The journey passed without remark. They moved mostly over the vast expanse of the Bannorn, and then down through the Southron Hills and Hinterlands. The landscape would stay the same for days at a time, and then change all in an hour, something which Teneira found a little unnerving. By the time they reached the ruined fortress of Ostagar, its gray towers reaching into the hazy sky of the Korcari wilds, she felt as though her life in the Alienage was a lifetime ago.

"You know, if you had told me last month that I would be traveling through the nethers of Ferelden in the company of two grown human men, and the back of a hundred more, I would have called you insane," Ten said to Daveth as they started down a long hill. They could see the ruin at the bottom, atop a cliff over a river that was further down still, "It's been… instructive."

"I'm glad to represent my race and gender in a way that pleases you, Arlessa," Daveth chuckled, "No, I've no doubt that there's twenty or more pigs in the host ahead of us that wouldn't think twice about rape and murder. Isn't it a comfort that you now know how to defend yourself without half a dram of poison in your bosom?"

"Well of course, Ser Knight," Teneira said, ribbingly, "But I'm not giving up the poison."

"And of course they wouldn't dare. I'd gut them all like fish," he said.

"It feels good not to be afraid," she said, and realized once the words were past her lips how true they were.

"Well don't get used to it," he said, "The war's coming. I hear darkspawn are scarier than all us scary human men put together."

"Then perhaps I won't feel guilty about killing them all and wearing their ears as a necklace," Teneira said.

"This is Ostagar," Duncan said, clearing his throat loudly and interrupting her gleeful macabreness, "The Tevinter Imperium built it long ago to prevent Wilders from invading the northern lowlands. If the Maker be kind, it will shield us against a different foe. We are among a very small group of Grey Wardens in Ferelden at this time, and this is where the bulk of the horde will show itself."

"Well thanks for the history lesson, certainly wouldn't have been prepared to fight without it," Daveth muttered under his breath.

"Your impertinence is unbecoming, Daveth," Duncan said sternly, but his expression was gentle, and he was silent a long moment, "I was once saved from the gallows, I suppose I behaved much in the same way, once. Before the battle, you will need to go through a ceremony known as the Joining. We have several days before the horde is expected to arrive. There will be much to do."

Teneira wondered at what must have happened to turn Daveth into a man like Duncan. Although, she imagined, she would probably be in Daveth's company for the rest of their lives – as long or short as that was – and would have time to observe. She thought also on what sort of person she was going to be. One duty had been replaced with another, one group of people to protect with the whole world, but all of a sudden, it wasn't all on her shoulders alone anymore. She wasn't even at the head of it. It felt, strangely, now that her task was saving the world rather than protecting the downtrodden, like a weight off her shoulders. Protecting the elves of Denerim was walking a fine line. Be tough, but not too tough. And be serious! Always serious, otherwise they'll think you're a joke. But now… that wasn't on her. If anything, it was on Duncan.

They had made it to the first bit of Ostagar, the arches that surrounded the still-standing Tower of Ishaal. The main camp lay over a high bridge over the rushing river far below. She felt a little queasy – the bridge dated from the days of the Tevinter Imperium and she was not entirely sure how much longer it would want to be standing. Not afraid precisely. She had resolved, somewhere on the road, perhaps the time that she had finally beat Daveth in a duel, that she was done with fear. It was a Grey Warden's task to defeat the darkspawn. They had neither husbands nor children – only constant war, war on the surface wherever the blight may lead, and a final, mortal conflict in the deep roads far beneath their feet. Perhaps Duncan had saved her from the gallows, but her doom was just as assured as if her corpse were in a gibbet in Denerim. Then again, perhaps if she happened to take a few darkspawn down with her, it wouldn't be that bad.

They approached the camp from the east. Sentries stood on guard, though there were so many holes in the walls, she was not sure why they were guarding that particular gap over the others. The camp itself was a sight to be seen, colorful wool tents dotting the small space. Ten guarded her eyes, not to appear like a wide-eyed child, taking it all in, but she could not resist letting her gaze linger on the circle of mages, standing but limp, as though being cradled by some great invisible hands. They eyes were rolled back in their heads, and the materials of the world swirled above them as though they were bending existence itself.

"They are in the Fade," a kindly voice came from behind her. She turned to see an older woman, probably not yet out of her fifties, but her hair snowy white and her skin so pale it was nearly translucent. She was dressed in the robes of a member of the Circle, and was probably high ranking given the intricacy of the embroidery on her robes, "Their spirits have left their bodies."

"How are they standing? They look as though they are asleep," Teneira said.

"They are and they aren't. We all enter the Fade when we sleep, but mages, with the proper dose of lyrium, may do so while they are awake," the woman said, "It is a dangerous business, for the Fade is a place of spirits – not all of them benevolent."

"Are you a mage?" Ten asked, "Why aren't you in there with them?'

"Yes, I am," the mage replied, "My name is Wynne, of the Circle of Magi. I am a healer by trade. Just as warriors may wield a sword, or a mace, or an ax, a mage may wield many types of magic. There are shapechangers, and conjurers, and… well you get the idea. When I was your age, I might have entered into the Fade as they are doing, but it is taxing on the spirit, and my talents are better served elsewhere. What about you, dear? It seems you've just arrived. Are you here to serve Loghain's men?"

"Serve?" Teneira asked, turning to the mage, "I'm afraid to ask what you mean by that."

"Oh, nothing untoward!" the mage exclaimed, "I apologize, my dear, I just thought…"

"So you meant laundry?" Ten said, bristling.

"Well… I mean…" the mage's pale skin blushed rosy, "I hear such things about… your kind, outside of the Circle."

"Outside of the Circle?"

"I have lived within the walls of the Circle for most of my life. The only elves I encountered were those who showed magical talent. We did not see a difference between elves and humans in the Circle, but when they came, they brought their anger, their bitterness from the outside world. They said that outside the Circle, elves were couriers, or servants or…"

"Prostitutes," Teneira said, "You were asking if I was a prostitute." She let the older mage squirm there for a moment, enjoying her newfound power. There was a time when she enjoyed watching people twist, but she had realized at some point that the only humans she could skewer like that were those who had shame in the first place. If this Wynne had been like Bann Vaughan or Eddin Rasphander, she would have just said 'Yes, I thought all of you elf women were whores,' and then perhaps laughed derisively. But this Wynne didn't. She was embarrassed for an insult she quite likely did not intend to utter. "I am not. I am a recruit of the Grey Wardens. I am here to fight the darkspawn, just like you."

Wynne's face went even redder, "I apologize. I had no idea."

"I suppose the armor didn't quite clue you in," said Ten, resentfully.

"You know," Wynne said softly, "It seems as though I was right about one point, about how unkind the world is to elves. You remind me of someone I knew once, an apprentice of mine. I hope that your master Duncan is gentler than I was. I apologize for whatever hurt you suffered to bring you here."

Teneira twisted the wedding ring on her finger, and dropped her gaze. "And I apologize for my tone," she said, "It was unfair of me. I ought to go, rejoin my companions."

"Maker keep you," Wynne said.

"And you as well."

She found Duncan and Daveth by a great roaring fire, along with a third man, a burly, balding thing nearly six and a half feet tall, with a longsword on his back that would have stood taller than Teneira if he'd stuck it in the ground.

"This is Ser Jory, a knight in the service of the Teyrn of Highever," Duncan said, "He will completing the Joining with you and Daveth."

"Well met," the giant said, extending a hand larger than a dinner plate to shake. Teneira did so, though she was afraid he would lift her clean off the ground by her hand. He did not do so, and she was surprised that his hand was as soft as a gentleman's. Unlike Daveth, he had no scars, though he looked to be on the far side of thirty.

"My name is Teneira Tabris," she said.

"Are you Dalish?" asked Jory.

"No," she said, "I'm from Denerim."

"Ah," Jory said, clearly disappointed, "I've always been so fascinated with the Dalish. Had a cook run away to be with them two years ago! Such a scandal."

"You had a cook," Daveth observed.

"What was that supposed to mean?" Jory asked.

"Absolutely nothing," Daveth said, winking at Jory, "It's just… if she'd rather be wandering the forest with the Dalish than cooking your meals, I'd have to wonder just what was in your food over the time she was in your employ."

He's allying himself with me, thought Teneira, He's human, but he thinks he's with me, doesn't he! Clearly has more in common with me than him… I suppose if there were any elvish lordlings they'd be all up in Jory's ass. She laughed behind her hand, not wanting to appear unseemly. Looking around, the assembled forces were about a quarter female, not including the mages, which were evenly split, and only the mages had any elvish members. She was clearly in a minority, with only Daveth and Duncan to protect her.

"Duncan! Well met, old friend!" a young man's voice exclaimed. Teneira looked up, alarmed to see a familiar face striding towards her atop a set of massive, shining armor. She instinctively dropped her gaze, and then found herself yanked to her knees by a huge hand around her arm. To her left and right, her thoughts raced, not hearing the conversation between the two humans as she tried to place where she had seen that face before. Beside her, Daveth reached into his pocket and tossed a gold sovereign on the ground.

"Maker's breath, that's the king!" she whispered furiously, seeing the same face etched on the coin as was standing before them.

"Damn right that's the king!" Daveth said.

Of course, she knew the king would be there. Just like she knew that he lived not more than five miles away from her house in Denerim. That didn't mean that in a camp of five thousand – or a city of a hundred thousand – she ever expected to lay eyes on him in person, much less have him approach the very small group she was a part of to have a chat.

"Oh, come now! Get up! Can't fight darkspawn on your knees!"

She felt herself being borne up just as she'd been borne down by Ser Jory.

"Ah, Ser Jory!" exclaimed King Cailin. Teneira forced herself to look him in the face. What struck her first was how young he was – thirty if a day. She had grown used the images of old King Maric, not old per se, but hardened and scarred and not looking like a beardless teenage boy. Cailin was tall, not nearly as tall as the giant Jory, but over six feet, and possessed of fine features that had clearly never seen battle or anything like it. He was clapping Jory on the shoulders, congratulating him on his wife's pregnancy. Teneira filed that bit of information away for later.

"And what's your name?" he asked, turning his attention to Daveth.

"Daveth, Sire," Daveth said, "I hail from Arnthorn, in the Korcari Wilds." Teneira snickered inwardly at how he was leaving out some very important things that had happened between him leaving Arnthorn and arriving at Ostagar. Being a professional criminal in Denerim, for example, and being rescued from certain execution.

"Ah, my condolences," King Cailin said, "I heard the bad news but a few days ago."

"Aye," Daveth said, "A sad story. But the darkspawn shan't advance any further, no ser, not if I have anything to say about it!"

Kiss-ass, Teneira thought, but then, she couldn't know how she would react when the king's blue gaze fell on her. It turned out that she would not have long to wonder, for after a perfunctory conversation with Daveth, he turned to her.

"And you, you look familiar!" he said. He furrowed his brow, staring at her face as she would have stared at his if she were only a little braver, "You're the elf that murdered Bann Vaughan!" he exclaimed. He didn't sound angry at all, it was as though he were meeting a celebrated poet or painter, utterly delighted to be shaking the hand of someone famous.

"Sire, I'm not a murderer," she said.

"No? I'm sorry, it's a little hard to tell you apart sometimes…"

"No, your majesty, you are right that I killed Bann Vaughan. But I did not murder him," she said, remembering the words Duncan had told her the day he had gotten her from her cell. She had lost her fear, and gained something else. Courage? Bravery? Foolishness? She fell silent. The practical part of her head was screaming at her to shut up, but she found that she couldn't. She cleared her voice, reciting what the Warden Commander had told her, "Murder is killing for malice. I did not kill out of malice. Justice and the safety of my people demanded that I take Vaughan's life."

"And a philosopher too! How cunning!" the king laughed, "And pray tell me, what did Bann Vaughan do to deserve your steel?"

"He raped my cousin," she said, "And had my husband and one of my bridesmaids murdered."

"Oh, that is unpleasant," Cailin said, looking a bit put out, "Yes, I suppose I'd have done the same. And Vaughan was always such a little shite, I suppose you've relieved me of having to find a reason to strip him of his… well, all the same, good to have you hear fighting darkspawn, doubt your shoes would fit the hangman's boy anyway." He stepped back, taking in all three recruits, "Very well! Best of luck to you three, for your Joining. I imagine we will meet again before the coming battle!" He gave them a small nod, turned, and left.

Teneira took a deep breath. She wasn't aware how tight she had been holding herself until she relaxed.

"Quite a display there, wasn't it," Jory commented, "Just announcing to the king that you murdered an Arl's son! He's supposed to trust the Grey Wardens, not think they're going to stab him in the back!"

"He recognized me," Teneira said, "Was I supposed to deny it?"

"You didn't have to go all… justifying yourself like that," Jory said, wrinkling his nose, "We've all done some bad things, but it almost sounded like you were bragging."

"Statements like that, Ser Jory, make me wonder what you did to your cook to make her flee for the Dalish!" Teneira retorted.

"How dare you!" Jory demanded. All in a flash, his sword and Teneira's daggers were free from their scabbards.

"That's right, Jory, I do dare you, I fucking dare you!" she snarled, darting back and forth, showing him that while he dwarfed her, she could outmaneuver him like a wild pony could run circles around a large packhorse.

"Stop this!" Duncan exclaimed, striding between them, "Sheathe your blades, this is madness! Jory, go sit yourself over there. Teneira, go find Alistair, and don't come back until you've found him and your temper has cooled!"

"Who's Alistair?" asked Teneira, secretly grateful that Duncan had stopped the fight before it had started.

"Another Warden," Duncan replied, "He was northeast, taking a message to a mage, the last I saw. Get out of here!"

She turned and left, still half fuming. She headed northeast, past the kennels. A Mabari war hound sat curled in the corner of one of the pens, but leapt to his feet and chased her as she walked by the fence, barking excitedly. When she walked away, it lay down again and shut up. Past the kennels, she passed gibbet cages, a makeshift infirmary, and an impromptu service being held by a Chantry priest.

"Care for the Maker's blessing, little sister?" the priest asked, smiling benevolently, "The Maker shows us the way, in every step of our lives."

"Did the Maker tell you to take our lands and slaughter our people, shem?" she snapped, still sore, and certainly not in the mood for the Chantry's pious bullshit at that particular moment. She spat on the ground to make her point, and turned on her heel to continue about her business.

"Blasphemy!" the priest exclaimed, putting her hand over her mouth. Ten could have sworn she saw at least one of the congregation snicker softly as she stalked away.

She found herself in the northeastern corner of the camp, which was deserted, but had a good view of the coming night over the cliffs. She had her pipe and a pouch of fine Orlesian tobacco she and Daveth had gone in for in the last town. She packed it, and lit it from one of the many braziers which lit the place. She sat herself on a rock, puffing away. She'd become unused to humans like Jory on the long road from Denerim. Duncan and Daveth treated her as an equal, and accepted her version of the story without question. She should have known that not everyone in Ostagar would feel as they did. Foolish lass.

"You know that stuff will make your teeth yellow," a male voice said. She didn't look up.

"Not sure who you are or who exactly asked you," she replied, her eyes on the flagstones, "But if you value teeth as much as you seem to, I would move along."

"I was trying to get it away from you, if you were wondering," the man said, completely unperturbed by her hostility. He sat down beside her, and she handed him the pipe. He took a long drag and handed it back, "So what happened to you? You look just how I feel."

She looked over at him. He was human, the slight beard would have given that away if the ears and height hadn't, and probably around her age. He wore the armor of a Templar, but didn't look like the Templars that had been guarding the mage camp where she had met Wynne.

"Well it wasn't that bad. Had a… disagreement with a companion," she said, "Why, what happened to you?"

"Priests. Ugh. I don't exactly work for the Chantry anymore, but they sure think they own me, and the mages sure do still hate me," he sighed, "And yet, I bow and scrape to the priests like I was taught to, even when every fiber of my being is telling me to deck him across the face."

"World's full of rat bastards, isn't it," she said, blowing a smoke ring. The tobacco was starting to calm her down.

"Well yes, I suppose you could put it that way," he said. She handed him the pipe and he took another puff.

"Has anyone ever told you you look just like King Cailan?" she asked. The observation had just struck her, but it was true, there was a bit of a resemblance.

"Oh, don't be silly," he said, joking, but she could sense that she had made him a little uncomfortable, "You elves probably think all us humans look alike."

"You caught me!" she said, "Couldn't tell a pageboy from a Teyrn if my life depended on it! So, you're a templar, but you're not with the Chantry? How does that happen?" she asked.

"Oh, I'm not a templar," he said, "Not anymore, anyway. I'm a Grey Warden."

"Are you now," she said. Now I know more than you do. She felt the old familiar safety in knowing something about another that he did not know about her. She tested the waters. Men were predictable, after all. She leaned slightly towards him. They all talked eventually, if she applied the right pressure. She looked up at him, tugged one brown curl loose from her leather cap and twined it around one finger, "Are you going to save us all from the darkspawn, then?"

"Well, I hope so. Certainly better than the alternative, seeing as we're supposed to be on the front lines and all," he said, "We're getting new recruits. That's always interesting. See which ones croak during the Joining."

"Why, what could the Joining be?" she asked. She turned her body towards him, flirting, wanting more information. Croak? Nobody said anything about croaking. And I certainly hope he means 'turning into a toad' and not dying.

"It's what makes you a Warden," he said, "Can you keep a secret?"

He didn't seem to register that that's what she was doing, the boy seemed to be an open book, and all her guile was unnecessary.

"And who would I tell?" she asked, "Me being just a wee elfin maiden."

"They make you drink darkspawn blood," he whispered.

Teneira jumped to her feet, "You're joking, right?"

"What the… well, yes, it's disgusting, but it's not like anyone's making you…" his voice trailed off, "Oh no, I've really stepped in it haven't I? You're the…"

"Yes I am," she said. She coughed, retching a little. She dumped the contents of her pipe on the ground and stomped the flames out, suddenly not in the mood, "That's… that's about the worst thing I've heard all day."

"Oh Maker's breath I'm an idiot," he said, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment, "You weren't supposed to know about it beforehand… that's what I get for trying to impress a pretty girl…"

"This is how you flirt with a… all right, well we're not going to address that part right now, but… darkspawn blood? Really?"

"If you tell the others beforehand, Duncan will have my head," he said, "And believe me, you don't want that. There are few of us as it is."

"You're lucky the two of the three recruits I care about don't have any choice," she said, "And that I am one of the two recruits I care about." She sighed, and shook her head, "Anyway, unless there's another one of you wandering around camp telling Order secrets to every woman who happens by him, you must be Alistair. I've been sent to find you and fetch you back to Duncan."

"Oh, you're sneaky," he said, "You knew exactly who I was from the moment I… all right, let's call it even. I never divulged any secrets, and you never threw yourself shamelessly at me to get me to talk! And you definitely didn't see me smoking, Duncan hates that."

"I did no such thing!" she exclaimed indignantly. He had risen, and begun making his way towards the Wardens' camp, and she followed at his heels, determined both to get more information out of him and also not fail miserably at the task she had been given.

"And neither did I!" he said, "Psssht… telling me I look like King Cailan. You know the Maker frowns upon flattery!" He chuckled at his own joke, "You're entirely too cunning to be a proper Warden. You know we're supposed to be very serious! And stodgy! You're not nearly stodgy enough." He babbled on like this as they walked.

Darkspawn blood. Drinking darkspawn blood. That's what made all those Mabaris sick, I'll wager. And they mean to feed it to us! Oh Maker be good, we're all going to die…

He paused for a moment by the gibbets, stopping so short she nearly walked right into him. He turned, and looked down at her, "Say, it just occurred to me, but you're an elf, and you're a girl, so you're not the knight, and you aren't the thief, so you must be…"

"Ahh, here we go," she sighed, "I am, indeed, the murderess. The Vengeful Bride of Denerim town," she said, quoting a ballad she had heard a couple of times on her journey. The lyrics were surprisingly accurate, and rather sympathetic all things considered, "And yes, they raped my cousin and murdered my husband and would have done both to me."

"But before they drew nigh you pulled out a knife and butchered the lordlings three?" he continued. He had, evidently, heard the same song. Every scandal got one - every noble love affair gone awry, every time someone went on an adventure and returned to tell the tale, and, of course, every grisly murder.

"It was an ax," she said., "But close enough."

"Harder to rhyme with ax I suppose," he said shortly, "Well shit, not every day you meet a celebrity criminal. Doubt you're afraid of anything at this point. You've already been through it twice and come out on top."

"If you could call this the top," she sighed, "Though I suppose it beats the gallows. Certainly being drawn and quartered or burned at the stake."

The Grey Warden camp was grim as her references when they returned. Jory was still sulking, and Daveth was sitting by himself, drinking out of a bottle of whiskey he'd secured several days before where a distiller was trying to unload his entire inventory before leaving town ahead of the pillaging that was sure to come. Teneira sat herself beside him and seized the bottle from him, taking a tear-inducing gulp and managing to swallow it without coughing.

"Have you calmed yourself?" Duncan asked like a stern schoolmaster.

"No worries, Ser, few more sips of this and everyone will be my best friend," Teneira replied, taking another swig of whiskey. Duncan clearly did not approve, but he said nothing as she and Daveth finished the bottle.

"Maker's breath," muttered Alistair, sitting down with them, "You'll drink dwarven whiskey like mother's milk, but the thought of darkspawn blood makes you gag?"

"And who're you?" Daveth asked, sounding like a little boy saying 'This is my friend and my whiskey and you are not part of the club.'

"Alistair," he said, extending a hand to shake. Daveth did so, warily. He uncorked a second bottle and offered it to him.

"There's a fellow in the Wardens, camped out down below," Alistair said, taking the bottle and gesturing vaguely at the ravine, "Whom we had drinking three ales an hour, and he lasted all night while the rest of us slept beneath the tables."

"Sounds like a true hero," Teneira said, only a little sarcastically.

"Well I'm not him," Alistair said, and took a swig. This turned him into a spluttering, redfaced mess in seconds.

"Sure and you're not," Daveth replied, "Was that your first drink, lad?"

Alistair opened his mouth, surely to say something smart, but instead, kept coughing until first Ten and then Daveth whacked him on the back with a closed fist.

"What's gotten into him?" Alistair asked, finally getting ahold of himself and gesturing at Jory with his chin.

"He's on his monthly cycle," said Ten, "It's quite all right, he'll be back to himself in a few days."

Daveth laughed, but Alistair looked very confused, "What's she mean, monthly cycle?" he asked Daveth.

"You know," Ten said, chuckling and answering for Daveth, "A woman's period?"

"A what?" Alistair asked, positively baffled.

"You're how old and nobody's taught you about the birds and the…" Daveth began, but was interrupted by Duncan striding over.

"Wardens! Now that you are all here, I must give you your tasks. I would appreciate you being sober for this bit, Teneira and Daveth." Daveth put away the whiskey sheepishly. Teneira could already feel it pulsing through her veins, "Tomorrow morning, you will set forth into the Korcari wilds, with these." He held up three small vials for them to see. "You will slaughter any darkspawn you come across, and you will collect their blood in these, and return them to me. While you are there, you will also seek out a ruin of a Grey Warden fortress built in these parts long ago against the previous blights. While the fortress has crumbled, there should be within the ruin a vault containing ancient treaties signed with various factions throughout Ferelden. While it is my hope that calling these favors due will not be necessary, we must do all that is possible to prepare for the coming blight. Do you understand me?"

"::hic:: Yes, Ser," Teneira said.

"Yes, Ser," mumbled Daveth.

"Yes, Ser!" barked Jory.

"I will leave you to take your rest," Duncan said, "But first…" He stooped, and picked up the bottle from where Daveth had laid it on the ground. He took a great swig, swallowed it down as though it were no rougher than water, and returned the bottle, "Good night." He turned and walked off towards the king's tent, presumably to have an audience.

"Jory," Ten said, feeling sorry for the big man, sitting all alone, "Come over here and drink with us. I'm sorry for what I said earlier."

"I don't trust you," he said, walking over, "Either of you. You're both criminals."

"Most of us are," Alistair said, "Well, I'm not, and apparently you're not, but you'd be surprised at how many cut-purses and bandits form our ranks."

"Comforting," Jory muttered, "When Duncan recruited me he talked like it was some great honor, and now I find myself in the company of a couple of lowlifes from the streets of Denerim and some… renegade templar. That's what you are, is it not?"

"In a manner of speaking," Alistair said, "But whether you like it or not, you're stuck with us. So you might as well have a dram!"

"Wise man, that," Daveth said, "Come on, no need to make that face, we're all brothers now. And a sister." He put his arm around Teneira's shoulders and gave her a squeeze, "From a cell in Denerim to a soldier's camp to fighting the darkspawn, I couldn't ask for a better one!"

"Daveth, I think you're drunk already," Ten said, but she put her arm around him as well. There was comfort in being physically close to people. She knew that she shouldn't quite trust Daveth yet, but he'd given her no reason not to. Daveth was not Vaughan, and Ostagar was not the alienage. Alistair wasn't the wisest of men by a long shot, but he was friendly, and did not look down on her as Jory seemed to. All in all, given that the last time she had been in the company of three human men, she felt… almost safe.

After some time, just at the point Daveth was telling his own version of the story about the frogs in the canal, even Jory joined them, evidently finding it better to drink with people he didn't like than sit and sulk alone. By the time night had set in in earnest, the four of them all had their arms around each other, swaying back and forth and howling popular drinking songs off-key and loudly. Within an hour after that, the whiskey had fully seized Ten by her hair and sent her back to her tent, where she passed out, still fully clothed.