A Healer's Permonitions

Wynne had lived a life of many regrets. Most old people had, in her experience. The young inevitably made mistakes that they would regret in future, and the old, seemingly inevitably, allowed opportunities to pass them by. As Greagoir was finding out now that his secret son had mysteriously reappeared.

Part of her felt vicious satisfaction watching it happen, another part felt pain from the reminder. Mostly she just felt tired. So very tired.

Perhaps that was why she volunteered to lead the mages' contribution to the fight against the Blight. Perhaps she thought she had nothing to lose, perhaps she was just trying to get away from the Circle and all its painful reminders. Perhaps she always would have gone.

Perhaps it didn't matter.

"So, ready to move out?" Knight-Captain Shepherd asked, her sizable contingent standing in formation behind her.

"I believe so." Wynne replied calmly. "Does anyone have something they need to do before we head out?"

The mages behind her shuffled nervously and shook their heads like the average age is three rather than thirty. Or so she assumed.

Ah, there was another lance of pain.

She's used to those though. "It seems we're ready to go, Knight-Captain."

"Alright then." The Templar made a hand gesture, and their armoured protectors marched out to lead the way. "You know, you can still call me Shepherd. Just cause Greagoir's not around doesn't mean I'm suddenly too important for names."

"Forgive me, I thought it might be best to stick to ranks, since we're marching off to battle and everything." Wynne said, a trifle embarrassed. "That is something armies do, isn't it?"

Shepherd waved her hand in front of her. "Kind of? It's more about discipline and respect though. You can call people by their names as long as command's maintained. 'Sides, I'm not your superior. We're equals, kind of."

Wynne blinked in confusion. "I thought that a Knight-Captain outranked a Senior Enchanter."

Shepherd shrugged. "Different branches, so hard to say. Technically, you're the rank below First Enchanter, so you could argue it's the same. Unless you're one of those 'Templars are always above mages' types, but you know I don't go for that."

"I didn't think you were." Wynne reassured the woman. "However you are the soldier between us, so I think it wise to defer to your experience."

"Well, actually since you're in charge of the mage side, we're the same rank. Kind of like Greagoir and Irving." Shepherd stated firmly.

"Are you sure that this argument about ranks is true, and not merely your preference for using people's names without them?" Wynne asked.

Shepherd laughed nervously and rubbed the back of her neck. "No, of course not. I mean, it's inefficient on the battlefield and besides I do use people's ranks, when appropriate. But calling my friends by their ranks just seems disrespectful."

Wynne laughed quietly. Shepherd soon joined her, and the two marched in comradely silence for a while.

"Shepherd, may I confide in you?" Wynne asks at last, much more quietly.

Shepherd leans towards her, and responds just as quietly. "'Course, that's what friends are for, aren't they?"

Wynne was no child who groped for words, but this was difficult to say, so it took time before she said, "Do you believe in prophecy?"

"Sort of." Shepherd grimaced. "Hard to find a soldier that doesn't have some kind of belief in bad feelings or the like. That said, I don't really believe the folks who say they can 'see the future'. They make us study magic, I know how it works and it can't do that."

Wynne was personally inclined to agree, but that wasn't the point. "I have the strangest feeling. Like something terrible is going to happen. I fear we are marching to our deaths."

Of all the responses she was expecting, Shepherd grabbing her by the shoulder and looking fiercely determined wasn't one of them.

"Hey. It's fine." She said, voice unwavering. "Anyone who wants to get you, has to go through me. Nobody, not a king, not a darkspawn, not even another templar, will hurt any one of you mages so long as I live. You hear me? That's a Shepherd promise."

It was pathetic how comforting the words were. Truly, there was no new information, and she had never doubted Shepherd. Yet still, her heart warmed, both at the promise and how seriously Shepherd was taking her bad feeling.

She smiled warmly up at the younger woman. "Thank you Shepherd."

Shepherd backed off, rubbing her nose nervously. "Hey, don't worry, it's my job."

"Oh?" Wynne asked mischievously. "I suppose I am just one of your many 'favourite mages in the Circle'?"

"Oh, come on, are you ever going to let that go!" Shepherd wailed good naturedly.

Making Way

The last few moments before departure are always hectic. This is true even among the Eldar, who are as a rule, more disciplined than the men of this land. So it is today.

Faith, Martin and Delora are running around double and triple checking everything is where it should be. The Chasind started to arrive half an hour ago, and their once orderly column is milling about waiting for instructions. Solas and his elves will be meeting you on the road, but if you set off now you will be waiting too long for them at the meeting place.

For your part, you are slowly bringing order to the chaos. Your warriors are serving as markers for where each group should go. You have sent servants to awaken those who are supposed to be driving the carts. The smiths you have directed to follow the wagon with their equipment.

Fortunately, much of your preparations over the previous weeks mean that as chaotic as this situation is, it is a passing thing. No one is wondering who will show up or when, and everyone knows where you are going. Truth be told, even this chaos is more the product of nerves and new commanders than it is a failure of planning.

While Faith and Martin quadruple check whether anyone has stolen the good clothes, you take the time to inspect the Chasind. True to their nomadic ways, they have brought almost everything they own with them. Children carry bundles of clothes, civilians carry their tools, food and wood for fires.

Their warriors are obviously carrying their weapons and armour, though to your disappointment they are not dressed for battle. Yet they also carry what seem to be personal belongings, clothes, trinkets and other such things.

Your warriors too, you notice, though they do not carry clothes do have other things. Favourite snacks bought with wages, coin, trinkets, amulets of protection, religious icons. Frankly you think everyone is carrying entirely too many things, but then, you are carrying nothing but your cloak, armour and weapons.

Still, personal irritation with how people prepare for travel can be dealt with on the march. You have ascertained that the Chasind are ready to leave, and that is all that is needed.

Merrill arrives at this point, clearly having searched for you for some time. She clutches a leather sack with a wide strap close to her, her travel bag you remember.

"Did you remember to ask your Keeper if you could come?" You ask.

"I'm not a child!" Merrill protests.

You give her a long look, and she wilts, ears blushing. "She sent a note."

Internally you sigh, but you give no sign of that. Merrill is directed to travel with Lilian and the healers. Brandon, despite your repeated warnings, is going to try and march with your warriors. You expect that to sort itself out.

You are about to begin passing the word to begin moving, when Xandar arrives, various bags and sacks clutched or slung over his shoulder with rope.

"Ready to head out, Teacher!" He makes yet another strange gesture, this one new to you.

"Xandar." You state severely. "I did not say that you could accompany us."

"You also didn't say I couldn't." Xandar points out cheekily.

"You are a healer, a half trained mage." You try to explain reasonably. "While you may be helpful, this is no light skirmish, you could be in true danger where I cannot aid you."

"I know, and I don't care." Xandar's face takes on a familiar stubborn cast. "I know the Maker has great plans for you, and you have always treated me well. I'm not letting you walk off to your destiny without me. I'm going to be there, I'm going to see it, and I'm going to write another book about it!"

There is a great deal to address there, the Maker, destiny and what does he mean 'another' book? However you get to ask none of these questions because a thick arm is slung around your shoulder as a young dog leaps up to press his paws against you.

"Ya may as well give it up, kid" Ranger smiles widely. "Ya friends are comin' with ya, and that's that."

Perhaps you could argue, but doing so would delay your departure unnecessarily, plus you get the impression that Xandar has made up his mind one way or another. So you do not argue, and allow him to go join the healers. You do glare at Ranger who seems to find it more amusing than anything else.

Witherfang continues attempting to climb up your body to lick your face. You studiously ignore the way his barking seems to translate into bragging about what a great hunter he is and how he deserves hugs and kisses.

The word is passed how your warriors will lead, with the rangers in the front. Then the carts, with the civilians in the middle, then the Chasind at the back. Solas' warriors will slot in between your infantry and the cavalry. Then you sound all the horns of your host (approximately six of them, which is a pitiful number) and the column begins to snake its way towards Denerim.

Shadowy Hunt

Ever since he first awoke, Solas has been busy.

It began when he had to rush to address the alarms the Veil had been ringing, despite his whole body and mind still being heavy with sleep. Meeting Nelyafinwë, learning all there was to know about him, trying to unpick the lies from truth. That had not helped.

After leaving he has been enacting his… plan is at once an overstatement and understatement. He has been enacting plans that serve his vision of the People free of chains at last.

It has even been almost amusing watching the various human kingdoms try to turn him to their own ends. Weapons from Orlais to raise a revolt in Ferelden, slaves from Tevinter 'freed' and then freed in truth, coin from Ferelden for rescuing their people. All these mortals believe him their puppet, the Dread Wolf safely collared and leashed.

It would make him laugh if the stakes were not so high.

Yet, such schemes have had to be put to a lower priority than he would prefer. Whatever he may reassure himself about acting in haste causing more problems than it solves, it still burns to know that even now People slave and die under tyrants. Yet, this 'Blight', just one of the many new factors he has had to reckon with, understanding that has been a chore.

The Chantry's tale he had dismissed out of hand, too used to the overt propaganda of his much esteemed colleagues. Further investigation had quickly revealed a dearth of information on the subject. Where the Blight came from, how it came to be, what purpose it serves, none seem to know.

As usual, his best answers came from the Fade. Sadly, despite his searching, he had not found any memories of how the darkspawn came to be. Of the First Blight, certainly, and all the others that followed. Of its origin, only whispers, nameless dread of the 'Black City' and the mortals who dared to trespass there.

Perhaps, if he had more time, he would have gone to see for himself. Sadly, between creating his following and securing the other sites of the most noble of the People against whatever madness June had concocted, he did not.

So too, it seemed that even Nelyafinwë's strange ways and knowledge had failed. Or had they? He knew of nothing like what the strange being described this 'Morgoth' as. Solas would have walked his dreams, but that barrier in his hall. Truly, it was almost flattering seeing the Veil worked to such an interesting end, though frustrating despite that.

Finally though, they shall be on the road together for a significant period of time. Solas can, at last, wander in his dreams to learn of these Balrogs and orcs and compare them to the darkspawn that can be found in the Deep Roads.

The first night on the road, he searches for Nelyafinwë's dreams in vain. The second he tries a more focused approach. The third, he finds only the mortals that follow him around like lost puppies. Oh, and the puppy too.

On the fourth night, with Denerim looming over them, he finally caves and casts a spell. It is not something he much cares for, as it hijacks the dream and gives him too much control. He wished to see Nelyafinwë's perspective, what he associated with the darkspawn. Still, needs must when Fen'harel drives.

Lips quirking at that particularly amusing Dalish saying, he waits until late and casts his spell.

Nothing.

The spell does not fail, it does not backfire. It is cast, his mana flows out, and nothing. No result. Either Nelyafinwë does not dream, or his dreams do not touch the Fade.

As though he were not from this world at all.

Solas' thoughts are troubled that night, and for many to come.

Muster of Ferelden

The last of Gwaren's soldiers arrived at the muster point and were counted. Two thousand of the finest soldiers in all of Ferelden, plus Russandol and his… eclectic collection.

Loghaine was not going to lie, it was impressive that the mercenary turned lord had managed to find so many warriors in such a relatively short time, but he still found their quality, lacking. Nothing that stood up quite like a strong heavy infantry line or hit as hard as a charge of mounted knights.

Not that they were going to get to use the latter, to his endless annoyance. After nearly forty years, he finally had a cavalry advantage on an enemy, and he couldn't use them. He sighed through his nose.

"Something the matter, sir?" Asked Cauthrien.

"Just bellyaching about the darkspawn." He replied shortly. "Annoyed that they scare horses."

"It'd be a nice change to be on the other side of an unopposed knightly charge." Cauthrien said with what passed for a smile on her thin face. "So of course it's too good to be true."

Loghaine huffed a laugh through his nose. He had to admit, he'd missed that sort of bleak, understated joke at court. Cauthrien might be there, but he just didn't get to spend much time with her.

Come to think of it, it'd been a while since he spent time with Lydia and the others too. Not since…

Loghaine shoved that thought and the lance of pain that accompanied it to the back of his mind. Instead he brought his attention back to the oncoming march.

"Saw Cousland banners earlier." He said. "Howe here yet?

"Teyrn Cousland has sent his son, Fergus ahead with the majority of his force." Cauthrien reported. "Apparently Arl Howe was late to their meeting point. The Teyrn chose to await him at castle Cousland."

Wonderful. That meant that even if he chose to support Howe in this affair, he'd need to take care of Fergus. Maker curse it, this wasn't what he wanted. Bryce and him hadn't seen eye to eye on most things but he'd been a loyal noble of Ferelden. Eleanor too, she was something of a legend back in the day.

In fact the more he thinks about it the less he believes the whole 'traitor' angle. Fergus maybe, but Bryce? Eleanor? No. The Seawolf still had a price on her head, and Bryce was head over heels for the woman.

The question was, and always had been, did it matter? Arl Howe was, tentatively, on his side, and securing him the Highever Teyrnin would both aid an ally and confirm him in his camp. Russandol didn't seem to understand that.

"Sir? Something the matter?" Cauthrien asked.

"Just thinking." Loghaine replied. "Tell me, what do you think of Arl Howe?"

"Not sure it's my place to say, sir." Cauthrien responded tightly.

"I'm saying that it is." Loghaine states. "Tell me what you think.

"I think he's an ambitious snake sir." Cauthrien answered slowly. "I'd be very careful trusting him, you never know who he'll bite."

"You've been talking to Russandol." Loghaine probed.

One of these days he was going to have to work out how to say the elf's first name. It was a mouthful at the best of times, but he didn't think it very politic to continue using his last name when he called most people by their given name.

"Can't say I have sir, not other than that test I gave him." Cauthrien replied.

"Strange, he said almost the exact same thing." Loghaine mused sceptically.

"Well, I don't mean anything by it sir." Cauthrien justified defensively. "It's just… You remember those smuggler types? The ones who always had the best equipment at some ridiculous mark up."

Loghaine's fist clenched in remembered rage. "Obviously."

Cauthrien shrugged. "He kind of reminds me of them. Kind of a greaseball, but a useful one."

"Weren't those 'smugglers' Orlesian quartermasters selling stuff on the black market?" Logahine asked.

Cauthrien shrugged again. "Don't bother myself with that sort of thing. That's your job sir."

"My job indeed." With a sigh, Loghaine stared north.

Then he shook his head. "Tomorrow's problems. Howe's going to be late and I'm not surrendering initiative to something like that. He can meet us at Ostagar. We'll take a day to get everything settled then we march south."

"Sir." Cauthrien bowed.

"Maker willing I'll talk that fool boy out of his mad plan before then." Loghaine muttered to himself.

Mournful Wreaths

Fergus Cousland thought that he knew danger. He knew that the army he is leading would face an enemy out of legend, that he or his sister might die. That everything that he cares about could be destroyed by the endless hordes of the darkspawn.

He wasn't prepared for what he's facing now.

Fiona looks pale, wan maybe. A strange thought to consume him, but it's the best he can come up with. She'd been almost feverish when they'd found her last night, babbling about a head and Arl Howe. They'd rushed her to a healer and she'd had to be sedated because she wouldn't stop trying to explain and let herself be treated.

Fergus was worried. None of this was normal. It was weird, not that she was here, nor even that she was here alone, but where were the pursuers? Fergus could believe that she'd run ahead of the others, perhaps even believe that she could slip her guards. But for no one to come after her, for no message to arrive? That was concerning.

So here he was, sitting at her bedside. The healers said that she'd wake up sometime today, so he was going to stay here until she did.

The morning sun peaked in through the narrow window, skimming the tops of trees to stab into his tired eyes. They'd set up an aid station in one of the dilapidated buildings inside the walls. The foul smell of sickness and the somehow worse smell of medicine clung to this hospice.

Suddenly, Fiona stirred. Her arms began to twitch, and her eyelids fluttered. Beneath them Fergus could see her eyes moving back and forth frequently. Then she moaned and began to blearily grope upwards, seemingly dazed though whether from sleep or the sleep medicine, he didn't know.

"Fergus." She said, voice quiet but not through lack of trying. "Fergus."

"Fiona, it's alright." He said, leaning forward so she could see him and grab his hand. "I'm right here."

"Fergus." She repeated. "Arl Howe. Betrayed us. He killed… He killed father. Cut off his head."

Fergus could barely focus on his sister's voice. The world seemed to grow quiet as he sat there. He couldn't believe it, his father, dead? It didn't make sense. Father was, was father! He couldn't be…

"I don't know what happened." Fiona continues,voice growing stronger and story more coherent.. "I woke up, and people were trying to kill me, Dog helped me fight them off, and we met mother. Then… Oh Maker, Fergus I'm so sorry."

"What?" The question fell from numb lips.

"Oriana, Oren." Fiona hesitates. "I was too slow, I couldn't reach them. I'm sorry."

His son? His wife? No. It couldn't be.

"What about them." He asks shakily.

"They're dead." Fiona whispers, shame faced. "Howe's men killed them."

Tears come at last, mirrored by the ones on the face of his sister. Without thinking about it he lunges forward and smothers her in his embrace, weeping openly. After a few seconds of hesitation he feels her hand on his shoulder and her body starts to wrack with sobs.

"We'll avenge them." He says shakily. "No matter who tries to stop us, what laws or armies they hide behind. We'll find Arl Howe and kill him, and anyone who helped him. They'll remember the name Cousland. I swear it to the Maker, and may Andraste herself bear witness to it."