The Good (At Least Good Looking)? The Bad and the Ugly?

It wasn't long after Duran and his companions made their way to Denerim that they stumbled upon a grim spectacle: a dwarven woman, clad in heavy armor and drenched in blood, standing against a horde of darkspawn. She was wounded, barely able to hold her ground. Her breaths came in ragged gasps, yet her grip on her weapon was unyielding.

"She won't last much longer," Alistair muttered, already reaching for his sword.

Without hesitation, Duran and Alistair charged into the fray. The battle was fierce, with the darkspawn relentless in their assault. The dwarven woman fought valiantly beside them, even as her movements grew slower and her blows less precise. Finally, with the last darkspawn felled, the battlefield grew quiet.

The woman staggered but refused to collapse. Her eyes, sharp and defiant, met Duran's. "Adela," she introduced herself brusquely. "I am a Grey Warden, and I demand to know the way to your capital, Denerim."

Her tone was as sharp as her blade, and though Duran respected her resolve, her manner grated on him. Adela's short, raven-black hair framed a face that was striking even by dwarven standards. If she hadn't been so abrasive, Duran might have found himself taken by her beauty.

"First of all," Duran replied, voice tinged with sarcasm, "you're welcome for the help. Saving your life was our pleasure, truly. And second—did you just say you're a Grey Warden?"

Adela snorted and spat disdainfully on the ground. "Are you deaf, or do all of you Fereldens have mud in their ears? Maker's breath, this land of dog-lovers and filth tests my patience!"

Alistair and Duran exchanged bewildered glances. Her Orlesian accent only added to the grating nature of her words.

Alistair raised an eyebrow, arms crossed. "Well, insults aside, you're currently speaking to the only two Grey Wardens left in this 'land of dog-lovers.'"

Adela's gaze narrowed, skepticism written all over her face. Her eyes darted to Alistair's blood-streaked armor, where the emblem of the Grey Wardens gleamed faintly beneath the grime.

"You can glare all you like," Duran remarked, gesturing to the darkspawn corpses littering the field. "But if we hadn't sensed the darkspawn and intervened, you'd be nothing more than their dinner by now."

Adela's defiance softened as she took in the carnage and the bodies of her fallen comrades—two humans clad in Grey Warden armor. Her shoulders sagged under the weight of the loss.

"My condolences," Duran offered sincerely. "Were they your companions?"

Adela nodded curtly, her voice flat. "They were. We completed the Joining together not long ago. We were sent from Jader to search for one of our own—Riordan. When we lost contact with him, we followed his trail here."

Duran noted the shift in her demeanor. She seemed less hostile, though no less proud. So, Adela offered more details about her mission, listening intently as Alistair recounted the events of the past two months.

"We should move," Adela said at last, her commanding tone returning. "We've a Blight to stop, and Riordan may still be out there. I'll join you."

Duran arched a brow but decided against arguing. "Sure, why not?", Duran thought. „She'll soon find out how things are done here in Ferelden. Especially among dwarves from Orzammar."

As they turned to leave, Adela paused. "I saw one of the darkspawn run off before I could kill it. It may still be nearby."

Following her lead, the group moved cautiously into the woods. Duran's sharp eyes caught movement in the underbrush—a faint rustle. Drawing his dagger, he approached silently, motioning for the others to stay back.

Peering through the foliage, he saw a hunched figure clad in tattered leather armor. It knelt over the body of a dead nug, gnawing at its flesh. The figure's movements were jerky, its form gaunt and twisted.

"V-vanish… before I… become dangerous…" the creature rasped, its voice strained and broken.

It turned, revealing a face that froze Duran in his tracks. It was elven—or had been. The pointed ears and thin frame were unmistakable, but its milky eyes and blotched, decaying skin told another story.

"What in the Stone…?" Duran murmured, stepping closer. "Who—or what—are you?"

The creature winced, as though the words caused it pain. "Tamlen… My name… was Tamlen," it croaked. "The mirror… It tainted me…"

Duran's grip on his dagger tightened. "What mirror? What are you talking about?"

Before Tamlen could answer, he let out a piercing scream and lunged at Duran. The dwarf sidestepped and struck the elf-turned-monster on the back of the head, knocking it unconscious.

Adela unsheathed her greatsword, ready to strike. "Out of the way," she barked. "This abomination dies now."

"Wait!" Duran raised a hand.

Alistair sarcasticly remarked. "Let me guess. You want to spare this thing, don't you?"

Duran smirked. "Not just spare it—I want to bring it back to camp."

Alistair's jaw dropped. "You're joking. Please tell me you're joking."

"Think about it," Duran reasoned. "This… creature might know something about the Blight. It mentioned a mirror. We tie it up, question it when it wakes, and if it's useless or dangerous, then we can still kill it."

Adela's expression was a mix of disbelief and reluctant consideration. After a tense pause, she lowered her weapon. "Fine. But if it so much as twitches wrong, I'll kill it myself."

With that, Alistair bound Tamlen's hands and hoisted him over his shoulder.

As they headed back to camp, Duran chuckled under his breath. A Grey Warden who was still new to her calling and, quite frankly, utterly insufferable (though Duran couldn't deny she could outshine any woman in Orzammar with her beauty), and an elf? Or rather, an 'elf creature' that would likely love nothing more than to devour them all… Yep, this group's shaping up nicely.