Ah, my skill in battle? Well, you pick up different skills when you travel, yes? Yes. Of course."
It didn't take a genius or extraordinary insight to notice she'd answered too quickly and wasn't looking directly at him. He could form a number of conclusions based alone on what she hadn't told him. But he'd reached the end of what polite conversation would allow him, and he didn't yet feel like there was reason enough to press her more.
"So you were a minstrel," he said, his own form of concession. He could drop it for now. But now he knew for absolute certainty that there was more going on with her than her sweet exterior implied. "Know any tales of this place?"
"I know little of it, except that it is the domain of the Arl of Redcliffe," Leliana said. She looked past him and towards the village, something wistful in her expression. "I wonder how the name came to be. Is the clay here red? There are places in this world where the clay is a bright, strange red, and often, in the legends of such places, it is the red of blood. The blood of a thousand men slaughtered in battle, or that of an innocent unjustly slain; it stains the land that it may never be forgotten. Perhaps Redcliffe has one such tale… but I do not know it."
"I'd be surprised if Redcliffe had just the one, truth be told," Cousland said, "Whole armies have crumbled against the walls of that castle. Between the early wars of the clans, the occupation, and the rebellion, I wouldn't be surprised if the soil here truly is red with the blood of fallen soldiers."
"You seem quite well versed with history, yourself," she said.
"Well I'm no minstrel, so I wasn't trained in storytelling per say. I just have the benefit of a robust education," Cousland shrugged. "But history has always been an interest of mine. I like the idea that the land records the past just as much as people do."
"Yes, I agree. And learning these stories can be a source of much joy, as well as learning," Leliana said brightly.
With her encouraging interest, he continued. "While Highever and Denerim get all the trade traffic from the sea, people say Redcliffe is the true heart of Ferelden. Actually, despite it's small size, it's position between Orlais and Orzammar and rest of the nation makes it a rival for Denerim in terms of raw influence."
"Then what happens here could play a major role to determine the fate of all Ferelden, not just the arling," Leliana said with renewed determination.
"Exactly," he nodded. "Calenhad said it himself: 'The fate of Redcliffe is the fate of all Ferelden.' We can't let the dead have this place." Not if they were going to stand a chance against the darkspawn hordes.
Lady barked, as if to assert her agreement with the sentiment. Cousland patted her head.
"Redcliffe at last," Aothor said as they approached a gate. "Don't see corpses walking about. You sure about the undead, Edmund?"
"Absolutely. The trick is, they're not active during the day. The attacks last from sundown to sunup." The mage said. "Which is good—gives us time to prepare."
"Look, can we talk for a moment?" Alistair said, stepping forward from the back of the group and interrupting whatever their dwarven leader was about to say next. He rubbed the back of his neck and shuffled uncomfortably as the groups attention turned towards him. "I need to tell you all something I, ah, probably should have mentioned earlier."
"I'm not going to like this, am I?" Aothor said with a frown starting to build in his expression.
"I don't know. I doubt it. I've never liked it, that's for sure." Alistair glanced at Rosaya. "I told you before how Arl Eamon raised me, right? How my mother was a serving girl at the castle, and he took me in? The reason he did that was because… well, because my father was King Maric. Which made Cailan my… half-brother, I suppose."
"You don't think you could have told us this before?!" Aothor growled in an equal mix of frustration and surprise.
Alistair sighed and spread his hands in exasperation. "How? When would I say that? 'Oh, by the way, King Maric had sex with a servant and she produced a bastard son. That's me.'"
"Well… shit." Isefel blinked, only barely processing the information.
"Why did you wait to tell us this?" Cousland said, mind reeling from the revelation.
"Look, I would have told you but… it never really meant anything to me. I was inconvenient, a possible threat to Cailan's rule, and so they kept me secret. I never talked about it to anyone. Anyone who knew either resented me for it or coddled me." Alistair crossed his arms as bitterness crept into his voice. "Even Duncan kept me out of the fighting because of it. I didn't want anyone to know as long as possible. I'm sorry."
Alistair was Maric's bastard. Cailan's half-brother. Maker, the implications… all he could do was stare and wait for Alistair to say 'Sike, just kidding!'
But he didn't say that. Which meant he wasn't having them on.
Shit.
Rosaya was the first to recover—not that this had seemed all that earth-shaking to her. "So… you're not just a bastard, but a royal bastard." She smirked, arms crossed and head cocked to the side.
Alistair barked a laugh at the unexpected barb. "Yes, I guess it does at that. Heh, I should use that line more often."
"No other dastardly secrets you're hiding, then?" The Dalish asked.
"Besides my unholy love of cheeses and a minor obsession with my hair, no. That's it. Just the prince thing." Alistair coiffed his hair as if to illustrate the point, seemingly glad of her making light of what to Cousland seemed a pretty serious deal.
"Does Loghain know?" Aothor cut back in, something severe taking hold of his expression.
But despite the dwarven man's intensity, Alistair just shrugged idly. "Why wouldn't he? He was King Maric's best friend. I don't know if that means anything, though… I certainly never considered the idea that it might ever be important. At any rate, that's it. That's what I had to say. I thought you should know about it."
Andraste's ashes, he was Alistair Theirin. Now that he knew he wondered how he hadn't noticed the resemblance between the man before him and Cailan right away. Though it was the nose shape they shared, mostly. Alistair's coloration was different, as was the shape and hue of his eyes.
But still.
"Doesn't that make you heir to the throne?" Cousland asked, still reeling.
"Maker, let's hope not," Alistair paled slightly and shook his head at the thought. "I'm the son of a commoner, and a Grey Warden to boot. It was made very clear to me early on that there was no room for me raising any rebellions or such nonsense. And that's fine by me. No, if there's an heir to be found, it's Arl Eamon himself. He's not of royal blood, but he is Cailan's uncle… and more importantly, very popular with the people. Though… if he's really as sick as we've heard… no, I don't want to think about that, I really don't. So there you have it. Now, can we move on, and I'll just pretend you all still think I'm some… nobody who was too lucky to die with the rest of the Grey Wardens." Alistair said with a false sense of cheer.
"That's not really what you think, is it?" Rosaya asked softly.
His countenance dropped immediately. "No… I suppose not. I don't feel very lucky at all, to be honest."
Alistair turned away, leading them down the path towards Redcliffe in a blatantly obvious attempt to end the conversation.
"This… is good. Frustrating, but good." Aothor said quietly and mostly to himself.
Cousland glanced at the dwarven man as they all moved to follow Alistair. "How do you figure?"
"If Eamon's unable to help us, we still have a backup plan. We might be able to rally support from the other nobles against Loghain through Alistiar and his birthright," Aothor said. "You're more familiar with Fereldens political circle than I. Would that work?"
"I suppose there's a chance," Cousland said, adjusting his gauntlets idly as he thought. "Ferelden's succession puts a lot of weight on blood ties, and for the throne particularly this specific blood tie that traces to Calenhad. If we look at this traditionally, Alistair actually has a stronger claim to the throne than Eamon."
"Never would have guessed Alistair for a prince. He's not too keen on any of it, that's for sure," Aothor said with a dry sort of smile. "Though the whole 'him being a Warden' detail complicates things even more."
"How so?"
"According to Duncan, Wardens can't be politically involved, including inheriting titles or positions of state. Take Highever, for example: if your brother is gone, because you're a Grey Warden, the title of Teyrn would skip over you entirely and fall directly to your nephew." Aothor explained.
All the more reason to pray for his brother's safe return. Oren shouldn't have to deal with the weight of a title at only six years old.
"Not to split hairs, but isn't working to move against Loghain technically getting politically involved?" Cousland asked with a raised brow.
"Only from a certain point of view," Aothor shrugged, something sly in his expression. "The way I see it, our primary objective is to stop the Blight. We're given great license in what we can do to achieve that end. And if removing Loghain as an obstacle serves that purpose… well, I think Weisshaupt would understand."
"Drastic times, drastic solutions, huh?" Cousland mused. Maker's ass. What a complete and utter mess. An absolute headache. Just when he felt he'd been getting a handle on the situation, too.
"If you two wouldn't mind pausing your scheming for a moment," Isefel interrupted. Cousland jolted slightly, as she'd slipped up beside them without either noticing her presence. Sneaky rogue. "Looks like they've sent someone to greet us."
He looked up, realizing she was right. A lone figure stood at the bridge, and as they drew nearer it looked like he might be a resident of the village. His posture was tight, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet as he watched them approach with a mixture of hope and desperation.
"I thought I saw travelers coming down the road, though I scarcely believed it," he said as they approached. "Are you the reinforcements? Have you come to help us?"
"We have," Aothor said, a hand rested over the blade at his belt and posture tall. "What's the situation?"
The man breathed a sigh of relief but seemed no more at ease. "Bad. But we've been holding out against the creatures for now… but I don't know how much more the village can take. It's good that you've come—we may have a chance, now." He looked back over his shoulder towards the rest of the village. "I'm Tomas. I'll take you to Bann Teagan. He's all that's holding us together, and I'm sure he'll want to see you all. He's just over in the Chantry. Please, follow me…"
They followed Tomas through the village, which felt more like a ghost town than the thriving heart of Ferelden it should have been. A few buildings were damaged, doors hanging loosely off of hinges and pieces of wall haphazardly torn apart.
Cousland overheard a conversation he'd not have caught had Edmund and Alistair been walking right behind him.
"Did you know? About…" Alistair asked in a miserable sort of way.
"Yeah. I did," the mage replied evenly.
"Thanks. For… for not saying anything, I guess."
"I know what's not my story to share."
Though there was nothing but sincerity between them, something made Cousland just the slightest bit uneasy. It wasn't something he could place, so he shook it off… yet something of a half-formed thought lingered in the back of his mind.
As it was autumn and the time when the fishermen would be smoking and preserving their catches for winter the air was thick with the smell of fish… but also of rot. They drew nearer the docks and he saw why—the most recent catches had been abandoned in the chaos, nets full of fish left abandoned by the water. The boats were tied to shore and it'd clearly been some days since any of them had been put in the water.
"Have you heard any word from the castle?" Cousland asked, gaze lifted to the stone walls of the impressive fortress beyond.
"Nobody's heard from the castle in days. The Arl could be dead, for all we know," Tomas said wearily. "Monsters come out of the castle every night and attack us until dawn. Everyone's been fighting… some dying. We've no army to defend us. No Arl and no King to send us help."
Tomas lead them through a group of men in slapdash armor practicing with equally makeshift weapons in the town square. A man in the middle whose gear seemed a little bit better than the others gave them an appraising look as they passed by and a small nod to their guide before returning to his supervision.
"Is this where humans keep all their wisdom?" Sten wondered as they approached the large double doors of the Chantry, and despite his perpetually even tone it wasn't difficult to divine his words carried a layer of contempt. "Your behavior makes much more sense to me now."
"Not all our wisdom," Cousland said dryly, "The rest of human wisdom is usually best witnessed in a tavern somewhere."
"Hmph," the giant grunted. "Unsurprising."
The doors opened with a loud groan as the wood scraped against the stone flooring. And inside they found nothing short of very organized chaos.
It reminded him in equal parts of Lothering and Ostagar—Ostagar, because of the suffering wounded being tended to by already overburdened attendants, and Lothering, for the fear and desperation of the families uprooted from their normal lives by a horror. Terrified parents put on brave faces for their children—the younger of whom were too confused to understand the severity of the situation and just wanted things to go back to normal, and the older ones too smart to be fooled by their guardians best efforts.
And as their veritable war party passed through the interior they garnered stares from all corners. Looks of curiosity, fear, and even hope. It made him feel… small, in the strangest of ways.
Tomas lead them to the heart of the Chantry, where they were joined by a man Cousland recognized as Bann Teagan. They'd met before, though only briefly at some banquet or other. Even though their last encounter had only been a few years ago it looked like recent events had aged the man by a decade. His hair was a little untidy, and while his clothes were fine they were worn and dirtied.
"It's… Tomas, yes?" he asked, banishing some of the exhaustion from his expression as he turned to face their company, gaze lingering over their weapons and armor. "And who are these people with you? They're obviously not simple travelers. Is this the aid we were promised?"
That stuck out to Cousland. They were promised aid? By whom?
"I think so, milord. They've just arrived, and I thought you would want to see them," Tomas offered quickly.
"Well done, Tomas. Please find our knight and send him here, then return to your watch." Teagan nodded. As Tomas left he turned to them and inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Greetings, friends. My name is Teagan, Bann of Rainesfere, brother to the Arl. And… I do believe there is one face here I recognize. You are Bryce's youngest, are you not?" Teagan said, meeting his gaze. "You have my deepest sympathies, Lord Peter."
So Teagan had heard. He'd wondered how far the news of Highever's fate had traveled, and it seemed at least to have made it here to Redcliffe.
"I wish we were meeting under better circumstances, but it is good to see you again. And… just Cousland is fine," Cousland said. "'Lord' rings a bit hollow at the moment."
Teagan nodded, a kind smile on his face. "I understand. As you wish."
"I remember you, Bann Teagan," Alistair said, stepping towards the front of the group beside Aothor and himself. "Though the last time we met I was a lot younger and… covered in mud."
Someone behind him snorted a light laugh at that; he was pretty sure it was Rosaya.
"Covered in mud?" Teagan mused, a smile growing on his face that only expanded as recognition hit him. "Alistair? It is you, isn't it? You're alive! This is wonderful news."
"Still alive, yes, though not for long if Teyrn Loghain has anything to say about it," Alistair said grimly.
"Indeed," Teagan scoffed, shaking his head. "Loghain would have us believe all Grey Wardens died along with my nephew, amongst other things.
"Good to hear there's at least one Lord left in Ferelden who can think for himself," Aothor said. "So you don't believe Loghain's lies?"
"What, that he pulled his men in order to save them? That Cailan risked everything in the name of glory?" Teagan didn't roll his eyes, though Cousland had the sneaking suspicion he'd used a great deal of self control to keep from doing so. "Hardly. Loghain calls the Grey Wardens traitors, murderers of the king. I don't believe it. It is an act of a desperate man."
He'd always like Teagan. Now he knew why. He knew the score, even without having witnessed the tragedy himself.
Alistair made introductions, half turning back and giving the names of his fellow wardens and companions to Teagan. Edmund, Cousland noticed, was actively not paying attention, and had actually stepped away from the group and was talking with one of the Chantry sisters tending to the wounded.
Though, he wasn't the only one. Isefel had been pulled off into a side conversation with a young woman about her own age. The woman looked near tears and was speaking quickly while Isefel nodded and listened attentively whatever her woes were.
He supposed he couldn't begrudge either of them trying to uplift the spirits of these people who desperately needed it.
"No guards patrol the walls, and no one has responded to my shouts," Teagan continued, and Cousland refocused on the conversation. "The attacks started a few nights ago. Evil… things… surged from the castle. We drove them back, but many perished during the assault."
"You mean the undead," Rosaya said. Of all of them she was curiously the least perturbed by the notion.
"Yes. Decomposing corpses returned to life with a hunger for human flesh…" he shuddered. "Each night they come with greater numbers. With Cailan dead and Loghain starting a war over the throne, no one responds to my urgent calls for help. I have a feeling tonight's assault will be the worst yet. Alistair… I desperately need the help of you and your friends."
"It isn't just up to me," Alistair said, holding his hands up in something like surrender before glancing down at Aothor.
"It's not like we're unprepared for a fight." Aothor said, projecting confidence into his tone that carried out to their numerous onlookers. "We'll push the dead back into their graves."
"There are no darkspawn here, and nothing to gain. It is a fool's errand." Sten said.
"Big picture, big guy," Isefel said cooly, rejoining them. "A grateful ally might be the difference between victory and defeat in the long run. I'd say we have quite a lot to gain."
"And these people need help," Rosaya added. "We can't just leave them to die."
"Should we not focus on your Grey Warden treaties?" Morrigan huffed, arms crossed. "There is no hope of victory here."
"What's the matter, Morrigan? Is the oh-so powerful sorceress scared of zombies?" Edmund asked with a teasing challenge in his tone and a sly smile on his face, almost like he'd been waiting for it. "Don't worry, I'll protect you."
Morrigan turned up her nose, looking away from him as he moved to rejoin the group again. "I have nothing to fear from shambling husks."
With no further objections raised, Bann Teagan looked ready to melt from relief.
"Thank you, this… this means more to me than you can guess." Teagan said, reaching out and clasping Aothor's arm in solidarity and gratitude. "Now, then. There is much to do before night falls. I've put three men in charge of the defenses outside. Murdock, the village mayor, is outside the Chantry. Ser Perth, one of Eamon's knights, is just up the cliff at the windmill, watching the castle. Our third…" he trailed off as the Chantry doors once again groaned with their opening. "Ah, here he is. Perfect timing."
Cousland turned around and, for the second time that day, found himself absolutely dumbfounded.
"Er… hello, everyone," the knight said sheepishly.
"Jory?!"
. . . . .
He wasn't sure what the proper response was to reuniting with a team member thought dead, but Aothor was fairly certain laughter wasn't what anyone expected. Yet, that's exactly what their mage was doing.
"Holy hell Jory, you actually did it!" Edmund said, regaining control of himself. "No offense, but I kind of doubted you'd make it here. Good on you, for proving me wrong."
"You knew. Of fucking course you did." Cousland groaned, rubbing his brow tiredly.
"Hey, last I checked, him not being dead was a good thing." Edmund said defensively.
"So you are acquainted?" Teagan said brightly, unaware to the context of the tension now forming between their group and the knight they all thought was dead in the Wilds. "Ser Jory mentioned he was arriving ahead of a group that could aid us. I guessed it was you lot, but it is good to have it confirmed."
"When I heard just how disastrous the battle was, I…" Jory trailed off as he stumbled over his words briefly. "I wasn't sure if you'd make it here. I'm… I'm glad you're all alive. I prayed every day for your safety."
Aothor was struck with a bit of shame at that. He hadn't thought about Jory even once since Ostagar. As far as any of them knew, he'd either perished in the wilds or eventually found his way back to the fortress to die in the battle. And now here they were, both of them alive and well.
He felt uneasy, like they'd cheated fate somehow. He wasn't he only one, either—Cousland was obviously unsettled as well. Relieved, and glad the knight was alive, but unsettled.
"Ser Jory arrived on the eve of the first attack," Teagan continued. "He went to Murdock and warned him about demons, undead, abominations and monstrosities… I think Murdock thought he was mad, was about to have him either kicked out of town or arrested."
"Then the walking corpses arrived," Jory said grimly.
"Indeed. If not for Set Jory's timely arrival, we'd have lost many more innocents that first night," Teagan said.
"How are you alive?" Isefel asked. "Where did you go, in the wilds? We thought the darkspawn took you."
"I mean, I thought for a while Morrigan did it," Alistair added.
Morrigan scoffed. "And what use would I have for the likes of such a dull creature as that?" she said with a dismissive wave towards the knight.
"Something nefarious. Like cooking him alive, or hanging him upside down by his toes in those freaky trees around your hut." Alistiar shrugged.
"'Tis more a hobby of Mothers, than mine," she said in a sweet voice that clearly conveyed venom. "Pity she was not inclined to share such interests with you in the wilds, hm?"
"That's enough." Aothor cleared his throat loudly to get their attention, then glanced to their many, many onlookers. "Bann Teagan, it's been an honor. We'll check in again if we have more relevant updates on the situation with the village's defense. Jory, come with us. I imagine we have much to discuss… and it is likely best we be without an audience."
"Welcome back. Congrats on not being dead," Liri added as they all filed out the doors together.
"Ah, fresh air," Morrigan said with a deep breath and a small smirk as they all stepped out into the square. "'Twas difficult to breath within all that self-righteousness crowding the air."
"That's just the tapestries they have hanging around. Could probably do with a decent washing." Edmund deadpanned. "Killer for dust allergies, I bet."
They descended the exterior steps of the chantry and passed by the square, once again drawing no small number of stares from the villagers. He lead the group just a bit further beyond, where a cluster of buildings by the docks gave them a small measure of privacy from any nosey villagers.
"Jory. It's good to see you're alive. That said… what the hell are you doing in Redcliffe?" Aothor asked, arms crossed in front of his chest.
"Well, erm, I…" Jory tripped over his words, and Aothor realized after a moment his nervous gaze kept shifting to Edmund.
"That'd be on me, actually," Edmund finally volunteered after Jory failed to form words. " Jory served as a knight under Arl Eamon in the past—sending him here ahead of us to help the village made perfect sense to me."
There was a lot to unpack there. Aothor pinched the bridge of his nose, trying and failing to ward off a building headache. One thing at a time. "You said you'd given me a heads up on everything relevant for what we'd find in Redcliffe. I think you could have stood to mention this, as well," he said tiredly.
"Well I said in the Chantry I didn't actually know if he'd make it here. I didn't want to make promises on him being here just for it to have fallen through," Edmund said casually. "This is the first time he's ever survived this long."
"What?" Jory asked, blinking in confusion.
"Don't worry about it, buddy," Edmund said, patting the knight on the shoulder in a manner similar to how one might console a child.
"No. Elaborate," Cousland said, thoroughly unamused.
"You want details? Fine." Edmund huffed and rolled his eyes. "If Jory hadn't left, he'd have died in the Joining. Duncan would have killed him."
"What?" Alistair said, an undertone of anger carrying through in the single word, as if he could not possibly imagine Duncan doing such a thing.
"You never mentioned… that Duncan would kill me for backing out." Jory said slowly, face growing pale.
"Why do you think I told you to run?" Edmund asked by way of answer. "You wanted out. So I got you out. And for the better, as it turns out. Even if it was all rather cowardly of you. Honestly… if the Joining was too much for you, I'm surprised you suck around to fight the undead."
"I… nearly did leave. After that first night, I was ready to make a run to Highever. To find Helena and get away from all this. Leave Ferelden, even, leave it all behind," Jory dropped his gaze to the toes of his boots in shame, shifting in place.
"What made you stay this time?" Rosaya asked, head tilted curiously.
"My sister's widower was a fisherman—he died that first night, buying time for the knights to evacuate the people to the Chantry. My father is… maybe was… a smith working in that castle. Mother Hannah has served in this Chantry since I was but a babe in arms. None of the children who live here have ever known a different life." Jory looked up, then away from them and towards the distant fortress. "I am a knight, and Redcliffe is my home. If I cannot use my blade to defend it, better I fall upon it."
He couldn't have lived with himself if he left Redcliffe.
But he could live with himself just fine abandoning Ostagar, apparently.
And though Alistair didn't seem to believe it, Aothor did without a doubt—that Duncan would have found turning one's back on the Wardens a transgression worthy of death. Now Aothor found himself in that very position of responsibility, of determining what sort of response this action entailed.
"Even if it might have all turned out for the better… Jory is still a deserter. He abandoned his duty as a Grey Warden." Aothor said after a pregnant pause.
"Technically he's not a Grey Warden. And like I said, I'm the one who sent him here, so if you're going to be pissed at someone, be pissed at me—" Edmund said quickly.
"You ran, Jory, on the eve of battle. A battle that killed your Commander and damn near the rest of the Order you swore yourself to Join." Aothor ignored Edmund's interruption and continued on without shaking his focus from the cowardly knight. "That's the bottom line. That's what matters. So I'm going to ask you a question, and I advise you think very carefully about the answer," Aothor said, voice low. "Are you still a Warden Recruit? Or not?"
"I… I was wrong, to glorify the Wardens as much as I did." Jory said shakily, taking a step back. "I did not know what I was getting myself into. And once I did, know, I—I couldn't… if I'd have known before…"
"I asked you a yes or no question, Ser Jory."
Jory swallowed audibly and took another step back.
"He came to Redcliffe to help these people. I think that should count for something," Liri moved forward, half standing in front of Jory and matching Aothor's eyes with something in her own he didn't quite know how to interpret.
"He just admitted he was going to run even from this." Aothor said evenly, not giving an inch.
"Sure. But he didn't." Liri said. "It means more when someone wants to run but stays anyway."
Maybe. And if Jory had stayed during Ostagar then maybe it would matter. He sighed, shoulders sagging slightly as he relented to Liri. Whether she had a point or not… he concluded this was neither the time nor place to be making this call.
"The most I can say is that we do need the help. Right now the main focus has to be protecting the village, and punishing the people's hero who rushed to their aid in their hour of need that first night for desertion would kill morale." Aothor frowned, shaking his head.
"So…?" Jory said, a hopeful edge in his voice.
"So we'll leave the matter of your desertion be, for now. Once the situation here is stabilized and the dead are no longer a threat… well, we can have a discussion about it then," Aothor conceded. The matter wasn't closed. But this, like so many other things, had to be shelved until more pressing issues were dealt with. "I'll check in on the situation with the militia. We'll get this all figured out."
Aothor shook his head, physically refocusing himself. He could deal with Jory later, and to ensure there even was a later he needed to make sure the plan to defend the village was water-tight.
Or as close to water-tight as this chaotic group could ever hope to manage.
Murdock strangely reminded him of a number of dwarves he new back in Orzammar. It was the gruff yet honest sort of nature about him, Aothor supposed. He spoke briefly with the mayor on the situation around the village. All in all, it lined up almost exactly with what Edmund had told him on their way to Redcliffe. It was uncanny, actually.
He returned to the others, already dividing up the tasks that needed tending to in his mind.
Aothor glanced to the sky with a little bit of that uneasy feeling that gathered in his gut when he looked up into the expanse for too long. He wasn't great by tracking the time with the sun, but he could make an educated guess that they has six or seven hours before the sun began to set. They could do this. They were a large, skilled group of highly specialized fighters. All they had to do was fight the dead from dusk 'til dawn.
If nothing else, it'd be a chance to put the famed Grey Wardens combat endurance to the test.
"Alright. We're splitting up—there's a lot to do to get this village ready and not a lot of time before sundown to get it done in." Aothor said, turning to stand before the group and looking them over. "Liri, Rosaya, I'm putting you two on our defenses. Walk the perimeter and look at what we have to work with, then rig us choke points filled with traps and tricks. Take the mages with you—it'll be good to get arcane eyes on the set up as well."
"Aw, Aothor, you're speaking my love language! And don't worry, I promise we'll try and keep the property damage to a minimum," Liri said brightly, and without further ado grabbed Edmund and headed off into the village, both snickering like mischievous children. Rosaya and Morrigan shared a concerned look before quickly following after.
"At least that will keep them occupied," he chuckled and shook his head as he watched them race away. Liri's enthusiasm, while a bit concerning, was extremely infectious, and he strangely found his spirits lifted. "Isefel, see if you can't convince the blacksmith to start working again. And while you're at it, see if you can get through to that Dwynn fellow Murdock mentioned. The more practiced blades in the fight, the better. Bring Alistair and Sten with you as extra hands in case you need it."
"I promised a young woman in the Chantry I'd find her kid brother for her, he's not turned up and I don't much like his odds if he's not in a secure location by sundown," Isefel said.
"Fine. Lastly, you three," Aothor said, nodding to Coulsand, Leliana, and Jory, "See what you can do with Ser Perth and his knights. And the rest of the militia hanging out in the tavern, while you're at it."
"What'll you be doing?" Cousland asked the dwarf.
"Someone has to show these fishermen how to hold a shield," Aothor huffed, glancing back over his shoulder where the villagers were practicing in the square. "I'll be doing what I can to improve their odds of surviving to see the sunrise. Drills, basic techniques, essential group unit combat training."
"You'll have your work cut out for you," Isefel said dryly, watching as one villager swung back with his sword like a bat only for it to slip from his grip and fly out of his hands and into the dirt.
"Then come back and help me run drills once you've finished with what you're in charge of. If there's time." He tightened his gauntlets and left them to join Murdock in the square.
Working with the fishermen-turned-militiamen was comparable to and only slightly more successful than pouring water into a bucket with holes in the bottom. All of these men were terrified and exhausted in equal measure. They were making an honest effort of it too, which really made their lack of significant progress all the more disappointing.
He reminded himself that they were fishermen and craftsmen. Most of these men had probably never held a blade before in their lives, and he could forgive them for not living up to the standards he normally expected of his troops.
He paused in his efforts of trying to show a pair of older men how to accurately fire crossbows and glanced across the square, where Isefel leaned against the shop front awning, speaking towards the door loud enough that the tone of her voice carried over the wind though not the words. Her expression was patient, but she turned a set of lockpicking tools over in her hand as she stood casually.
That was something he was growing to appreciate about the elven woman—unlike some of the others she always tried the diplomatic approach first, but she always kept something up the other sleeve. Usually that something was knives, but still.
After a moment more the door shifted and opened of it's own volition. Isefel nodded to Alistair and Sten and the three of them vanished into the interior of the smithy.
A brief while later he spied Liri, Rosaya, and the mages pass through the square.
"Make sure you keep track of where everythings placed, and warn everyone about where the triggers are. I don't want our people setting them off," Aothor said, not breaking his own motion of demonstrating a shield-bash for several of the militiamen as he spoke.
Edmund waved back to him, adjusting an armful of springs and wire he carried. "Don't worry about it, we know exactly what we're doing. Easy Rosaya, careful with those! We can't shake them up too much or the acid will activate prematurely and eat through the glass."
At least Aothor had no doubts whatever they were setting up would be effective.
The sun started to climb down the opposite side of the sky, and though it was a cool autumn day he warmed a bit with the heat of the afternoon. He sat briefly on the steps of the Chantry for a rest, allowing the men to break from the drills as well. But when he looked up again, there was an elven man standing in the center of the square with Murdock who had definitely not been there before.
Aothor frowned, stood, adjusted his bracers, and went to see what was up with the newcomer.
"Ho there. Here to fight?" Aothor asked as he approached.
The elven man glanced down at him, countenance aloft. "Much as I'd rather be elsewhere. The man with the mabari in the tavern said I was to report to the dwarven soldier in the square… I'd suppose that's you. I'm Berwick."
Ah, Cousland. Given the acrid tone to this mans voice, he guessed there was an interesting story behind this arrangement. But for now he just nodded, inclining his head towards the practice dummies.
"We can certainly use more friendly blades," Aothor said, taking in the man's weapons and armor. Light, but well made. He either had impressive self-funding or a sponsor. "Or bows, as the case may be. Feel free to use the practice range. You want my advice? Use the coming hours to make yourself more arrows. I have a feeling we'll need a lot."
Late afternoon started to creep in. Owen the blacksmith was pushing out weapons, armor, and repairs at a speed that would make even the most proficient craftsmen of the Smith Caste sweat. Better equipment improved the mens performance but a noticeable degree, but the greatest boost was to their confidence.
Once again Aothor spotted a newcomer in the square. Or three, as it turned out. A dwarf that could only be the Dwyn stood in the center of the square watching the militiamen around him with open disdain. He was flanked by two very surly looking lackeys who Aothor could imagine only had half a thought between the both of them.
"You Aothor?" he asked, and grunted when Aothor nodded in affirmation. "Your elf and her giant kicked in my door. It was a perfectly good door." Dywn all but spat. "So here I am. Doing my civil duty, or whatever. Gonna get myself killed for this worthless town."
"Hm. Better to die fighting than waiting for monsters to claw down your door," Aothor answered lightly and turned away, content to leave the man be. He had no desire to interact with him and his goons any more than absolutely necessary.
"These humans don't know the hilt of a sword from the pointy end," Dwyn scoffed, talking to himself more than to Aothor or even his cronies.
Dwyn was right, of course. But he didn't have to be such an ass about it.
Isefel came out of the Chantry, then. How she'd managed to walk through the square with Sten and Alistair in tow and him still not notice her, he wasn't sure, but she made her way towards him in the center with purpose.
"Ready for a surprise?" Isefel said, a grin on her face. "And don't worry, it's the good kind."
Aothor quirked his head but gestured for her to continue, and she pulled from a new sheath at her belt one of the most immaculate swords he'd seen in recent years. He let out a low whistle as he took in the blade she held outstretched. The veridium metal shon emerald in the daylight, with intricate detailing of silverite-inlaid dragons and old script he guessed was probably ancient elven.
"Now, what's a gorgeous piece like that doing in a fishing village like this?" Aothor asked, still marvelling at the craftsmanship.
"Remember that kid I was trying to find? Apparently, his grandfather was some sort of famous dragon slayer," she said, sheathing the green blade at her hip. "Little Bevin left the Chantry to get it and fight the undead with it… but, he was also a child, and got scared, and we had to fish him out of a closet."
"With your skill paired with a blade that fine, I'd say the Blight doesn't stand much of a chance," Aothor said, tapping his chin as he began thinking of what sort of runes they could have applied to the weapon. It should take well enough to enchantment…
Isefel smiled, but shook her head and idly tapped the sheath. "Tempting as the thought is… I couldn't rob that family of such a precious heirloom. I already talked to his older sister about it—this beauty's just a lender for the night."
"The blade will find more use in your hands than in those of a child who yet lacks the strength to lift it," Sten said.
"Maybe. But he won't be a child forever. And when he's grown maybe he'll learn to wield this like his grandfather before him," Isefel said, something sentimental in her eyes. "Besides, there are many amazing swords in this world. I've always liked the idea of getting something custom made for me one day, if I ever had the coin."
"If you're sure," Aothor said. Personally, he'd have given coin to the family and kept the weapon. But as she was the one who'd found it, he reasoned it was fair enough Isefel be the one to decide what to do with it.
Isefel, Sten, and Alistair helped him with the militia for a while, but Aothor made the call the stop drills as the hours crept on. Considering where they'd started, Aothor could proudly say the quality of their teamwork and bladework as at least marginally better. Anymore would just have diminishing returns. None of these men would be sleeping tonight, and the remaining hours would be best spent getting as much rest as possible before sundown.
Most deigned to take rest in the Chantry or in their homes, though few remained in the square of their own volition to continue honing their skills. Morale was high, and the people were motivated. They were probably about as ready as they could hope to be.
One man was who joined this last batch of drills was a great deal heftier than the rest, carrying his own meat cleaver and swearing every other time he swung it at the practice dummy. Aothor quickly gathered from the murmurs of the other villagers around him that was Lloyd, the local barkeep, who until tonight had sealed himself in the cellar of his tavern rather than defend the town.
Aothor had to wonder exactly how Cousland had gotten him to come down and risk his own neck—all three rolls of it.
He wouldn't have to wonder long, because the Cousland and his team were making their way down the slope at that very moment.
"Thought I'd check in with you before heading back to check in with Ser Perth," Cousland said, waving him over. "Have a second?"
Aothor nodded and moved to meet them. "I'm guessing you have something of a story to do with the people you sent me."
"Not really with Lloyd at least, he's just a dick," Cousland shrugged, but looked over the square with sharp eyes. "But Berwick? I figured I should bring you up to speed."
He gave him the rundown—how the elf was apparently a spy sent by Arl Howe and Teryn Loghain. He even had the letter with his instructions, to boot.
Berwick,
We need your eyes and ears in Redcliffe. Stay in the village, keep your head down, and watch the castle. Report any changes, and you'll be well paid.
That was the extent of the note, which was conveniently devoid of the name of the sender. He supposed it was too much to hope for rookie mistakes like that from Loghain and his people, which this was obviously from. Not any kind of incriminating evidence they could really use, but it did confirm that the Teyrn had his own eyes on the situation here, so to speak.
Aothor tucked the note into his back to keep for later, just in case. "Sloppy spy. If he'd been more of a professional, he'd have burned the letter."
"Yes, but let's not tell him that," Leliana mused, glancing toward where the elven man was sitting and sullenly fletching arrows.
"How'd you figure it out? That he was a spy." Aothor asked.
"I didn't, actually." Cousland said before nodding towards his fairer companion. "She was the one that called it. Almost right away, in fact. I just applied the pressure to get him to talk, and come down here to help and make up for the damage he's helped cause."
Aothor raised a brow. "Impressive."
"Oh, it was nothing, really. I just noticed his strange behavior, that is all. He wasn't doing a very good job of being subtle." Leliana said.
"Hm. Again, sloppy spy." Aothor chuckled. "Oh, how the standards for intrigue and finesse have fallen."
Across the square their attention was drawn by a loud series of whoops and hollers. Liri, Edmund, Rosaya, and Morrigan were emerging from the warehouse district of the village pushing a few large barrels, and the former two of the party were laughing and signing animatedly to one another.
"What has them so excited?" Alistair wondered aloud.
"Ah. It appears Liri and Edmund found barrels of oil," Aothor said, smiling as the golden light of sunset reflected off Liri's red hair as she jumped on top of one of the labeled barrels to high-five the mage.
Cousland sighed. "Maker, help us all."