Genesis of a Dragon

by InkInThePen

A dwarf denied the throne, a noble bent on vengeance, a tainted Dalish hunter, a mute carta enforcer, a one-eyed elven criminal, and an arson-prone mage from a different reality all walk into a bar. The bar is Thedas and Blight is on tap and it's happy hour. The script is broken, ignored, or occasionally set on fire as the Wardens forge a new path to the future of Thedas.

30. Bitter Pills (Part 1)

PARALLEL CONTENT: TALES OF A DRAGON CH 3

The only mages that ever entered Orzammar were apostates on the run from the Chantry. And nine times out of ten those apostates fell right into the lap of the carta network. But after witnessing the power on display in the Circle tower Aothor was struck with a strange type of regret that bordered on anger that no one in all his people's history had, to his knowledge, ever reached out to the Circle directly for support against the darkspawn.

The things they could accomplish with even a half-dozen competent mages supporting a platoon, the lives of soldiers that could be saved from hostile emissaries with templar silencing abilities, the roads they could reclaim—

He turned his eye again to the mangled corpses of templar-abominations and the butchered bodies of tranquil and surmised that maybe this was the reason why. The reward of powerful magic forces on their side outweighed by the inherent risk posed by the ones wielding it. That, and the deshyrs would be damned before they let surfacers be the answer to their problems, or the warrior houses suffer such a perceived snub. Not that the Chantry would ever even agree to lend such support without strings attached.

It was a foolish notion, all things considered, but still one he entertained privately in his mind.

The concern was brought to the forefront of his thoughts by tormented visions in dreams. Aothor's skin crawled at the recollection of his brothers warped faces and the great stone doors holding back demise—it was not an experience he ever intended to repeat. There was no place for a dwarf like him in a place that was real but not. And no matter how real it felt or how vivid the reminders of home and all it's problems were, he reminded himself there was nothing he could do about it from up on the surface. There were plenty more immediate matters that required his attention.

No new threats emerged as they made their way down, but that didn't mean there were no problems waiting for them. There was still the issue of Edmund and whatever was wrong with him. If he hadn't managed to wake by now, maybe the First Enchanter would know what to do—

The concerns were eased as he heard the sound of quiet voices echoing softly off the stonework of the halls. It was too muffled to make anything out, but enough that he could recognize who it was from the distinctive tones. Aothor was inwardly surprised at the magnitude of his relief; despite all of Edmunds peculiarities, he'd grown more fond of the mage than he'd realized.

That, and he'd really had quite enough of fighting abominations for the day.

At the sound of their approach the mabari abandoned their designated posts and raced into the hall to greet them. If Aothor had been any slower in stepping out of the way the dogs would've bowled him over in their determination to reach their partners. While the hound pairs calmed their excitable dogs, the rest of them reached the end of the hall where Edmund and Morrigan awaited them.

"You made me worry about you. It was really annoying so don't do that again," Liri huffed. Then she put her hands on her hips, stared up at their mage contemplatively, and then wound her leg back and kicked him in the shin.

"The fuck was that for?!" Edmund cried, wincing and holding a hand over the injury that would surely bruise.

"I figure if you were full of demons you would've set me on fire for that," she said like it was the most reasonable thing in the world. And given the concerns Cousland raised about the weird rat accompanying him in the Fade, perhaps it was."Glad to see it's still just you."

"You know, after the day I've had, I might just set you on fire anyways," Edmund grumbled.

"With such rudimentary measures you could hardly be certain. But do not fear, for I have thoroughly ascertained assurance of his mental state," Morrigan said cooly. "He is very much himself. To equal measures of relief and disappointment to many, I am sure."

"How hurtful. And here I thought you and I had a bonding moment—" he started, but failed to finish the thought as Nira moved forward and wrapped her arms around him in a tight embrace. Edmund froze stiff as a board, stalling a moment before finally reaching an arm awkwardly around to pat the elven mage on the shoulder. "Ah, yeah. Glad to see you, too…?" he said, though so hesitantly that it came out as more of a question.

"You unbelievable prick," Nira said with a shaky breath as she finally released him. "I thought we'd find you dead down here, or worse, and that's all you have to say for yourself? What even happened? What were you doing in there?"

"Hero shit, mostly. I'm just glad the rest of you were able to rescue the survivors. Feeling alright there, Irving?"

It wasn't exactly a smooth redirect and Aothor noticed that Edmund had yet again failed to properly answer a question posed to him, but all that really did was confirm that it really was him through and through and he just felt relieved.

Though that didn't mean he didn't still have some questions. The others likely did as well. But before any of them could be voiced, the First Enchanter moved in, completely oblivious to the uneasy tension as he reached for his former pupil.

"I've not felt this poorly in some time, but it does these old bones good to see you return to us alive," Irving said with a tired smile. "When you were not with your fellow Wardens atop the tower I feared my initial assumption that you perished at Ostagar was correct."

"Edmund is actually the reason most of us survived Ostagar," Aothor added. It was a sobering thought, in hindsight. Without Edmund arguing with Duncan that night he'd have been down in the field when it was overrun. Aothor was good in a fight—but he knew he wasn't 'hold off an army single-handedly' good. "You should be proud of him, First Enchanter. He's been an asset to the Wardens and a credit to the instruction of the Circle."

Edmund laughed like something about what he'd just said was incredibly funny and covered it hastily with an unconvincing cough. "Aw, Aothor, if you keep saying such nice things about me I might fall in love with you."

"If that's all it takes then you need higher standards," Aothor deadpanned then glanced up at Irving. "It was all lies, anyways. He's actually been an unbearable asshole and a constant source of contention."

"I do not doubt that both accounts are equally true. And I am glad to hear he has not changed during his time away," Irving said fondly. Edmund coughed through yet another poorly-concealed chuckle, gaining him some heavy side-eye from Nira. "Though the manner of your departure was… less than ideal, it is good to see you again, dear boy, and I am heartened to see you would not abandon your home in our hour of need. Come, help me down this next flight of stairs."

It was something of a struggle to behold, as once he started moving it was readily apparent that Edmund was almost as unsteady on his feet as the old man. In the end Nira ended up scooping under Irvings other shoulder and between the two of them they were able to help the old man down the stairs without anyone falling over.

What had been an hours-long climb up the tower was much faster on the descent. They were slowed to the speed of the injured they escorted but for once Aothor had no complaints about the slower pace. Besides, he had no doubt that soon enough they'd be racing off again to manage another crisis—in fact, he actually planned on it, given that the situation at Redcliffe was hardly resolved.

It was eerie to walk by the bodies in the halls once more. This time without combat and monsters to distract them the haunting of the corpses was more severe. Not a sound was heard from the Circle mages who followed after him, and that alone was telling enough of their devastation.

"How many?" he asked quietly enough that only the one-eyed elf that shadowed after him could hear. Isefel was always counting and keeping track of these things, and this time was no different.

"Two hundred," she answered with equal softness. "It's a low-ball estimate. I expect the number will be higher once they do a thorough count."

Two hundred dead. And barely two dozen survivors behind him. And he could only foresee half that number being combat ready in any type of immediate time frame. There were a handful of other survivors surely lurking around the tower, clever mages who'd found dark corners to bury themselves in and wait out the storm. Like Godwin in that closet. And there were the ten or so apprentices Wynne had been defending down on the first floor, but they were much too young to fight.

All in all, the casualty ratio was staggering. And here he was, about to demand by right of ancient treaty that the tower send it's few remaining capable mages into battle against the Blight. Taking advantage no better than scavengers on carrion. He just hoped enough of the Circle mages would survive what was to come to give these people some semblance of a future.

They paused only long enough to collect the cluster of young apprentices and mages they encountered when they first met up with Wynne but otherwise wasted no time in finding the exit. Aothor heard no shortage of shuffling and alarm on the other side as he pounded a fist against the reinforced doors—likely Gregoir and his people expected they were all long dead by now.

And how ready he was to prove their assumptions wrong.

Between the demons, abominations, bloodmages, and horrible nightmare dream traps, it was all almost worth it to see the templars astonished faces as their procession of survivors entered their barricaded chamber.

"Irving? Maker's breath, I did not expect to see you alive," Gregoir said in breathless relief. The Knight Commander guided the First Enchanter from the younger mages who supported and helped him to a chair.

"It is over, Gregoir," Irving said with a heavy sigh as he rested himself upon the seat. "Uldred is dead."

The building relief was crushed by a sudden rush of movement as Cullen ran to Gregoir's side, blood-shot eyes wide and wild.

"Uldred tortured these mages, hoping to break their wills and make them maleficarum or abominations," Cullen hissed insistently with a conspiratorial glance over his shoulder towards the survivors. "We have no way of knowing how many of them have turned."

"What? Don't be ridiculous!" Irving shook his head in disbelief of what he was hearing.

"Of course he'll say that! He might be a blood mage!" Cullen snarled and pointed a finger at the old man in accusation. "Don't you know what they did? This can't happen again—I won't let it!"

"I am Knight Commander here, not you." Gregoir said evenly, the commanding tone reeling the younger knight back from any further ranting.

There was a low murmur building in the gathering of templars watching them. Having found the Wardens unreceptive to his fear, Cullen sought new support for it from his fellow templars, who had already been preparing themselves for the worst for days. If this wasn't handled Cullen's terror would turn contagious and all their hard work to save these spellcasters would quickly mean nothing.

"Order has been restored to the Circle," Aothor said, half turning and looking of the number of assembled templars. A few had rested their hands on the hilts of their blades. He did not turn his focus from them until their grasps released. "Remain vigilant, as is your duty, but know there is no reason to suspect threat in the mages that remain."

"We will rebuild," Irving said, and though he was weary his words were assured. "The Circle will go on. We will learn from this tragedy and be strengthened by it."

"We have won back the tower. I will accept Irving's assurance that all is well." Gregoir nodded in satisfaction.

Cullen sputtered indignantly, aghast at the Knight Commander's words. "But there may be demons within them, lying dormant… lying in wait!"

"Enough! I have already made my decision." Gregoir said, and with a few quick gestures his men were moving all about the chamber to make space for the mages and tend to their conditions.

Aothor turned back to his own people and caught Cousland's eye and inclined his head towards Cullen. The warrior caught his meaning and stepped forward, catching the templar by the arm and slowly but firmly escorting him a few steps away toward the wall of the chamber while speaking to him quietly.

"Thank you," Gregoir said with a grateful bow to him once he finished directing his men. "You have proven yourselves friends of both the Circle and the templars."

"I need more than friends," Aothor said, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "I need allies."

"Indeed. I promised you aid, but with the Circle restored my duty is to watch the mages. They are free to help you, however. Speak to them." Gregoir said with a small nod to Irving.

"And what will the templars do in the meantime?"

"For now, I will have to oversee a sweep of the tower. There may be other survivors and we should do our best to tend to them. Please excuse me. And Irving…" Gregoir reached out and rested a hand on the First Enchanters shoulder and for the first time he smiled. "It is good to have you back."

"Ah, I'm sure we will be at each others throats again in no time," Irving laughed, waving him off.

Gregoir turned to go, but he stalled in place as his intended path was blocked off by Edmund with Isefel shadowing just behind him. The speed to which the Kinght Commander's smile switched to a scowl comically indicated exactly his level of fondness for either of these individuals.

"Darkspawn have mages. They're called emissaries," Edmund said with a bright smile and a very pointed look.

"Is that so," he said, rubbing his brow tiredly.

"Did you know blight magic's a thing? And that it's super fucked up and awful?" Edmund continued, much to Gregoir's continued annoyance.

What was Edmund trying to…? Ah. Hah. Clever mage. Aothor had to admire the idea: why let a perfectly good resource go to waste, especially a resource as powerful as the templars?

"If you have a point, Amell, I beg you to make it," Gregoir said dismissively, a thought most of the Wardens had themselves at some time or another. "There are more important things that require my attention."

"You lost some templars, but there are still plenty of men at your disposal. And with all the mages going to fight there won't be very many left here to guard, anyways," Edmund pointed out. "So why not commit your people to our cause as well?"

"Templar support could be invaluable against the darkspawn," Aothor added. "With your men and the Circle mages combined the odds of defeating the Blight are far greater."

"I understand that your duty is to stand against the darkspawn. But I am a templar, and my duty is to maintain this Circle. Which is in desperate need of repair. The sooner me and my men are able to attend to this duty, the more well prepared the mages will be for your army."

Isefel smiled politely, but it was at angry kind of polite that made Aothor's spine chill even though he wasn't even on the receiving end of it.

"Remind me, Knight Commander: who risked life and limb storming a towerful of demons and abominations? Was it the templars, who are trained their whole lives to defend against such forces? Or the handful of randoms who walked in and had to do their jobs for them?" Isefel cocked her head to the side, a hand braced against her hip as she stared the knight down. "Your men have sat on their swords long enough. Even if you don't intend to fight the darkspawn, at least do the bare minimum and commit to defending the mages you are sworn to guard as they stand against the forces of evil. Or will I have to do that for you, too?"

A low "Oooooo" rose from Liri as she looked on the exchange, the final patronizing straw.

"Perhaps it would not be best to let my charges leave the safety of the tower unsupervised so soon after an incident such as this, for a myriad of reasons," Gregoir finally relented. "A company of templars will fight alongside the Circle mages. Perhaps it will be a good thing, to build some camaraderie after all this… fear."

"Thanks for the backup," Edmund whispered to Isefel.

"My pleasure," she nodded in return and melted back into the bustle around them to speak with a few of the mages.

"Gregoir, one last thing," Aothor said, reaching out and catching the Knight Commander by the arm as he started to turn away once more. He met his eye and inclined his head meaningfully towards where Cullen stood slack-shouldered by the wall, sullen and silent though Cousland attempted to speak with him. "Don't leave that one unsupervised for long."

He'd seen that deranged detachment before and it never ended well. It was the consequence of soldiers green and unprepared for the harsh reality of the Deep Roads who found themselves in unfortunate situations that left them haggard survivors. At best those soldiers turned into miserable and violent drunkards. At worst, they were later found fallen on their blades, too broken by what they'd endured to live with what haunted their memories. If left to his own devices Aothor feared Cullen could become another victim of that same despair, or even a danger to the others who survived the horrors right alongside him.

Gregoir only gave him a short nod in response. Cullen was neither Aothor's burden nor his responsibility, and so all that remained was to trust the Knight Commander would be proactive enough to prevent even more fallout among his people.

"Here we are… the tower in disarray, the Circle nearly annihilated… though it could have been much worse," Irving reached out and patted Edmund's hand. "I am glad you and your companions arrived when you did. It is almost as though the Maker Himself sent you."

"Well, divine intervention or no, I'd say we managed to turn an all-out catastrophe into a well mitigated disaster," Edmund mused. "Which is about as good as we can hope for, these days."

"Indeed," Irving chuckled fondly. "I understand that you need allies. The least we can do is help you against the darkspawn. I would hate to survive this only to be overcome by the Blight."

"But there are so few mages left." The protest rose from Nira, who'd moved to sit attentively at the First Enchanter's side. "If we send our few remaining experienced enchanters out to war, if the worst happens, who will be left to train the next generation?"

"If the Blight isn't stopped there won't be a next generation." Aothor said gravely, "I know it is a cruel ask, especially after all you and your people have endured and the losses you have suffered. But this is not a call that can be refused."

"Words nobly spoken, Warden. Fret not, Nira. You should know we are not to be underestimated," Irving said, strength in his words despite the weariness of his body. "The mages of the Circle of Magi will join the Grey Wardens in this fight."

The mages and the templars. Two allies for the price of one—though even with the numbers combined it wouldn't amount to as much as he'd previously hoped. Still, this was a step in the right direction. Suddenly building a resistance against the Blight was feeling a little more possible.

"Irving, I have a request," Wynne said, joining them from where she'd been previously conversing with Isefel. "I seek leave to accompany these Grey Wardens on their mission."

"Wynne… we need you here. The Circle needs you. Now more than ever, perhaps." Irving said with a deep frown.

"I appreciate the sentiment, Irving, but the Circle will do fine without me. The Circle has you," Wynne said, a warm smile despite the protest. "These people are brave and good, and capable of great things. If they accept my assistance, I will help them accomplish their goals."

"We'd be honored to have you—"

"You've already done enough, Wynne," Nira interrupted, standing sharply and stepping towards the older mage. "You fought at Ostagar. You brought Uldred's plans to light and exposed him for what he is. You protected so many of the apprentices from the chaos. You helped put a stop to him yourself. You've done enough." She swallowed hard like she was choking something back "I—we need you here. Please, don't go."

"And yet, there is still more good I can do. Good that must be done, and I cannot do it from here. Even if you do not understand it now, I believe you will someday. And I can travel with ease in my heart because I am confident in the hands in which I leave my home." Wynne reached out with one hand and held onto Irving's shoulder and with the other took Nira's hand into her own.

Irving shook his head, but a chuckle escaped his lips. "You were never one to stay in the tower when there was adventure to be had."

"Why stay when I can be of service elsewhere?" she said simply.

"Then I give you leave to follow the Grey Wardens, but know that you always have a place here. Now, there is much to be done. And much as my joints would prefer to remain seated here, I fear the example I should set if I remain idle much longer," Irving said. The old man groaned as he pressed his palms against his knees and stood. "You must forgive me for not being a proper host."

"Can the Circle go to Redcliffe?" Rosaya asked, inserting herself suddenly into the conversation. The words rushed out of her so fast Aothor suspected she'd been holding them back for quite some time. Their original goal here had clearly not left her mind for a even a moment. "To save a possessed child?"

Irving blinked in the face of the abrupt question, then paused as he considered. "A possessed child in Redcliffe…? I suppose… killing the demon would mean killing the… unless you intend to enter the Fade?" he mused with a ponderous look. "Yes… yes, it can be done with a group of mages. And since Uldred preferred blood as a powersource as opposed to lyrium we should have plenty to use."

"It's the Arl's son. Connor Guerrin," Alistair added. "And we can't afford to delay anymore than we already have."

"I see. A life is at stake, and after all you have done for us this is the least we can do in return. Alas, so much for that nap I was hoping for," Irving sighed ruefully. "We will need some time to prepare. I will select a group of mages fit for the task, and we shall make for Redcliffe with all haste."

"How fast is 'with all haste?'" Aothor asked.

"It is a few hours 'til dawn now… so if the winds are favorable for the ferry we could arrive as soon as sundown." Irving said after a moment of thought.

"How many mages do you need to bring, and how much extra room would there be in the ferry?"

Irving's eyes widened slightly as he caught the intent of the question. "Hm, if I took Nira, Kinnon, Petra, and a few others… I imagine four or five more could fit in addition to the number needed for the ritual."

Aothor's stomach sank and then flipped at the thought of getting back in a boat. But he wanted to be back at Redcliffe as soon as possible. Between the situation with Connor and the decision he still needed to make about Jory, he didn't want to waste any more time.

"I understand. Pick your people and I'll pick mine—we'll have a few hours to rest and then I want us moving with the sunlight." Aothor said with a decisive nod. "Wynne, welcome to the team. Brace yourself."

There were choices to be made, decisions about who to send where and what exactly to do moving forward. But Aothor didn't want to do any of that just yet. He wanted to sit down.

So he led his Wardens back into the apprentices chambers. It was still an utter mess with bunks toppled over and dotted with a few suspicious red stains that'd probably once been people, but it was enough for them to spread out and settle down comfortably for some well earned respite.

Aothor didn't sleep, though. None of them did. He couldn't speak for the rest of them, but perhaps they were as uneasy with the idea of sleeping here as he was. Even without demons to sucker them into traps, reality still felt a little too loose for his liking. So they all stayed awake, slow rumbles of conversation rising and falling as they allowed themselves a few hours to just be. Gear was discarded to the side and cots pulled together on the ground—or pulled away to more secluded corners, in the case of some of the more reclusive members of the group.

Wynne found herself welcomed by the rest of the team by the most part. Aothor was relieved that such a skilled healer would be joining them, and he imagined the others felt much the same. For all that Morrigan and Edmund were talented mages, neither of them had what could be called a healer's touch.

And Aothor was content to simply watch and notice as time crawled past.

He watched how Edmund, despite being initially friendly with the older mage, had started avoiding Wynne almost immediately and with as much intentionality as he avoided Cousland, much to her obvious confusion. He saw how Rosaya sat almost entirely draped over her hound, quiet but attentive as she listened along with Alistair to one of Leliana's stories. He noticed belatedly that at some point Isefel had completely vanished with no trace of where she had gone. He spied Cousland sitting atop a bunk a little ways from the others, alternating between studying a map held in his lap and eyeing the exits like he was still worried demons might pop out from behind them. His dog maintained a slow patrol from one end of the hall to the other, calm but unable to settle.

And Aothor noticed how it did not take long at all for Liri to get bored of simply sitting there and start rummaging through the storage trunks scattered through the hall.

"You know, one could argue that stealing from our allies is counter-productive," he pointed out quietly as he moved to join her in front of a closet she was poking through.

"One could also argue that most of the people who supposedly owned this stuff are dead now so it's probably not even actually stealing," She shot back without missing a beat. "Not that there's much worth taking from here, anyways. Doesn't look like apprentices were allowed to have powerful enchanted objects just lying around. Just some loose silvers and a lot of questionable taste in fashion."

Aothor chuckled as she pulled out the most silly looking cap he'd ever seen his entire life to illustrate her point, a yellow and blue thing with weird stitching and a few feathers sticking out of the top.

"Do you think Edmund used to wear something like that when he lived here?" He wondered aloud.

"For all we know this could've actually been his. He's already so weird that it'd just be perfect." Liri snickered, then her eyes lit up with familiar mischief. "Do you think we could get him to put it on?"

"Somehow I doubt it," said Aothor. Edmund had long since traded away the Circle robes for more practical outerwear and had been all too glad to do so. "But you know what? Hold onto it. Maybe we'll catch him in a weak moment."

Liri grinned and shoved the offensive headdress into her pack—which, he noted, was nearly full to bursting when it most certainly had not been when they first entered the tower.

"Did you empty every chest we walked by?" Aothor asked, a single brow raised.

"If they didn't want people to open them they should've had better locks. Or less breakable hinges. Really, they were just asking for it," she said innocently, like this was the most reasonable thing in the world. "And I didn't take everything. Just anything that was glowing or weird or valuable."

Honestly, he was just impressed with how much she'd managed to take without him noticing until now, and they'd been together almost the whole climb up.

Aothor didn't know whether to laugh or sigh or roll his eyes, so instead he leaned against the closet door and gestured expectantly towards her bag. "Alright then. Let's see what you got. Did you find anything good?"

"You could say that. Check it."

Liri took a knee on the ground and started haphazardly extracting various objects from the pockets of her bag. A few items were tossed to the ground with less care than was probably necessary and Aothor's heart leapt momentarily into his throat as a few glowing items flashed dangerously in protest at the rough treatment. But when nothing reacted further than that he turned an interested eye over the various pieces of loot.

A lot of it was jewelry. And most of that jewelry shimmered with a layer of magic that spoke to some form of enchantment. Useful if kept, valuable if it was traded. There were also a few mysterious vials—and those Liri was mindful enough to set gently on the ground to prevent the glass from cracking. A few looked like lyrium potions, but others were mixes he couldn't identify by eye.

"Very nice," Aothor said with a nod, kneeling down across from her and lifting one of several runes from the pile. "What do these do?"

"No clue, something awesome probably. We should check in with Bodhans boy and see if he can hook us up with some of those 'enchantments!' he's always talking about." she said excitedly. "Between everything I found and what I'm betting a few of the others picked up, we all might be able to get an enchanted piece of equipment out of this. I have first dibs, though."

Aothor chuckled, stroking his beard thoughtfully. Liri may be the self-proclaimed and unapologetic thief of the team, but just because she was the most proficient didn't mean she was the only one. Especially in a place like this just teaming with interesting items.

"The way I see it, the more stuff we have means the more options we have. And with what we face in a typical adventure we need as many options as we can get."

"That, I can readily agree with. We need every advantage," he said, passing her a few of the potions as she started packing the items away back in her bag. "But at some point we're going to have to start seriously thinking about resource allocation. Recruiting an army's only half the work—funding and supplying those troops is another matter entirely."

"Let's wait to worry about that until we have some more allies under our belt. A dozen-odd mages and templars doesn't really seem like much of an army," Liri said. She uncapped one of the mysterious new vials, sniffed at the purplish fumes it emitted, made a face like it smelled bad, then put it in the same pouch as her grenades. "I'm not really worried about all the fine detail management stuff anyways. If anyone can figure out what to do with all that mess, it's you."

"Your confidence in me is appreciated," he said. "But funding and managing a military with the backing of a royal treasury is one thing. Scrounging up coin and resources from nothing… that's another matter entirely that's out of my area of experience. So I may need your help solving that with… creative solutions."

Liri paused as she finished packing away her loot, a ponderous look on her face. "Now there's an idea. Do you think we could rob a royal treasury? That would solve a lot of our problems."

"If we find ourselves in proximity to one, I'll let you know and we'll go from there. I'm open to entertaining just about anything that gives us a leg up over our obstacles," he conceded.

"A heist with this group would be so fun," she said, eyes sparkling as she glanced over at the other members of the team. "It'd probably go to shit so fast, but honestly that just makes me want to try even more."

"You have the most curious definition of fun I've ever encountered," he mused with a quirked brow. "Been on many heists?"

"You know, just the average amount. Three or four. Actually, maybe more. Are we counting reverse heists too?"

"I believe the average amount of heists is actually zero," Aothor pointed out with mild amazement. "And I'm almost hesitant to ask, but what's a reverse heist?"

"When you steal an object from one place and then break in somewhere else and plant the item in a secure location there. Obviously," Liri explained. "Don't like reverse heists as much, they're a lot more complicated. Plus you usually don't even get to steal anything for keeps."

"That's rather clever. Good way to orchestrate a conflict if you need chaos as a cover to accomplish something else… which is probably how so much carta activity goes unnoticed," he said thoughtfully. How many times had feuds broken out between high houses because one family accused another of stealing a precious heirloom, and how many of those had been intentionally orchestrated by third parties? "Well, if we ever need a heist or even a reverse heist, I'm glad we'll have an expert along for such an occasion."

"Ready and willing," Liri said with a small salute and a wink. "You handle the army planning, I'll be in charge of the shifty shit. Play to our strengths, right?"

"That's the only way any of this is going to work," he agreed. "Speaking of plans, we should get ready to head out. The mages are probably getting ready to move and we should do the same."

"Great. The sooner we get out of here, the better. This place is super depressing."

She followed him back towards where most of the others were clustered. He raised to fingers to his mouth and whistled short and shrill, and at the signal they all moved together to start picking up their gear and gather around.

"We're returning at dawn. But we won't all be traveling together," Aothor said as they all arranged themselves to sit on the scattered bunks near him. "The ferry will cross the lake and arrive back at the castle by the end of the day, and the team on the ground won't reach it until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest."

"Wait, we're splitting the party?" Edmund asked, eyes wide with alarm. "That's the most common cause for TPKs. I feel like that's a very bad idea."

"If you have a better plan on how to cram all eleven of us and two mabari onto a ferry along with enough mages and lyrium to save Connor and not have the thing sink to the bottom of the Calenhad, I'm all ears." Aothor crossed his arms and raised a brow pointedly at the mage. Edmund raised a finger and started to say something, stalled as he thought quietly in his own head, then sighed and dropped the finger in defeat. "That's what I thought."

"I believe Edmund and I should accompany Irving and the other mages on the ferry," Wynne suggested. "It would be sensible to have more mages present familiar with the Circle's ritual practices should anything go awry."

"Sounds good to me. I'll also be taking the ferry. Sten, Liri, you're both coming too." Aothor said.

Sten nodded solemnly, but Liri groaned loudly and leaned forward, bonking her forehead against the wooden bunk post.

"Do you hate me? Is that why you're making me go back on the boat? You are cruel and also evil," she said, giving him a miserable look.

"I don't really think I could make you do anything," Aothor pointed out. "But if I'm going to suffer on an awful aquatic deathtrap I'd prefer to suffer with equally miserable company."

"That's low, even for you, and that's saying something since you were a politician," Liri said. She picked up a pillow from the bunk and hurled it at him. Aothor lazily raised his shield and let the feather-stuffed cloth smack into that rather than his face. "You know, I think you just don't trust me to run around the Ferelden countryside unsupervised."

"Yes, well, I would like there to be something remaining of Ferelden to save from the Blight," he chuckled. "So will you come on the boat? Because if you won't then I might decide to bring Cousland, and with him and Edmund confined to a boat together all day I think it actually would end up sinking."

Liri looked rightly horrified. "Ancestors forbid."

"Hey!" Edmund and Cousland said in perfectly synchronized tones of offense. They then glared at one another and puffed up like feral cats about to scrap.

"The rest of you will return to Redcliffe together on foot," Aothor continued after shooting the both of them A Look. Ancestors, would it kill them to behave normally for five sodding minutes? "Isefel, you're in charge. Make sure everyone gets back in one piece."

The elf nodded in acknowledgement—when she rejoined the group from wherever she'd slipped off to, he wasn't sure, but he suspected that was largely the point. At least she was one of the ones he didn't have to worry about causing problems.

"We'll be fine. After what we've just been through, I imagine a hike back on an already-traveled path will be a welcome break," Isefel said. "What's the worst that could happen?"

She'd surely meant the question rhetorically. But given the company they kept and their running track record, it was not surprising but still amusing the way they all turned in unison to glance at their mage who often had an answer to these types of things.

"An assassin could happen," Edmund readily supplied, then frowned in disappointment. "Aw, damn it. I'm gonna be in the boat group, I won't get to be there."

"Once again I am perplexed by the excitement for an assassination attempt," Alistair said with appropriate levels of concern.

"He did say the assassin would be friendly," Rosaya pointed out helpfully.

"There's also no guarantee the assassin will show up on the way back," Edmund conceded. "But the further we get into this whole thing the more likely it gets. So if a hot elf begs for his life… just hear him out, alright? "

"The lack of specificity alongside the increasing measure of detail is unsettling," said Cousland. He pursed his lips and crossed her arms and when he spoke again he made a face like the words tasted bad to admit. "Well. We're always looking for allies. And aside from some minor catastrophes here or there your pointers have been more helpful than not. So… I suppose it wouldn't hurt to keep an eye out."

"What's this? A vote of confidence?" Edmund said, rolling his eyes and affecting his tone with malicious sarcasm. "Am I still dreaming? Maybe I never woke up after all. Someone pinch me, surely this can't be reality." The mage seemed set to run his mouth more, which was bound to be a bad idea, but was headed off as Liri purposefully took his sarcasm literally and did in fact pinch him and the mage got distracted swatting her away before she could do it again.

Aothor distantly wondered if he had started growing any gray hairs yet.

"If we're going on foot then we should head out now," Isefel said. "We'll need the ferry to take us back to shore before the rest of you take it across the lake—"

"I'm not going to Redcliffe," Cousland said, so abruptly that even he seemed surprised that he'd said the words aloud. "There's… something I need to take care of."

"You're going to be a bit more specific than that, Cousland." Aothor crossed his arms and braced himself for another round of complication to what was supposed to be a simple plan. "What are you thinking?"

Cousland took a slow breath as he collected his thoughts. "I'm going to go to Crestwood."

"Seems sort of random. What brought this on?" Isefel quirked a brow curiously.

"In the Fade, I—" he started, then stopped like he wasn't sure exactly what he should say.

The quiet understanding that settled over them answered the question all of them had been wondering but none of them could find the words to get confirmation for: that they'd all experienced something in the Fade.

Rather than elaborate on exactly what his dream had been or why it was urging this choice, he just shook his head and continued.

"I just have a feeling that I won't get a chance like this again. We're already this far north. Who knows when we'll be this close again? " Cousland held up the map he'd been looking at before so the rest of them could see as well. "I'm not asking anyone to come with me—the rest of you should keep going to Redcliffe. I don't want to derail our plans any more than necessary… it's a personal trip, so I can handle it on my own."

Lady perked up at his side, nudging his hand and wagging her tail quickly.

"My bad—Lady and I can handle this," he amended quickly.

"Traveling alone is dangerous even in normal times. And I don't think we should split the group more than we already have," Rosaya said hesitantly. "What's in Crestwood, anyways?"

"His family," Edmund answered, lips pursed and brow furrowed as he studied the noble. The two held one another's gaze for a long moment, but for the first time in a long time it was free of animosity.

Aothor shook his head. "There's a reason we left them there, Cousland. Their best chance to keep from drawing Howe's attention is to lay low. If we swoop in and move them it could blow their cover. Make them a target."

There was also the concern of what Duncan warned of—becoming involved with the sphere of nobility could set them up for unnecessary political fallout. Though, given that Loghain had already branded them enemies of the nation and they were currently in the process of ousting him, perhaps that ship had already sailed.

"Leaving them as they are keeps them safe from Howe. But it doesn't keep them safe from the Blight," Cousland countered. "I heard some talk on the road and when we stayed in the tavern the other night that refugees are fleeing north, and darkspawn are pursuing them. I'd rather have Oren and Oriana safe behind Redcliffe's walls, given the choice."

That, he couldn't argue with. And between the risk of Howe's assassins or the brutality of the darkspawn horde, it was clear which was more threatening.

"You should make sure your family is safe," Leliana said, nodding in agreement. "I know it's what I would do, were my loved one's in the Blight's path. And you need not go alone; I will go with you and help you protect them on the road to Redcliffe."

"We all will," Isefel said decisively, and a few of the others from the ground team nodded in agreement. "And like you said, it's not far out of our way. No need to divide the group any more than necessary."

Cousland seemed taken aback and a little overwhelmed by the offering of support. "You don't have to. It's likely that they aren't even there anymore. I'm sure news of Ostagar's fall has reached Crestwood by now, so they could be on a ship to Antiva already—in fact, I hope they are. So it could be a trip for nothing."

"No, you need to go." Edmund said decisively. He stood abruptly and began to pace, wringing a hand in his hair as he thought, an action that did not inspire ease in those who knew to expect the unexpected from him. "Even if Oren and Oriana have left, this might actually be our chance to save Crestwood. Agh, damn it, I'm in the boat group…"

Aothor observed the mage uncertainly. "Do you… want to go with the ground team?"

Edmund paused his pacing, still as a statue as he started at one of the toppled over bunks as he visibly fought with indecision.

"... No." he said finally. He shook his head and resumed his back-and forth pacing. "No, I should go to Redcliffe. But if there's a team going to Crestwood then we should still make the most of this opportunity. Shit, I think there's a specific date when that all goes down, what was the codex entry…?"

"Back up a second," Cousland said, a biting edge of his voice that indicated that the momentary peace between them was already on thin ice. "This might be our chance to save Crestwood? What are you on about? You said they would be safe in Crestwood when we left them there."

Edmund offered a smile that was tinged with guilt. "I said they'd be safe for a while…"

Couslands face was completely cold and unreadable, which didn't bode well. The warrior took two steps towards the mage and for a moment Aothor thought Cousland might swing at him. Edmund seemed to think so too; he even flinched. But he just grabbed him by the shoulders and looked him dead in the eye, staring so intently that he was almost looking through him.

"Talk."

Edmund gulped hard, but his expression set to something bitter and he pushed off Cousland's grip. Aothor would've thought it was simple petulance, but there was a flicker of Edmund's gaze to Wynne, then towards the door where the activity of the mages preparing to leave was getting louder.

He couldn't piece together the details of exactly why, but Aothor understood then that Edmund didn't feel free to speak here. Not without risk to his personal safety, and not just from the warrior who was routinely cross with him.

"You two," Aothor said, pointing to each of the men in turn. "With me. Everyone else, finish packing up. We need to be ready to go as soon as the mages are." He turned and left the hall, fully expecting that the men would follow him. It'd been nice to have a few hours' peace, but he was already starting to get a headache.

Aothor brought them to a quiet room a bit further away where he was reasonably sure no one would intrude on them. He turned back and was surprised to see one more person than expected—Isefel had followed along as well.

When he raised a brow in question at her presence, she only shrugged and glanced between the two humans.

"I figure if this goes badly enough you might need help separating them," Isefel offered.

Edmund rolled his eyes. "I can behave. Him, I'm not so sure about."

"Funny, I seem to remember you swinging first," Cousland said pointedly, a muscle working in his clenched jaw.

Something dangerous flickered in Edmund's eyes, but Aothor didn't have time for it. He clapped his hands sharply, drawing their focus back to him.

"You're both sodding adults. Act like it for once. Frankly, I'm sick of your petty bickering. I don't want to hear it anymore," Aothor said, shutting both of them down. In the back of his mind he mused that he was starting to sound an awful lot like his father, only that his father was never so personally involved with the spats between him and his brothers growing up. "Edmund, if you have relevant information, now is the time to disclose it."

"Right. Because that's what I do. Jesus, this is exhausting," Edmund sighed, setting himself down on one of the seats of a nearby table and running a hand miserably over his face. "Crestwood was only ever going to be a temporary fix. During the course of the Blight refugees make for the village in search of safety. Which would be fine, except that the refugees are carrying the Blight and start infecting the townspeople. Also, I think a sinkhole opens up and a bunch of darkspawn turn up to attack."

"Andraste's flames," Cousland said, suddenly pale in the face as he stared down at the mage. "You knew this? And we left my family there?"

"It was the best option at the time. We couldn't really take them with us. Not with the kind of shit we walk into," Edmund said, hands spread helplessly in front of him. "I figured we'd find a way to come back around to Crestwood to deal with the problem eventually. I even came up with some ideas on how to handle it. Not very good ideas, but it's still something to work with—"

"You figured? You were going to leave their lives up to timing and a hunch?" Couslands hands balled into fists, then he threw them up in the air in a motion like surrender as he laughed in disbelief. "Of course you did. That's totally something you'd do, you absolute asshole."

"Focus. None of that matters right now," Isefel said calmly. "The only thing that matters is what we're going to do about it right now."

"There's more," Edmund admitted, and Aothor couldn't help but groan. "In order to deal with the darkspawn and get rid of the Blighted villagers, the mayor floods the town. Lots of innocent people who don't need to die get caught up in the waters."

Cousland almost looked like he was going to be sick. Instead, he sat down in one of the chairs across from Edmund and held his head in his hands. "Maker, I knew I had a feeling I needed to go check on them, but this is…"

"Yeah. It's not great." Edmund said unhappily, but did look relieved that Cousland didn't seem out to jump down his throat anymore. "But if we can manage to do something about it, more people than just your family will be saved. We'd be avoiding a major catastrophe. Actually, we'd be avoiding two major catastrophes, because that would mean that all the corpses that normally get raised and attack Crestwood in about a decade won't be there."

The three of them stared silently at him for a moment. One would think that after a period of time you'd get used to hearing the mage casually drop bone-chilling bits of information like that. One would be wrong.

"Let's just focus on catastrophe number one," Aothor said, tiredly rubbing his brow. "You mentioned you had some thoughts on how to avoid it. Or deal with it, anyways."

"Yeah, but I'm not sure if they hold any water. The only way for me to really know for sure would be to see the situation for myself."

"Which would be why you were so torn about whether to come with us or go to Redcliffe." Isefel surmised.

"Really makes me wish I could be in two places at once. Probably for the best though, I don't think the world could handle two of me."

"Write everything down," Cousland said suddenly. "Anything you think we could use. I'll assess the situation and decide what to do. There's got to be something. And even if what you give doesn't seem to work, we'll figure it out."

"You think that will work?" Aothor asked with a raised brow to the mage.

Edmund hummed quietly as he considered for a moment. "I think it'll have to. There's a chance that the timing of this is all off, anyways. You might arrive there far ahead of the actual incident. In which case, the best you can do is prep the village to give them the best chance on their own once it eventually hits. Right now there's just too many variables for me to be able to guarantee what you're going to encounter."

"I don't need a guarantee. At this point I just need something to work with. We'll handle the rest." Cousland said, standing suddenly with a resolute nod. He rummaged in the drawer of one of the nearby desks and produced a stack of parchment along with a quill and ink, which he set down in front of the mage. "Give me everything you can."

Edmund reached into his pack and pulled out a leather journal, one Aothor often saw him writing in or flipping through. He opened it up and prepared to rip out a few pages, only to suddenly startle and laugh at himself. "Hold on, you can't read that." He instead set the journal down on the table and began copying down the contents.

Aothor snuck a glance at the pages, and sure enough, it was filled with unfamiliar glyphs and symbols. What Edmund wrote on the paper now was barely any better, due to his horrific handwriting, but at least it was semi-legible and in a recognizable language.

"I'm going to need a couple minutes. I'll pass this off to you before we all split off," said Edmund, dipping his quill in the ink again.

"I'll pack up your stuff for you." Cousland said, and then without another word turned and left.

Aothor and Isefel glanced at one another with the same look of utter surprise.

"That… went much better than I was expecting." Isefel said in mild shock.

"Say what you will about his temperament," Aothor said, smiling just slightly. "But Cousland does not mess around when it comes to his family."

"Guys. Shh. Thinking," said Edmund, rapidly flipping through his journal again.

Aothor and Isefel shared another look before they followed after Cousland, leaving the mage to his transcriptions.

"So. What's your impression? How big of a shitshow are we about to walk into?" Isefel asked quietly.

"Hm. Given that this ordeal has Cousland and Edmund actually working together… this may be a defining moment in history." Aothor deadpanned.

Isefel laughed, adjusting the strap of her eyepatch. "Maker. I need a drink."

"It's not even six in the morning."

"It's just been that sort of day already. You know, there's this old elven proverb—" she started, but Aothor waved a hand to say she didn't need to continue.

"Cousland's going to be too wrapped up in his emotions about this mission, and that's where he gets blindsided. I'm counting on you to bring everyone back to Redcliffe safely. If that means leaving the refugees and village to fend for themselves, or even leaving Oren and Oriana behind, you do it," he said, speaking low so only she would hear, not that there was anyone else around them in the hall.

"I'll do what needs doing," Isefel said. What she meant by that exactly, Aothor couldn't say, but he trusted her judgment enough to know the team would be in good hands with her.

Back in the apprentices hall with the rest of the others, Liri was the first to greet them on their return.

"What happened? Is Edmund dead?" Liri asked with a joking laugh. "'Cause the way Cousland stormed in here I was wondering if he might've killed him."

"Everyone's fine. We actually had a very productive conversation," Aothor informed her, to which she raised a brow doubtfully. "I'll fill you in on the boat." he promised.

"Good. I gotta stay up to date on the drama."

Always with her unique priorities.

While they waited for Edmund to finish copying everything down, Aothor informed the rest of the plan going forward. At least, a summarized version of it. They only needed the highlights, anyways, as he suspected Isefel and Cousland would fill in the rest of their team on the details while on the road to their destination.

What was beginning to concern Aothor was what could possibly be so important in Redcliffe that Edmund was choosing to go there instead of Crestwood. Given the mage's track record, it was not an encouraging line of thought.

The individual in question returned to the group before long, passing a stack of notes to Cousland without a single word exchanged between the two of them. Which was probably for the best.

"Sometimes I think you make this whole ordeal a lot harder than it needs to be," Aothor said with a glance up to the mage as they all moved together towards the exit.

Edmund only shrugged and offered a winning smile. "What can I say? It's a gift. And there's no return receipt."

Said gift gave Aothor a moment of pause as he remembered once more how Edmund had come to save him from the demons in the fade.

"You asked if I killed Trian," Aothor said. It was somewhere between an accusation and an observation and a question all at once.

"Yeah," Edmund replied softly, glancing down from the corner of his eye. "You said you didn't."

"I didn't," Aothor said, nodding as he thought through what he even wanted to know. "Would it… would it have changed anything, if I had?" It was the question he asked, but it wasn't the full breadth of what he meant. Had there been any way to avoid this outcome? Was there any chance he could've stopped Bhelen's plan? Could he have done anything differently, done anything better?

"... no."

"Right. I understand." Aothor said simply.

And that was that.

Irving met them there with his selected mages, Nira and three others as well as a lead-lined trunk of lyrium carried between two templars. His eye caught on Nira, the way she was wringing her hands around her staff and staring at the doors of the tower with puffy red eyes, and when they opened she physically flinched. She seemed so timid it was hard to reconcile this version of her with the veritable storm she'd been in the Harrowing chamber.

"Oh, Isefel, we still need to ask Irving about—" Edmund started suddenly, but was interrupted by Isefel tutting sharply and shaking her head.

"It's okay, Edmund. There's no need; I've learned everything I need to. And I already told you to just forget about it," she said softly, not looking at him or at the mages, but was instead focused on the door out.

"I told you I was going to help, and I meant it. It's no trouble, we can just go over and ask him." The mage continued, but the sudden tension Aothor saw rise in Isefel as she turned made him lean back a bit, and he wasn't even the one she was focused on. Maybe with all the perpetual drama going on with the rest of the squad, he'd missed something with the normally even-keeled elf.

"Edmund Amell. Drop. It." Each word escaped through clenched teeth accompanied by a bone chilling do-not-test-me glare.

Edmund audibly gulped before taking a step away from her, which was probably a wise move on his part. "Right. Gotcha. Offer stands, if you change your mind."

"I won't."

Aothor had half a mind to ask the one-eyed elf what that was all about, but thought better of it. That was clearly a mistake Edmund had already made, and one he himself was not eager to replicate.

Instead, Aothor just followed the ground team outside as they began loading into the ferry.

"We'll see you in Redcliffe. With fewer abominations, if all goes well," Aothor said. There was a strange feeling about it all—he'd been around these people every day all day for weeks and now all of a sudden they were splitting off from half of them. It wasn't exactly worry he felt—they were all well beyond capable, even just individually. But maybe he had to admit to himself that he'd gotten rather attached to all of them.

These were his Wardens now.

Aothor stood on the rocks and watched them go until the boat was a tiny speck on the shore. He wasn't alone as he counted their almost imperceptible figures departing the vessel. Liri joined him at the edge of the water, only instead of seeing their friends off she was glaring hatefully at the waves.

"I can't believe I agreed to this," Liri said miserably. "If we drown I'm going to sodding kill you, Aeducan."

He had just as many reservations regarding the possibility of a horrible aquatic demise. But the knowledge that a pretty lady was probably going to be clinging to him the entirety of the ride like she had on the way to the tower was, to an insufferably pleased part of himself, entirely worth it.

. . . . .

She was glad once Kinloch Hold was behind them. If Rosaya had her way, she'd never step foot in that wretched place ever again.

It just wasn't right, keeping people penned in one place. Didn't anyone think that maybe the reason Circle mages went insane and evil from time to time was because they were constantly locked up? She knew she'd lose her mind if anyone tried to cage her like that.

She wasn't so naive as to think the issue or solution was so simple. There were nuances at play that she was barely aware of. She was just some random Dalish girl walking through systems and places that were built in conflict with everything she'd ever been raised to believe. But Creators, there had to be a better way. There had to be. And the worst part was that no one even seemed bothered to look for one… not without being a psychotic villain about it, anyways.

It all made her think. A Dalish mage would never do such evil, surely. She could hardly imagine clumsy but gentle Merrill resorting to blood magic, or wise and kind Marethari consorting with demons. Maybe her initial belief that Dalish mages were a cut above the Circle's pets wasn't entirely unfounded.

But much as she loved to indulge in a good spell of Dalish superiority, the thought made her pause. Her people were so scattered across the lands… who was to say how often these things happened in the clans, really? And then there was the Ghi'myathe Danavhen. Why would every clan train every generation of hunters how to kill their own mages… if it wasn't something that was occasionally necessary?

Rosaya wanted to believe that her people were better than that. But no one was immune to a demon's temptations. When she herself had been so easily taken in by what a demon whispered to her, was she even in a place to truly condemn the bloodmages and abominations who'd terrorized the tower? Were it not for Edmund's timely intervention, she'd have been no better than them.

Hot flashes of embarrassment and shame ached inside her. She suddenly wished for a rock to fall from the sky to crush her flat, or for a dark corner she could walk into and disappear forever. Stupid, stupid, you naive child. Mercifully, Edmund hadn't said anything to her about the dream yet. She mostly hoped he never would. If he could just forget what he saw, that would be alright with her.

She didn't even know how she should begin processing that dream. Not when a horrible secret part of her still wished it was real.

Rosaya fiddled with the strap of her quiver to try and give her mind something else to focus on. There was nothing she could do about it, anyways. And it wasn't like she'd been the only one trapped by a demon's influence. Alistair had been too—though in her opinion his situation was far less shameful than her own. It seemed like everyone else had struggled in the Fade like she had.

There had been a strange hauntedness about them all since they left the Fade. It was hard to tell if it was just the oppressive atmosphere of the Circle at first… but even as they left the tower as a small dot behind them a cloud of melancholy drifted around them. Then again, maybe she was projecting. And she couldn't think of a very polite way to ask, "So, did you have a tempting and/or terrible nightmare under the influence of a demon lately?"

Maybe she'd talk to Edmund about it when they all rejoined at Redcliffe, after all. It seemed like the right thing to do—he'd been the one to save her from the demon, after all. And she still needed to apologize to him for shooting him. That'd been pretty rude of her, demonic influence or no.

Well, before all of that, they needed to deal with the situation at Crestwood. Isefel and Cousland had filled them in on the situation, and Rosaya wasn't all too keen on what they were about to walk into. Mostly because with how their luck usually worked out, every single point of failure would spiral out into absolute bedlam.

It started to rain. Not a heavy downpour, just a light misty drizzle that swept on the wind. With a few rumbling complains about the weather, they all dug out their cloaks. Rosaya cursed her luck, struggling to pull her from the bottom of her-overstuffed pack.

"Here, let me help," Alistair offered, holding her bag up for her so she could better manage to get the unruly garment from it.

"Ma serannas," Rosaya said, finally freeing the cloak and wrapping it around herself. "Not ready for the weather, hah. The Keeper would scold me if she saw how unprepared I made my people look."

"The skies were clear when we left," Alistair offered, adjusting his own cloak. "I'm sure you can cut yourself some slack this time. You couldn't have known."

"Ah, but I could have known." Rosaya said, pulling up her hood and slid her bag back over her back. "I just wasn't paying attention."

"How do you mean?"

"The smell on the wind, the movement of the birds, the rodents rustling in the brush," she said, gesturing to the environment around them. "Honestly, my huntmaster would be even more ashamed of me than the Keeper. A hunter must never be surprised by the weather. I let my own thoughts distract me."

"Well, then we'll have to keep the sky getting one-up on you our little secret then," he said in a conspiratorial whisper, like her Keeper and huntmaster might be waiting around the next bush to catch her on her lax discipline. She rolled her eyes at his playful teasing, shoving his arm lightly as they followed after the others at the back of the group. "What were you thinking about, that was distracting you so?"

Rosaya faltered a step, but covered it to look like she'd been purposefully avoiding a puddle. "Oh. You know. Just… everything that happened. In the Circle."

"Right. That… that was a lot. I get what you mean," he said with a small nod. He cocked his head to the side like he was thinking about something, then turned away just as Rosaya caught what looked like a blush starting on his cheeks. "I wanted to say… thank you. For your help, rescuing me from the Fade. I don't know what would've happened if you hadn't shown up and saved me."

"You give yourself too little credit. You'd have figured it out eventually. I think you're cleverer than you seem to believe you are," she said earnestly. Alistair stammered, apparently not expecting something like that in reply. "But you're welcome. And for what it's worth… it was a very lovely dream."

"Really? I… I'm glad you think so," he said softly.

"Before all the demon children started biting, I mean. That part was much less enjoyable," Rosaya added quickly, and Alistair laughed.

"Oh, they were absolute wretches, weren't they? Creepy little buggers," Alistair snickered.

He raised his hands into clawlike shapes and hissed in a comical yet disturbing imitation of those nightmare children. She grinned at the goofy behavior. It was better to laugh about these sorts of things, maybe, then treat them as terrifying. They had less power that way. Barkspawn boofed at her side, seeming much less impressed with the whole performance.

A question floated to the front of her mind, just a pondering of what the whole situation with that dream actually was. Alistair was a bastard—the former king's bastard, no less—with a dead mother. He'd never mentioned a sister before. Maybe the sister wasn't even real, just the Fade conjuring a person to fulfill the wish for a family in his life. That was even sadder, somehow, if that was so.

"What about you?" Alistair asked as he concluded his comical mimicry. "Did the demon also try trapping you in a dream?"

The frozen shard of pain lodged in her heart ached in an icy pang. It wasn't as intense as it'd been in the Fade, but just as persistent. How many times would she have to remember this hurt to overcome it? She remembered with nearly as much shame how she'd fallen apart even before the Circle, how Isefel had held her sobbing on the floor just from the memory.

But she wasn't falling apart right now. Right now, she was still able to move forward, her head held high despite the grief in her heart. That was a victory, right? It didn't feel like one, but maybe it still counted. Maybe the pain was just easier to swallow between bouts of laughter.

The rain resumed falling at normal speed. Rosaya realized she must have waited a moment too long to answer, because Alistair began hastily backpedaling his question.

"Sorry, I probably shouldn't pry. It's not my business, I was just curious, but if you'd rather not talk about it—"

"I was home," she answered finally, relieving him of his fumbling attempt to recover the perceived overstep. She'd seen his dream, something deeply personal to him. It was only fair if she gave him a little of her own in turn. "I was… back in the forest with my clanmate. Like I was before I got infected with the Blight."

It'd been so wonderful and terrible in a way she might never be able to fully explain.

"I see," he said after a moment. "You must miss them a lot."

"Doesn't everyone miss their home when they leave?" Rosaya reached and stroked Barkspawn's head again, distantly thinking he was going to smell unbearably of wet dog all day. "I think… no matter how much I miss them, I need to make the most of where I'm at."

Alistair smiled, but it was a little sad. "I never really felt at home anywhere… not in Redcliffe, not with the templars. Not until I joined the Grey Wardens."

"I'm Dalish. My home is the wild, and the road. My people know that home is less a place and more the people you carry in your heart." And those people she carried in her heart would never be far from her. Not as long as she held close what they meant to her.

"Huh. I like the sound of that."

They walked together in comfortable silence, just listening to the sounds of their footfalls and the gentle splash of raindrops on the ground. The only person she'd really talked to about Tamlen was Isefel. Rosaya didn't have any blood siblings, but sharing these things with the other elf felt like she imagined confiding a burden to an older sister would be like.

It wasn't like that with Alistair at all. There was a subtle layer of complication to it she couldn't really identify that made her feel both compelled to share and yet desperate for him to never know. It was strangely troublesome. She decided not to dwell on it.

"Why have you remained a templar if you have no love for the Chantry?" she asked after a while. The drizzling rain finally began to let up and she let the hood of her cloak fall back.

"Have you seen the uniform?" Alistair said, gesturing dramatically to the enhanced templar gauntlets and shoulderplates he'd acquired while in the tower. "It's not only stylish, but well-made. I'm a sucker for good tailoring."

"I thought templars wore heavy plate." Rosaya deadpanned.

"That's just in public. In private we have these yellow and purple tunics, right? Much more comfortable, and you don't break the beds when you jump on them during a pillow fight."

Rosaya sighed. He was joking around more than usual, which probably meant this was something he didn't really want to talk about. "You had lots of pillow fights, I take it?"

"On Confession Day we could go all night. Being a templar isn't all about chasing men in skirts and hiding behind priests, you know," Alistair said. She had to admit, as ridiculous as it sounded, the mental image was certainly amusing. "You don't really want to know about my being a templar, do you? It's really quite boring."

"It was part of your life. Even if it was borning, that doesn't mean it wasn't important," Rosaya said. The sentiment sounded a lot wiser outloud than she'd been intending in her head. "Take my training to be a hunter, for example. Most days it meant just sitting out in the trees in terrible weather waiting for hours and hours and hours just to miss a one-chance shot at a boar and have to trek back to camp in the dark with nothing to show for my efforts. Boring, right? But it taught me patience, and skills that matter now even if I'm not using them the way I thought I would. Also, it taught me not to miss."

"Huh. I guess you're right," Alistair said. He hummed thoughtfully, then sighed as he seemed to decide to drop the joking front and actually share. "The truth of the matter is that I did hate going to the monastery. The initiates from poor families thought I put on airs, while the noble ones called me a bastard and ignored me. I felt like Arl Eamon had cast me off, unwanted, and I was determined to be bitter. But I took some solace in the training itself, I guess. I was actually quite good at it."

"What about the training did you enjoy? Aside from the pillowfights."

"Well, the pillowfights were hard to beat, but I suppose there were a few things," he mused. "There was some comfort in the routine of it all. And I was a rowdy kid, had more energy than I knew what to do with, so I did well with the physical drills and conditioning. I liked being one of the fastest boys when we ran laps. You know, normal kid stuff. I could kind of think of the training as a game."

"Children learn best in an environment where they're also having fun. That's what Ashalle always said, anyways," Rosaya added. "She always tried to turn our chores into contests and games. I don't think it always worked well, though—hard to find any way to motivate anyone to muck the halla pens. They're beautiful creatures, but Creators, the smell…"

"Eugh, if it's anything as bad as it is with horses, then you have my sympathy. I worked in the stables when I lived at Redcliffe, the smell of manure lives in the mind for a long time." Alistair said with an overdramatic gagging expression. "Well. I still wound up doing chores like that in templar training. Punishment for unruly behavior, you see. Anyways. Using the abilities I have came after years of education and discipline that was difficult to achieve, if rewarding. The sword training and religious doctrine all came later."

Rosaya was glad Alistiar never actually became a templar. Especially after witnessing the Circle first hand. It was weird to think that if not for Duncan recruiting him, he might've actually been posted there.

"Duncan felt my templar abilities might be useful for when we encounter darkspawn magic… so I kept it up." The lingering melancholy that possessed him whenever anyone spoke of the former Commander weighed on him visibly. It was a familiar sort of thing—Rosaya quietly wondered if this was what other people saw of her when she thought of Tamlen.

"Well… he was right. It has been useful." She said, but it felt so insufficient, and she struggled to find appropriate words of comfort only to come up short.

Alistair just nodded, staring solemnly at the road ahead of them. Rosaya mentally kicked herself—that wasn't the right thing to say, it hadn't cheered him up at all. But… maybe being cheered up wasn't what he needed. There was only so much laughing you could do in the face of grief. Sometimes the demand for it to be felt was too strong to be ignored.

The grey clouds overhead finally started to part, allowing little streams of sunlight to beam down on them.

"We won't always be traveling like this, you know," Alistair said a while later, breaking the silence that hung between them. "Once the war is over, once the Blight is… well, a time will come when we'll have to think about having a place to call home again. Though that seems like a far way off. And I suppose the Grey Wardens are gone for good, either way."

"There's us. And them," Rosaya said with a glance ahead towards the others. She offered him what she hoped was an encouraging smile. "The Wardens can be rebuilt. It might take some time… but I think we could do it."

"I suppose you're right. We can create new Grey Wardens, but we'll never get back those we lost. I wonder if it would ever feel the same?" He wondered wistfully.

"Ar shiral ame tel'din nedan, sul ma'arla ma'vhen." A line from a poem recited by her elders. It was from the tale of her people and their exile and wanderings, but it felt fitting in this situation. "It may never be perfect. But if it's us, then maybe that's enough."

. . . . .

At around midday Isefel decided they would stop for a while and rest. While it was important they reached Crestwood quickly there was no need to go running themselves into the ground.

Cousland was less than pleased with the delay, for obvious reasons, but she couldn't blame him. If it were her family in harm's way, she might not have even offered up the courtesy of a head's-up before taking off to deal with it.

Family. It was a strangely painful thing to think about, now moreso than usual. Because of her dream in the Fade… and because of another reason.

I don't have family outside the Circle. Just strangers who share blood. And I want nothing to do with them.

Isefel sighed and sat herself down at the base of a tree as Nira Surana's words echoed in her head. During those hours of rest in the Circle, she hadn't been able to settle. The unresolved matter of the elven mage and their relation weighed heavily on her. So rather than let this rare chance slip away, Isefel'd decided to act on it.

But she shouldn't have said anything. It'd been poorly timed, not thoroughly thought out, and more than a little selfish on her part. Selfish and foolish. She'd let her excitement of finding a long-lost relative overtake any consideration for how said relative might feel about the whole thing.

Isefel should have known better. It hadn't been fair to spring that on Nira, not after everything that'd just happened to the Circle that she clearly treasured, and certainly not something she'd had enough emotional bandwidth to properly process after that after the spat Isefel overheard her having with her templar.

The thought had Isefel's fingers itching for her knives. Do you want me to kill him for you? She'd been serious with the offer. Maker, if a man ever spoke to Shianni or Tathas or even Rosaya the way that Cullen threatened Nira, she wouldn't have even wasted time asking.

But Nira had made it clear she didn't want anything to do with Isefel. Further interference in her personal life would no doubt be extremely unwelcome.

She could live with that, though. At least Nira knew, now, that whether she wanted it or not there was a family out there willing to care for her. Maybe in the future the elven mage might change her mind. Nothing was set in stone. If Adaia was gone… and Lastara was gone… holding together the disparate pieces of what they left behind was the best Isefel could hope for.

They made her Tranquil before they sent her off. She's not worth finding. Tranquil. Isefel's heart sank once more. She'd wanted to be like her aunt when she grew up, thinking that surely she must be the coolest person in the entire world. Part of her held onto hope that Nira was wrong about Lastara's fate, or that she was lying. She couldn't imagine the spunky and adventurous woman from her memories reduced to a vacant husk.

The only way to confirm now would be to talk to First Enchanter Irving. But that wasn't a question she really wanted answered. And if Nira was right, if what she said was true, then it really wasn't worth it to try and find Lastara anymore. So she didn't want an answer. Didn't want to ask. And certainly didn't want anyone else asking on her behalf.

The futility of it all. No matter what changed or how much time passed, she'd always be stuck trying to claw back something of the good old days. Except that the old days weren't even that good to begin with. So why even bother?

Maybe that's why she'd been so quick to support Cousland's derailment of their plan to go and get his nephew and sister-in-law. If Isefel couldn't put her family back together, she could at least help someone else protect theirs. Or maybe it was just the easiest available method of ignoring the hurts inside aside from getting totally wasted. And they probably had darkspawn to kill soon or something so that wasn't a realistic option at the moment.

Isefel started making her rounds through the half of the team allotted under her care. She checked that everyone had enough to eat and they all had enough water, things like that. Everyone was doing fine, for the most part, though Morrigan seemed in a particularly sour mood and was taking it out on Alistair by making her standard barbs regarding his intelligence. The two of them were almost as bad as Cousland and Edmund, honestly.

The clouds above started drifting together once more, turning their brief window of sunlight back to a dim grey. Isefel flipped up her hood, glancing ahead down the road and then to the wilderness around them. She couldn't let her guard down, not when there was still the very real possibility of an assassin attack.

It was an honor, in a strange sort of way. Only important people ever got assassins sent after them. Isefel never imagined she'd be important enough for that. Maybe a hit from a city gang or criminal guilds if she ever pissed any of them off sufficiently, but not a full blown

professional killer for hire.

Isefel reached for one of her knives, repeatedly tossing and flipping it in the air as she thought. If she were an assassin going after a group of Wardens, how would she do it…? What would be the most likely way for someone to try and eliminate them…?

There was no real way for an outsider to get a hold of the food they carried with them, so poison was unlikely. Ambush was more probable. They'd need bait, something to draw them in unaware. Then it would be a simple matter of numbers and skill. These supposed assassins would be counting on the element of surprise to buy them the first critical seconds that could determine success or failure.

Even without Edmund's warning of what they might encounter, Isefel figured they wouldn't have much to worry about. Without specific knowledge of their group, their individual strengths and weaknesses, any would-be-attackers would find themselves severely out of their depth.

Though, Edmund had said this would be a friendly assassin, as oxymoronic as that sounded. Maybe this wouldn't go how she was imagining. Besides, it wasn't guaranteed they'd encounter the assassin on this trip—

"Oh, thank the Maker!" a woman ran down the road to where their group was gathered. At once everyone snapped to attention, a few half-reaching for their weapons and a few others walking out to meet her. "We need help! They attacked the wagon. Please, help us!"

Isefel sighed, catching her knife one final time before tucking it back up her sleeve. Que: the bait.

"Bandits attacking refugees," Alistair said, shaking his head at the tragedy of it all. "You think they'd be too busy running from the darkspawn themselves to hurt people. That'd be the smart thing to do."

"If they're like the ones we met outside of Lothering, then I don't think anyone could exactly accuse them of being intelligent," Rosaya quipped. "Don't worry miss, we'll help."

"Andraste bless you, kind sers! Please, follow me. I'll take you to them!" The woman said. Before anyone could get another question in, she turned and started running back down the path.

Rosaya and Alistair moved to follow. The pair of them accepted the woman's story without question, but Isefel held onto her doubts. Maybe it was just the paranoia from living a life of constant vigilance, but the woman's request for help rubbed her the wrong way.

Before she could even raise her own objection, Cousland beat her to it. The warrior stepped ahead of the path, blocking them from continuing further, shaking his head as he did so.

"What are we waiting for?" Rosaya crossed her arms impatiently, her eyes large with concern. "Those people are in trouble, we need to hurry."

"I have a feeling she's lying—she's not a refugee. Her clothes are simple, but they're too clean. Her hair's been washed recently," Cousland observed quietly. His weapon was braced in his hands. His hounds' hackles were raised.

"Right," Leliana added, eyes bright. "And did you see her shoes? Metal covering on the boot toe and heel. Those are no commoner's boots. I'd wager she's wearing light armor beneath those clothes."

Alistair blinked dimly, rubbing the back of his head. "Uh, no. I actually hadn't noticed. You're sure?"

Morrigan scoffed, bracing her hands on her hips as she rolled her eyes. "Let this be a lesson on why listening to a bleeding heart is ridiculous. If we help every passerby we encounter, you will be taken advantage of and played for fools."

The Dalish flushed slightly and looked away. "Better a bleeding heart than one made of ice," Rosaya remarked quietly.

Isefel looked down the road, which continued around a bend and through what looked like a small ravine. Rising walls of stone on either side, a narrow pass with one way in and one way out… this was just another alley. She may not have a mind for tactics like Aothor, but Denerim had taught her street smarts that still applied out here in the wilderness.

"Rosaya, you circle around the left side of the road, I'll take the right. We'll move quietly along the high ground while the rest of you move up the middle path. Whether it's bandits or assassins, the two of us will get behind them and take them by surprise."

Time to see exactly how 'friendly' this assassin was.

Cousland took point for those remaining on the road. The rocks jutting out from the ground along with the trees and brush of the forest made for excellent cover as she crept up across the edge of the narrow pass. She lost sight of Rosaya in the underbrush almost immediately, the Dalish disappearing into the foliage like she'd never been there at all. And Isefel darted from shadow to shadow, footsteps just a whisper across the earth.

To be fair to their would-be-ambushers, it wasn't a bad setup. There were a few carts along the path, turned over and seemingly ransacked. The turned-over carts were the perfect cover to hide behind, as long as one wanted to hide from people coming up the path towards them. From her vantage point Isefel could see the armed mercenaries ducked behind them with bows and blades ready.

Isefel caught just the slightest hint of movement across the other side of the pass, so quick she nearly missed it. Rosaya darted to the base of a large log prepped to fall down, disabled a mechanism that must have been the trigger for the trap, and quickly dashed back into the brush and up one of the trees.

She could hear the approaching footsteps of the rest of her team. Isefel crept a bit closer to the edge, sweeping a quick eye over the scene. Ten, thirteen enemies… then the woman leading Cousland and the rest up the road… but which one was the assassin? Edmund had been specific about a particular one. The 'hot elf,' as he'd put it, and Isefel inwardly rolled her eyes.

The question answered itself almost instantly. Just as the rest of her team entered the pass opening, an elven man stepped out from behind a boulder with a dramatic flourish of his steel blades.

"The Grey Wardens die here!" He cried. His accent conveyed that he wasn't exactly a local. Antivan, maybe. He sounded like the merchants from there that traded their goods in Denerim's market. From this distance all Isefel could make out was sun-bleached hair and warm tawny skin.

The assassin raised one of his swords in another dramatic flourish, like he was signaling something, but when nothing happened the confident grin on his face faltered. Isefel suppressed a chuckle—dropping the giant log would have been a good trap on the assassins's part, but their Dalish was too clever for that.

For just a second nobody moved. And then everybody moved.

The mercenaries rushed out from behind their cover. The woman who'd come begging for their help stood beside the assassin, her hands suddenly alight with power. She cast one bolt at Alistair, which he managed to deflect off his shield, but he was still too far away to counter her spells. The woman raised her arms and started to conjure, imbuing magical power into the weapons of the mercenaries.

But Isefel had learned well from the events of the Circle, of what could happen to a battle when enemy mages were able to freely work their power. She wouldn't let that happen here.

She adjusted her place in the cover of the shadows, flipped a knife over in her hand, and hurled it at the spellcaster. The blade sunk into the side of her skull, hilt sticking out of her ear, and the woman dropped like a sack of stones.

Wary of betraying her position, she retreated further into the shadows and slinked around the edge of the pass wall. The mercenary archers drew back their bows to fire, but none of them got to release their arrows. One Isefel killed with another well-thrown dagger. Two more stumbled and fell, each with an arrow in an eye. Isefel glanced across and saw Rosaya perched up in the branches of a tree, loading two more arrows on her bowstring as she scanned for her next targets.

The rest of the archers drew back to fire, but suddenly they were assaulted by bone-chilling cold that froze their extremities solid. Morrigan didn't hesitate to work her power over them, assaulting them with elements as well as a malaise that confused and weakened the enemy. Leliana, Cousland, and Alistair engaged the rest in a blur of melee, but Isefel blinked suddenly and realized that in the rush of movement she'd somehow lost track of the elven assassin.

Whoever this man was, he was a professional. So Isefel made an assumption and moved. She made the assumption that the enemy would be as smart as she was. She assumed the assassin would target Morrigan first.

Isefel abandoned her careful cover, racing along the edge of the rise back towards the witch. She didn't waste time climbing down—she jumped, and just in time.

The elven assassin had crept behind Morrigan, crouched and ready with his twin blades to sink them into her back. Isefel impacted the ground, rolled, and sprung to her feet in between them, swords out to catch his steel with her own.

Sparks scattered in the air as the edge of his blade slid against hers and he pressed in, trying to throw her off balance. Isefel flipped her grip on her sword and deflected the edge, ducking under the blade in his offhand to try and cut in at his flank. But she struck air, the assassin pivoting and sidestepping just in time. It was a deadly dance, the choreographed steps a whirl of evasion and repositioning footwork as they both fought for an advantage.

It wasn't often that Isefel found an opponent capable of keeping up with her for more than a few moments. But this man was good. Really good. He made his complex technique look almost effortless, a feat she knew from experience took years of dedicated training to pull off. He met her blow for blow, side-step for side-step, parry for parry, and in the adrenaline of it all Isefel found herself smiling.

Isefel caught his heel with her foot, and he was just a fraction too slow to readjust in time. One foul step was all it would take. He was off balance, there was an opening, and her blade was in the perfect position to end him.

So when she hesitated, she wondered why. Maybe it was because Edmund asked that they give this man a chance. Maybe there was something in his eyes that gave her pause.

Maybe it was because she noticed how this assassin had enough skill and time to raise his blade to defend his neck… and didn't do it.

Or maybe she was imagining things. These wonderings flew by in her mind in the blink of an eye. At the last second she flipped her grip on her blade backwards and struck him in the side of her head with the pommel.

The assassin fell unconscious to the ground. Her heart hammered in her chest as she whirled around, checking how many enemies were left. The answer was not many, and they were dispatched quickly by the others. No injuries on their side. Good.

"You didn't kill him?" Cousland asked, bringing a cloth to his weapon and wiping away the blood.

Isefel only shrugged, sheathing her own. "Edmund mentioned he might be of use. I figure he should at least be allowed to make a case for himself."

"Edmund also said he was friendly. I continue to doubt how friendly to us someone who says 'the Grey Wardens die here' can really be," Alistair said skeptically.

"Well, his skill cannot be denied. The two of you moved so quickly as you fought that my eyes could barely follow," Leliana commented.

Isefel looked down to the unconscious man on the ground. Now that he was no longer attempting to stab her, she could get a good look at him. And she found Edmund's description of this individual inaccurate. This wasn't a 'hot elf.' This man was… beautiful. His features were elegant and distinct, accentuated by the dark curves of the black ink of his facial tattoo.

A face like that was the sort to get into all sorts of trouble, she was sure.

"Can someone lend me a length of rope?" Isefel asked the others. The one to provide the rope was Rosaya, who'd clambered down the side of the narrow pass to rejoin them. Isefel suspected that the rope was actually what she snagged from disabling the log trap.

Isefel bound his arms and legs, testing the knots until she was satisfied there was no way to wriggle out of them. As a precaution, she took his weaponry from him. His limp form was a bit cumbersome to manage, so she leaned him up against the walls of the pass.

She was beginning to think they might have to wait for him to wake up on his own, but Morrigan reached into her pouch and produced a little brown herb that smelled horrific. The witch shoved the plant unceremoniously below the assassin's nose, jolting him to consciousness.

"Mmm… what? I…" He blinked blearily, squinting like the grey light of the day hurt his eyes. Isefel wondered if maybe she didn't hit him harder than she meant to. Then his brown eyes focused on her and his brows raised sharply in surprise. "Oh. I rather thought I would wake up dead. Or not wake up at all, as the case may be. But I see you haven't killed me yet."

"It is rather difficult to converse with a corpse." Isefel mused dryly. "Though, the day is young. And I like to keep my options flexible."

"Ah, I have no doubt, and I am certainly one to appreciate flexibility," the man nodded and chuckled suggestively, then looked down at himself as if just now noticing his bindings. "Did you tie these knots as well? The binding is expert."

"I'm glad you approve of my work." Isefel raised a brow, looking over him once more. "Now, how long you live after this is up to you and how cooperative you choose to be."

"Ah! So I am to be interrogated. Let me save you some time," he cleared his throat and grinned what he surely thought was a charming smile. "My name is Zevran. Zev to my friends. I am a member of the Antivan Crows, brought here for the sole purpose of slaying any surviving Grey Wardens. Which I have failed at. Sadly."

"I'm quite glad you failed." Rosaya commented.

"So would I be, in your shoes," Zevran readily agreed. "For me, however, it sets a rather poor precedent, doesn't it? Getting captured by a target seems a tad detrimental to one's budding assassin career."

"Didn't realize it was the Crows that were after us," Cousland's brow furrowed as he crossed his arms. No doubt he was thinking Edmund could have bothered to include that detail for them. "Guess Loghain recognizes us as a serious threat."

"What's an Antivan Crow?" Rosaya whispered the question to Leliana, though not quite quiet enough to avoid being heard by the rest of them.

"An order of assassins from Antiva. They're very powerful and renowned for always getting the job done… usually. Loghain went to great expense to hire this man." Leliana answered softly.

"Quite right," he said, seeming pleased by the knowledge. "I'm surprised you haven't heard much of the Crows out here. Back where I come from, we're well, we're kind of a big deal."

"... for being good assassins?" Isefel mused doubtfully, giving an unimpressed glance to the carnage behind them.

Zevran protruded his lip in a pout. "Is that what you Fereldens do for fun? Mock your prisoners? How cruel."

Barkspawn growled low in his throat. Zevran chuckled nervously and tried to give the dog a placating smile, which was not well received based on the mabari's glare.

"Who hired you? Howe? Loghain?" Cousland asked. Given that they already knew the answer to that question, it was more likely the question was posed with the intent of uncovering just how much their captive was willing to give away.

"Ah, yes, Loghain was the name. Rather taciturn fellow in the capital. Though it was the man called Howe who did set up the arrangements."

"Does that mean you serve Loghain? You're loyal to him?" Isefel asked.

"Oh, I have no idea what his issues are with you." Zevran shrugged, the picture of amicable indifference. "The usual, I imagine. You threaten his power, yes? Beyond that, no, I'm not loyal to him. I was contracted to perform a service."

She could believe that. A third party contracted for a specific task rather than a dedicated lackey of their enemy. Maybe given how they'd thoroughly trounced Loghain's goons in Lothering the Teyrn realized his own people weren't enough and decided to bring in outside help.

"And now that you've failed that service?"

"Well, that's between Loghain and the Crows. And between the Crows and myself."

"And now between you and us." Rosaya asked, once again pointing out the assassins' failure.

"Isn't that what we're establishing now? Or, was the trussing me up on the ground all foreplay? Naughtier than I would've expected from the noble Grey Wardens." Zevran posed the question with a suggestive arch of his brow, and Rosaya flushed and stammered, completely at a loss for how to respond to that.

So that's what Edmund had meant by 'friendly.'

Isefel snapped her fingers sharply in front of the captive assassin's face, catching his eyes and commanding his attention.

"Uh uh. Focus on me, not her. She's not the one you need to be worried about right now." Isefel said pointedly. She took another knife out of her sleeve and started flipping it over in her fingers, mostly to just for something to keep her hands busy, but Zevran's eye flickered briefly to the flash of steel. "When and where were you to next contact Loghain?"

"I wasn't." Zevran readily admitted with a twinkle in his eye. "If I had succeeded, I would have returned home and the Crows would have informed Loghain of the results. Assuming he didn't already know, anyways. If I had failed, I would be dead. Or I should be, as far as the Crows are concerned. No need to see Loghain then."

"If you had failed?" Cousland prodded.

Zevran shrugged and sighed wistfully. "What can I say? I am eternally an optimist."

Isefel had to give the assassin some credit—given the Grey Warden's reputation, daring to hunt and kill them would require one to be an optimist. Or perhaps a little suicidal. Or both. Was that combination even possible?

"How much were you paid? I'm curious how much the Teyrn thinks a Warden's life is worth." Isefel asked. Probably more money than she'd ever hoped to see in her life back when she lived in the alienage, if she had to guess.

"I wasn't paid anything," Zevran said glibly.

Cousland crossed his arms in confusion. "So you… were willing to kill us pro bono?" he asked, eyes narrowed.

"It's a mite complicated. The Crows were paid quite handsomely, or so I understand. But not a copper of that coin went directly to me." Zevran shifted so he was seated a bit more comfortable. Isefel reminded him of the blade in her hand by using her knife to clean some dirt from under her nail, in case he got any ideas about trying to squirm free. "Which does make me about as poor as a Chantry mouse, come to think of it. Being an Antivan Crow isn't for the ambitious, to be perfectly honest."

"Well that just seems like a shit deal. You were the one risking your life facing us." Isefel pointed out. "If the Crows don't pay you, then why are you one?"

Zevran stared at her blankly, like that was the first time in his life anyone had ever pointed that out or asked him that question. Maybe it was.

"Well, aside from a distinct lack of ambition, I suppose it's because I wasn't given much of a choice. The Crows bought me young. I was a bargain, too, or so I'm lead to believe," he said, smoothly regaining himself.

Isefel's mind lingered on and repeated the word bought. Because of course an organization of professional killers for hire would use slavery to acquire it's people.

"But don't let my sad story influence you. The Crows aren't so bad. They one well supplied: wine, women, men. Whatever you happen to fancy," Zevran continued. The levity in his voice was tinged with the subtlest underpinning of bitterness. "The whole severance package is garbage, let me tell you. If you were considering joining, I'd really think twice about it."

"Hm. I'll not bother asking you to write me a letter of recommendation then," Isefel quipped.

"Hah!" He laughed, genuinely taken aback by the joke. "For you, I would write only the most glowing review. If I tell the Crows of the elegance and lethality of your blade they will not be able to resist, this I assure you."

"Good to know there's a back-up career waiting for me if the whole Warden thing doesn't shake out," She sighed and shook her head. "Jokes aside… why are you just telling us all this? You're rather free with your information."

"The payment was for my skill, not my silence. If it buys me a few extra moments of life, why not offer it?" Zevran said simply. "As it is, if you're done with the interrogation… I've a proposal for you. If you're of a mind."

"I'm listening. Make it quick."

"Well, here's the thing. I failed to kill you, so my life is forfeit. That's how it works. If you don't kill me, the Crows will. Thing is, I like living," he said. A funny thing to claim from a man she was pretty sure nearly let her slice his neck open. But all traces of levity were gone from him now, and he was fully serious. "And you are obviously the sort to give the Crows pause. So, let me serve you, instead."

"You must think we're royally stupid," Cousland scoffed.

"I think you are royally tough to kill. And utterly gorgeous, all of you," he winked. "I jest not, if I'd known such alluring people would be my captors, I might've volunteered to try and kill you all sooner. I had no idea such loveliness existed amongst adventurers. Seriously, is the prerequisite for becoming a Grey Warden being uncommonly attractive?"

Cousland sighed tiredly and ran a hand over his face. Leliana looked about ready to laugh. Rosaya was suddenly incredibly interested in counting the arrows in her quiver. Morrigan regarded the elf like something she might scrape off the bottom of her shoe. Alistair was bright red.

"No need to pile on the flattery. Or continue stating the obvious," Isefel said with a dismissive wave of her hand. Not that she minded receiving compliments from a beautiful elven man, mind. She'd just rather to do so in different circumstances, preferably when the flatterer was not actively bargaining for his life. "What I'm wondering is what is going to stop you from just finishing the job later?"

Zevran fidgeted in place once more. "To be completely honest, I was never given much of a choice regarding joining the Crows. They bought me on the slave market when I was a child, as I have mentioned. I think I've paid my worth back to them tenfold. The only way out, however, is to sign up with someone they can't touch. Even if I did kill you now—or later, as you've implied—they might just kill me on principle for failing the first time. Honestly, I'd rather take my chances with you." he spoke the words genuinely, but it didn't take long at all for the lascivious smile to creep back onto his face. "Besides, I can think of worse fates in life than serving the whims of a deadly sex goddess… or god. I'm not one to be picky, all things considered."

"You're not really considering this, are you?" Alistair all but begged, still deeply flushed. "He's an assassin."

"No, really?" Morrigan scoffed, rolling her eyes at the former templar. "I was not aware, how good of you to point this out, else we all would have been terribly confused."

Isefel elected to ignore the both of them. Rather than stay kneeling, she sat on the ground across from Zevran now, still spinning her knife. "Do you think the Crows will come after you if they learn you've failed but survived?"

"Most certainly. And they'll certainly try to kill you all again, seeing as I have failed. They're not known to leave a contract unfulfilled," he said, then offered a charming smirk. "I happen to know their wily, wily ways, however. I can protect myself as well as you. Not that you seem to need much help."

"You've already betrayed your former employer. Can we expect the same amount of loyalty from you." Cousland asked skeptically.

"I happen to be a very loyal person!" Zevran puffed himself up and shook his head, tossing his hair indignantly. "Up until the point where someone expects me to die for failing. That's not a fault, is it? I mean, unless you're the sort who would do the same thing. In which case… I don't come very well recommended, I suppose."

The others offered some remarks, misgivings, or other insights, but Isefel tuned them all out as she thought. Edmund wouldn't have recommended they recruit him if he didn't think he was trustworthy—at least, that's what she hoped. He kept pace against her in combat, something that not many could achieve and spoke to the caliber of skill they would need on their side. The more she thought about it, the harder time she was having coming up with any reason to not bring him along.

"If I say you can join us…" Isefel started, cutting into the ambient conversation of the others as she addressed Zevran. "What would you want in return for your service?"

"Well…" Once again he looked a bit stunned, like that was the first time he'd heard those words in that specific order before. He looked from her, to her knife, to the ropes binding him. "Let's see. Being allowed to live would be nice, and would make me marginally more useful to you. And somewhere down the line if you should decide that you no longer have need of me, then I go my way. Until then, I am yours. Is that fair?"

Isefel moved without a word, reaching for him with her knife. To his credit, he didn't flinch at all as she brought the blade near. With a sharp movement she cut through the bindings. As he shrugged off the rope she stood and offered him a hand to help him to his feet.

"I accept your offer," she said, helping him stand.

"Thank you, my lady. You won't regret this," he said, eyes dancing with relief. He straightened himself and then bowed to her. "I hereby pledge my oath of loyalty to you, until such a time as you choose to release me from it. I am your man, without reservation… this, I swear."

"And I swear that so long as you uphold your oath, no harm will come to you from our company." Isefel returned the bow. For the third time, he fought quickly to cover a dumbfounded expression. Isefel raised her head and gestured back to the rest of the group. "Welcome to the team, Zevran."

"We're really doing this. We're taking the assassin with us. Does this really seem like a good idea?" Alistair said, a little in disbelief at what had just happened.

"Well… we are always looking for allies." Cousland begrudgingly, repeating his concession from earlier that morning. "We can use him."

"We could maybe use a swift kick in the head, too, but you don't see me going around asking for one," Alistar said, crossing his arms.

"Really? Because every time you open your mouth, 'tis exactly what I hear." Morrigan snarked. "I think it is a fine plan. Though… I would examine your food and drink more carefully from now on, were I you."

"That is a fine plan for anyone," Zevran offered, completely indifferent in the face of the misgivings directed his way.

"Fine," Alistair threw his hands up in defeat. "I'm just saying if there was a sign we were desperate, I think it just knocked on the door and said hello."

"Welcome, Zevran," Leliana said cordially. "Having an Antivan Crow along with us sounds like a fine plan."

"Ah, a beauty from Orlais. Another stunning companion-to-be; I cannot wait," Zevran said with an alluring look to the minstrel.

"Or maybe not."

Zevran dusted himself off, unruffled in the face of her disinterest. "I am eager to serve you, Grey Wardens, in your quest. Which… is what, exactly?"

The rest of them shared a look. Where to even start?

Cousland tapped Isefel's shoulder, sheathing his weapon and starting back down the road to Crestwood. "You decided to recruit him, so you're responsible for him. And you get to explain this shit show to him."

Isefel chuckled under her breath. She motioned for Zevran to walk alongside her, then she returned the blades she'd taken from him.

"Well, the big picture goal is to save the world from the Blight. As for what we're doing right now… it's going to sound a little bit odd. Basically a crazy mage who can see the future told us to go save a specific village from darkspawn and a flood."

Zevran just looked at her for a moment, like was trying to parse the individual words for some secret meaning. Then his face cracked into a wide, bright smile.

"This is going to be even more interesting than I thought. Tell me more, bella spada."

. . . . .

Liri was going to kill Aothor. She was going to pick him up and toss him over the side of the ferry and let him drown. As soon as she could open her eyes without the whole world spinning or lift her head without feeling like losing her lunch, he was dead meat.

The boat bobbed with the waves and her stomach lurched. She linked her arm back with Aothors as they both groaned miserably. Much as she currently hated him, he was also the only thing on the damned vessel that felt sturdy and safe.

From her other side, Edmund patter her back sympathetically and she shot him a hateful glare. Once she'd killed Aothor, Ed was next. Not that he'd really done anything to deserve it. He was just nearby and an easy target.

The sail of the boat rippled in the wind. Liri didn't know how quickly they were moving, but it was simultaneously too fast and so agonizingly slow.

She really should've just told Aothor to shove it and gone with the ground squad. Why she hadn't, she wasn't really sure, but now hours into the boat ride it didn't matter. He was going to owe her big time for this. She didn't know just how she'd cash out that debt, but having the prince in her pocket for something would probably be handy eventually.

There was some consolation in the fact that even aside from her and Aothor no one else on the ferry was having a particularly good time. Most of the mages Irving brought to accompany them were resting, leaning on one another or the edges of the boat with their arms thrown over their eyes to protect from the daylight. The elven mage Nira had wedged herself between Wynne and the edge of the ferry, alternating between staring out at the horizon nervously or back the way they'd come towards the tower like she was half considering jumping out and swimming back. She was ghostly pale in the face and looked one bad rock of the boat away from passing out.

Liri got the idea that she didn't exactly get out much. It reminded her of the way she'd felt on the surface for those first few days, actually. Too much horizon and the endless expanse of sky still made her dizzy at times.

"Relax, Nira. It will be alright," Wynne said gently after some time had crawled by. "You would've likely left the tower for brief assignments eventually. Think of this as an opportunity to experience something new, and a chance to learn more about the world."

Nira nodded meekly, shifting uncomfortably in place. It was hard to believe that just a few hours ago this girl had exploded a man into teeny tiny chunks. Guess outside of her home environment she didn't have as much bite in her.

Liri made a mental note to ask Edmund if that walking bomb spell was something he could also do. Because it was awesome and just dramatic and gruesome enough to be her style. She thought about the glowing runes she'd lifted from the Circle. Was that maybe an enchantment effect that could be infused onto a weapon…? Stone, she hoped so. She needed to talk to Sandal

"Was it… was it the same for you?" Nira asked quietly, looking miserably across to Edmund. "When you left the Circle."

Edmund fidgeted uncomfortably. "Not… really."

"Right. Of course you'd have no trouble." Nira huffed and rolled her eyes. There was a bitterness leaching from her that made Liri uncomfortable just from the proximity. "What've you even been doing out here since you left?"

For supposedly being an old friend of his, Nira kinda looked like she hated him. But Edmund also tended to just have that effect on people, so there was nothing really new there as far as Liri was concerned. And what she was mostly concerned with was not throwing up on the floor of the boat in front of her.

Edmund began explaining their adventures to Nira and Wynne. Liri was only half listening through the focus it took to keep from being sick, but she very quickly realized the version of events he relayed to these two mages was heavily doctored. He painted their interference in Highever to save Cousland's family members as blind luck and accident instead of something he'd desperately planned and fought for. He conveniently left out how he'd argued Duncan into sending all of them to the tower of Ishal, instead making it seem like it'd just sort of happened that way, and the fact that they'd all survived that fight something that surprised him instead of what he'd specifically aimed for.

Time and time again he downplayed or completely omitted when he'd had an active hand in shaping or informing on the events that they encountered. In fact, the way he told it, he was basically a bystander while the rest of them repeatedly saved the day. And if Liri hadn't been a personal witness to most of the events, the way he regaled everything so nonchalantly wouldn't have had her questioning a thing. It occurred to her that Edmund was probably a better liar than she gave him credit for.

Liri and Aothor shared knowing glances as the tales their mage spun confirmed what they'd likely both reasonably assumed by now: no one from Edmund's life at the Circle knew what he'd revealed to them about his ability to know the future. And he didn't want them to know. Stone, after seeing the Circle for herself, she couldn't blame him. She'd hide that shit too if she were in his shoes.

She had to give Ed credit—hiding something like this while living under the watch of templars was probably miserable. Everything else awful about the tower aside, it was no wonder he'd jumped at the chance to get out of there.

Well, she'd do her best to cover for him, if it came down to it. Aothor would too—at least, he'd better. She glanced to the back of the boat to where the two templars who came along with the mages sat alongside the lead-sealed case of lyrium. Yeah, they could take 'em easily. Ed was a weird and suspicious mage but he was their weird and suspicious mage.

The afternoon sky turned gold as the sun descended down the sky. Edmund was just wrapping up their battle against the undead at Redcliffe—or at least his version of the event—when Aothor suddenly sat bolt upright next to her, the rapid movement making her sway in her seat.

"Land," Aothor said, his voice dry and desperate but so incredibly relieved just by the sight.

Liri dared to look up towards the horizon. It was still a ways off in the distance, but she could see the silhouette of Castle Redcliffe, could see the slow-turning sails of the village windmill rotating in the breeze. She never thought she'd be so glad to see it. Granted, she was less thrilled about the shrill-voiced Arlessa and the possessed little kid waiting for them, but she'd let the others handle those particular problems. She just couldn't wait for solid earth under her feet again.

The ferry pulled up to the docks. There were villagers waiting to welcome them, Murdock and the militia and a few others, but Liri's tunnel vision was focused solely on getting the fuck off that boat.

Aothor was just seconds behind her in stepping off the accursed vessel and onto the wooden dock. Murdock tried to speak to him, probably just updates on the situation since they'd been gone, but the dwarven man waved him off as he walked alongside her towards land. The waves lapped gently below them.

Liri had an idea.

Just when they were about to step off the dock and into the village, Liri reached out an arm and with one strong shove sent him toppling over into the water.

Aothor gasped and half-shouted as he tumbled over the side of the dock. She caught a glimpse of his face as he fell, and the utter surprise and melodramatic betrayal made her laugh as he landed with a splash into the water.

They were so near the shore that it was barely knee deep-deep even for a dwarf. Which was good, because she was really betting on it not being deep enough to just straight up drown him. But he was fine, and he sat up in the water, sputtering as he whipped away the lakewater from his face.

"What was that for?!" He glared up at her and glared up at her, soaked to the bone.

Liri crouched down, peering down at him from the edge of the dock as she smirked. "You made me go in the boat. This is payback," she said matter-of-factly.

"For the love of…" Aothor huffed and stood, finding his unsteady footing in the water.

"Don't worry, a little indignity looks good on you." Liri decided to have mercy upon him and reached out her hand to help pull him out. But she quickly realized her mercy was a mistake.

Aothor's eyes danced with rare mischief as he took her hand. Then he yanked, pulling her down into the water beside him.

Liri gasped as she hit the surface of the water. The lake was cold, biting with such a severe chill all the air was knocked from her lungs.

"Don't start something you can't finish," he chuckled, now his turn to smirk as she struggled to find her footing in the mushy sand and mud.

Oh, this wasn't finished. Liri's face turned bright red, mostly from the shocking cold of the lake, and she considered tackling him back into the water, but she was interrupted by the others currently not standing in the lake.

"Hey, if you want to play in the water, we might want to get you guys some swimming lessons first," Edmund commented dryly, watching them from up on the dock with a raised brow. "Though I don't know how well children of the Stone float."

"We don't. Now, help us out." Aothor grinned and ran a hand through his damp hair then reached up to the mage for assistance.

After witnessing the stunt Aothor'd pulled with her, and no doubt unwilling to join them in the water, Edmund eyed Aothor distrustfully before pulling back and nodding to Sten. The giant didn't so much help them out of the water as he picked them up by the scruff and dropped them back on the dock. Now that was a little more indignity than even Liri was comfortable with.

Aothor coughed and adjusted himself, suddenly regaining his professional composure. And just like that the fun part of him was stuck back behind the goal-oriented focus as he started talking with Murdock about the plan like nothing had just happened, leaving her feeling strangely disappointed.

"You guys go ahead," Edmund said to Irving, nodding towards the path to the castle. "Ser Perth and his knights will let you through the front gates. Start setting up the ritual, we'll be along when you're ready."

"We're not going directly to the castle?" Liri asked as the mages split off from them, shaking some water out of her boot.

"We will in a while. They'll need some time to prep the ritual, I figure we could do something in the meantime aside from twiddling our thumbs," he explained, then turned to Sten once more. "Rumor is Dwyn's got a sword of qunari make stashed in his house. Wanna go kick in his door again?"

'Rumor,' huh. No one had exactly explained Edmund's whole deal to Sten yet, as far as she knew. Though the giant man was observant enough to have probably put together most of the pieces on his own by now. Still, Ed always seemed a little more careful around Sten.

The qunari was as difficult to read as ever. Just a half-nod of acknowledgement. "If it is our next task."

"Kick down his door… again?" Wynne asked, seemingly undecided between amused and confused.

"I did tell you to brace yourself," Aothor chuckled softly.

"Oh, it was awesome." Liri said excitedly. "When the undead were attacking him and his guys were being total pussies and hid in his house. So Isefel went over, had Sten kick in his door, and she strong-armed him into coming out to fight."

"Huh, I'd heard she had Sten kick in his door, but I didn't know the rest," Aothor mused.

"Apparently Dwyn tried to get her to sleep with him in order to get his help. So she threatened to cut off his balls and nail them to his forehead." She liked that threat. It was one of the classics.

"Good for her," Edmund said brightly.

"Kind of makes you wish the undead had managed to eat his face off. Oh well," Aothor said with wry smile.

Wynne coughed, but Liri suspected it was a cover for a laugh.

They found their way through the village to Dwyn's house. The repair to the front door was shoddy at best. Honestly, even an old lady like Wynne could probably knock the door down now. Though, Wynne was a mage and could probably knock the door down anyways, so maybe she wasn't the best example. But still.

Edmund looked at the door and back to Sten again. "Wanna kick it down again? For old times sake."

"'Old times' was four days ago." The giant said flatly. His arms were crossed and he didn't seem overly interested in repeating his stint in property damage.

"I'll do it!" Liri volunteered quickly. Damaging property was one of her favorite activities, right up there with stealing property.

"I feel like if anyone's going to do it, it should be Sten. You know, for continuity—"

"For pity's sake," Aothor rolled his eyes and retook his usual place at the head of the group and knocked on the door. "Dwyn, open up. It's the Wardens."

"Spoilsport," Liri huffed as they heard the tell-tale sounds of someone shuffling around inside the house.

The inadequately repaired hinges creaked in protest as the dwarven resident opened the door.

"Whadaya want—hey!" Dwyn protested sharply as Aothor pushed into the building and the rest of them quickly followed in after him.

"You have something that belongs to my friend here," Aothor said, inclining his head back towards Sten.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said, but the guilt in Dwyn's eyes as the flicked up to the qunari was confirmation enough.

"Don't bother. We know you bought the qunari blade off of Faryn," Edmund said confidently from where he leaned in the doorway. Aothor and Liri exchanged a look. They had not, in fact, known that, but the detail unsettled Dwyn into letting out a string of curses under his breath. "All we're asking is that you return it to it's rightful owner."

"That's the last time I trade with that two-timing…" Dwyn grumbled as he threw up his hands in frustration. "Look, I'm not parting with that blade for nothing, not after what I paid to get it. So I'll make you a deal. Six sovereigns and it's yours."

"Hm. I was thinking two broken kneecaps." Aothor said. Catching her que, Liri started testing the weight of her mace in her hands threateningly.

Dwyn was stone-faced, but he did shift uncomfortably where he stood. He'd seen them fight, that night of the undead raid. He knew what they were capable of.

"Two sovereigns."

"Hey, how flammable do you guys think this house is?" Edmund asked innocently, and Wynne balked at him.

"Sod it all," Dwyn ran a hand over his face, now looking like more than anything he just wished they would all go away. He motioned for one of his goons to go retrieve something from the back room. "Just take the damned thing. And I don't ever want to see any of your faces ever again."

Dwyn gave the blade to Aothor, who immediately turned and offered it to Sten. It was a sword unlike any Liri'd ever seen before. To start, it was taller than she was, and despite it's deceptively simple look there was the subtlest design engraved down the length of the steel. Cloth red as blood was wrapped around the grip, the hilt inscribed with words in a language she assumed was Qunlat.

Even as they left Dwyn's home behind them, he stared at the weapon like he could not quite believe he was holding it in his hands.

"Strange…" he uttered, more softness in his tone than Liri had thought him capable of. "I had almost forgotten it. Completion." He looked up at the three of them, something like wonder in his eyes. "Are you sure you are Grey Wardens? I think you must be ashkaari, to find a single lost blade in a country at war."

"Happy to help, Sten." Edmund said.

"I would thank you for this, if I knew how." Sten equipped the weapon. Though already a giant in stature, he seemed to stand taller somehow. "I could deliver a much more satisfying answer to the Arishok's question if the Blight were ended, don't you agree?"

"Absolutely. And there's still a long road ahead." Aothor said.

"Then lead the way."

They stopped by the Owen's shop to have some equipment repaired and get Sten's returned sword—Asala, he called it—sharpened and cleaned, a process for which Sten all but hovered over the poor blacksmith. The man's daughter had made it back to him alive, though, so he was grateful enough to allow them their occasional oddities.

"Was all that really necessary?" Wynne asked as they waited outside for the job to be completed, lips pursed disapprovingly. "All the threatening. Surely you could have just paid the man his gold and moved along."

"Relax," Edmund said, "I wouldn't have actually burned his house down."

"I totally would have busted his kneecaps, though," Liri signed. Neither Edmund or Aothor translated that for the Senior Enchanter, though, which was actually probably for the best. She seemed the type to give lectures.

Wynne pursed her lips in mild disapproval but added nothing further. With the repairs to their equipment finished and Asala freshly maintenanced, they started towards Redcliffe Castle. And non too soon, either. The sun was starting to disappear over the horizon. The people in the village kept their nightly watch and patrol just in case the worst happened again, but if they were successful tonight then they wouldn't have to be afraid of the undead anymore.

There were still darkspawn out there, of course, but that was a separate problem. If anything this whole undead business was probably good training for them should the hordes find their way here.

"Have you decided what you're going to do yet?" Liri asked Aothor. He raised a brow as he waited for her to clarify. "About Jory."

"I've been thinking about it a lot." Aothor sighed, glancing back over his shoulder towards the village and it's patrolling night watch. "It feels like no matter what I decide I'll be compromising on a principle that should be upheld."

"How so?"

"If I overlook his desertion, I compromise justice and loyalty. Justice for everyone who didn't desert and died because they stayed and fought, and loyalty because we run the risk of him revealing Grey Warden secrets about the Joining. It's kept under wraps for a reason, and right now, because of how few of us are left against the Blight, we have to protect Warden interests," Aothor explained. "But if I punish him for his desertion, I compromise on heroism and mercy. He saved so many of these people by bringing them the early warning and fighting alongside them. And I understand why he left once he understood what he was being asked to do, the sacrifice being demanded of him. He's obviously not suitable and Duncan should have seen that, and I'm not sure it's fair to punish Jory for Duncan's error."

Liri listened and nodded as he explained his thought process. But if she were to be honest, a lot of what he said went in one ear and out the other, and all she got out of it was a lot of agonizing over nothing.

"Stop overthinking it."

"I'm not overthinking it, I'm considering all the ramifications—"

"Nope, you're overthinking it. Honestly, you're almost as bad as Edmund sometimes," Liri interrupted before he could go on. "Listen, I know you like rules and order, but I also know you like to bend rules and find loopholes. And you're good at it, too. So what if there are principles that get offended? I mean, I don't really have things like principles so I'm not an expert, but I think it's okay if you bend those too every once in a while."

"The principles aren't for me. If it was my personal decision this wouldn't be nearly as hard to decide. It's about the larger group, about the Wardens, about what we represent, about setting the standard for what we do in the future if and when we encounter more situations like this," he insisted.

"Well, that's stupid," she said flatly.

"Excuse me?" Aothor asked, brow raised.

Liri just looked at him like he was an idiot. "When have you ever gotten the impression that anything we ever deal with will be 'standard?'"

Aothor paused, idly adjusting his bracers as he thought. "That… is a good point, actually."

They rounded the bend of the path and could see the gates of the castle up ahead now. There was dim torchlight from the watch awaiting them, and already the dropgate was starting to rise.

"You said it means more when someone wants to run and stays anyways," Aothor recalled.

Liri only nodded. She didn't care much for Jory specifically—he was a bit of a whiner and had too much of a jello spine to really be tolerable for very long. But she understood him. Because though not for the same reasons as the craven knight, she'd hesitated at the Joining cup too.

"I was going to run. During the Joining," she confessed.

Aothor's brows raised in open surprise. "I struggle to imagine you running from anything. You're fearless."

"Not fearless. Most things just aren't worth being afraid of," Liri shrugged. "But I saw all of you drop one by one. There was the very real chance that drinking from that cup would kill me, and I haven't struggled to stay alive as long as I have just to kick it to some spoiled juice. I was scared, and I was going to run…"

"... but you stayed anyways." Aothor finished when she did not. "What changed your mind?"

"The thing that's the difference between me and Jory: he had something to run to, and I didn't. He came and saved the people of Redcliffe, he's got a wife and kid he wants to protect. I… don't have anything I can run to." It sucked to admit it. But it was true. She couldn't go back to Orzammar, not without getting killed or endangering Rica. "Ed was the one who convinced me to stay. He talked me out of bolting, and the rest is history."

Aothor glanced back to where the mage was occupied talking with Sten. "I'll have to thank Edmund for that. Because I quite like having you around."

"Is that really why you had me come in the boat group with you?" Liri narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously. They were in the courtyard now, facing the grand set of stairs leading up to the main hall.

"Yes. You see, you have such a knack for casually asking agonizing questions and I didn't want to risk missing out," Aothor said with a tired sigh. But then he smiled. "I think I've made my decision. Thank you."

Liri cocked her head curiously. She hadn't really done anything worth thanking, not really. "For what?"

"Your perspective. It's occasionally questionable and doesn't always make much sense, but it's unique, and I think it's valuable. It helped me. So, thank you for sharing it with me," he said, and pushed open the doors of the castle.

The main hall was abuzz with activity when they entered. Isolde paced frantically back and forth, all poise abandoned. Teagan stood near her trying and failing to calm her down. The two templar guards stood sentinel against the wall, swordss drawn but resting with their blades pointed to the floor. In the heart of the chamber the mages of the Circle stood in a ring, weaving together a complex thread of power that made the very air feel electric.

"You have returned," Isolde said, when she saw them approach. She raced over to them, nearly breathless. "Connor is upstairs and remains quiet for the moment. Will this truly work? Can my boy be saved?"

"The ritual will work, Arlessa," Irving said calmly. He stood apart from those casting, observing with an astute eye. "So long as the mage entering to face the demon is strong enough to overcome."

"Oh, thank you, thank you!" Isolde blinked, visibly fighting back tears of relief. There were dark circles under her eyes. Liri wouldn't have been surprised if she'd been sitting at her son's bedside since the moment they left.

"How soon can it be done? I do not know how much longer he will stay dormant," said Teagan.

"Our preparations are complete. All that remains is to confront the demon," Irving said with an expectant look to Edmund. "You Harrowing was one of the fastest in our Circles' history, dear boy, and I have heard murmurs of how you overcame another demon in order to save your fellow Wardens. I have every confidence in you."

Edmund smiled, but something about it was familiar that had Liri immediately bracing for something bad to happen.

"Thanks, but I won't be entering the Fade today," he said. His eyes flickered to the back of the room, and Lir followed his gaze to see Jory and Jowan enter from the far door. The pieces clicked together just seconds before he said them aloud. "Jowan will be the one to face the demon."

The ambient energy in the room buckled and snapped so strongly even the dwarves could feel it. The meticulous spool of energy the mages had curated began to spiral. At the heart of that unwinding tumult was a silver-haired elven mage, focused now on the bloodmage in the back with burning anger.

The last time this woman had been so riled up, a man was reduced to tiny lumps of flesh in the Harrowing Chamber.

"You." Nira snarled.

Uh oh.