The Dalish Camp

After a while, night had fallen, and faint lights began to glimmer in the distance, flickering like fireflies through the thick darkness of the Brecilian Forest. The group followed their Dalish escorts toward the camp. The woods grew quieter as they approached, save for the rustling of leaves and the occasional crackle of distant flames.

As they entered the clearing, the camp unfolded before them. It was a somber sight: neatly arranged aravels, their intricate carvings glowing in the firelight, stood in stark contrast to the air of despair that hung heavy over the area. A large bonfire crackled at the center, illuminating the grim faces of the Dalish.

But it was a specific corner of the camp that drew their attention. Elves lay on mats and blankets, their faces pale and drawn. They clutched at their sides or writhed in silence, their suffering evident in every strained breath. The group paused, and Alistair turned to Felass'an, the lead elf who had brought them here.

"What… what's going on here?" Alistair asked, his voice tinged with concern as he gestured toward the afflicted elves.

Felass'an's expression darkened. "You will have to ask the Keeper. But know this—our people cannot offer you aid as things stand. We are stretched beyond our limits." He didn't elaborate further, his tone making it clear that no more would be said until they reached the Keeper.

The Dalish led the group to a larger aravel at the far end of the camp, its entrance draped with embroidered cloths bearing elven runes. Inside, they met Zathrian, the Keeper of the clan. He stood tall, his frame lean but commanding. Though he appeared to be around fifty in human years, his sharp, knowing eyes hinted at an age far older. His head was bald, but Dalish tattoos adorned his face, their intricate lines lending him an almost mystical air.

Zathrian studied them with a guarded expression, his hands folded in front of him. "Shemlen and a city elve alike," he said, his voice calm but measured. "What business brings you to my camp in such dire times?"

Alistair stepped forward, bowing slightly out of respect. "Keeper Zathrian, I am Alistair, a Grey Warden. These are my companions—Leliana, Zevran, Cullen, and… Tamlen." His voice faltered as he glanced at Tamlen, who stood at the back, shivering and clutching his chest.

"We've come to seek your aid," Alistair continued, producing a worn parchment from his pack. "These are the Grey Warden treaties—documents your ancestors signed, pledging your people's assistance in times of Blight. A new Blight has begun, and we need your help."

Zathrian's eyes lingered on the treaties before his gaze shifted to Alistair. He frowned, deep in thought, as if weighing the weight of the words. "A Blight…" he murmured. "Yes… I have felt the forest shift. The air here grows heavy with corruption. We've encountered darkspawn more frequently of late, and their numbers are troubling."

His gaze hardened as he continued. "I will not dismiss your words, Warden. But my people are in no condition to aid anyone right now. As you've seen, many of us are afflicted. We fight against a curse that plagues us, a curse tied to the werewolves that dwell deep in the ruins of this forest. If you wish for our assistance, you must help us first. End this curse, and then we will stand with you against the Blight."

The group exchanged uncertain glances. Alistair sighed, then nodded. "If that's what it takes, we'll help. Tell us what we need to do."

Before Zathrian could answer, Tamlen suddenly stumbled forward, his breathing labored. "Mirror…" he rasped, his voice barely audible before he collapsed to his knees in agony. The group rushed to his side, but Zathrian stepped closer, his expression darkening as he studied the stricken elf.

"He's one of the Dalish," Zathrian said quietly, his tone laced with recognition. "Not of this clan, but I know of him. And I've heard of this mirror before." He straightened, his eyes narrowing in thought. "My hunters spoke of a mirror within the ruins—where the werewolves now hide. If you're searching for a cure to his affliction, I cannot help you. But the answer you seek may lie there."

The Keeper turned toward the gathered Dalish, his voice carrying authority as he addressed them. "These travelers have come seeking aid, and though they are outsiders, they carry the weight of the Grey Wardens' mission. They will remain here for the time being, and no one is to deny them resources or shelter. They are here to help, not to bring harm."

The camp fell silent, save for the crackling of the fire. The Dalish regarded the group with a mixture of mistrust and curiosity, their whispered conversations barely audible.

Zathrian turned back to the companions. "Felass'an will guide you to our secondary camp, where you will rest for the night. Prepare yourselves. If you truly mean to lift this curse, you will need your strength. We will tal about the specifics in the morning."

Alistair inclined his head respectfully. "Thank you, Keeper."

With that, the group followed Felass'an once more, the weight of their mission pressing heavily on their shoulders.

The Night at the Camp

The secondary camp lay in a quieter part of the forest, tucked away beneath a thick canopy of trees. A few smaller fires burned here, their light flickering across the weathered faces of Dalish hunters and scouts. Though the main camp had been tense, this one felt even more guarded. Every elf they passed eyed the group with suspicion, their hands never straying far from their weapons.

Felass'an led them to a modest clearing near one of the fires. "You'll rest here," he said flatly, crossing his arms as he spoke. "Stay out of trouble, Shemlen." His sharp gaze swept over each of them, lingering slightly longer on Zevran, who responded with a lopsided smile.

"How generous of you," Zevran quipped, his tone light. "It almost reminds me of a warm childhood memory—though I'm afraid such luxuries have always eluded me."

Felass'an didn't rise to the bait, but his expression hardened. "The Keeper has given you his word. You'll have food and rest, but nothing more. Do not mistake our hospitality for trust."

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and left, his long strides carrying him back toward the other Dalish.

The group settled by the fire, the warmth doing little to ease the chill in the air. Leliana took a seat on a fallen log, pulling her cloak tightly around her shoulders, while Cullen stood nearby, scanning the shadows with a hand resting on the pommel of his sword. Alistair crouched by the fire, poking at it absentmindedly, his face a mask of thought.

Zevran leaned casually against a tree, watching the flames with an expression that was unusually subdued. After a long moment, he spoke. "You know," he began, his voice softer than usual, "I've heard stories of the Dalish. Tales whispered by mercenaries and travelers. To some, they're ghostly wanderers, slipping between the trees like shadows. To others, they're the keepers of a proud history, unbroken despite the cruelties of men."

He paused, his gaze flickering to the nearby Dalish, who were still murmuring to one another and glancing suspiciously at the group. "For me? They were bedtime stories. My mother… she was Dalish, or so I was told. But I don't remember her face." His lips curved into a faint, bitter smile. "The Crows made sure of that when they plucked me from wherever I was left behind. What remains in my mind are fragments—maybe even less than that. A melody, perhaps. A voice. Nothing more."

The fire crackled softly in the silence that followed. Leliana tilted her head, her voice gentle. "Does it feel strange, being here? Among them?"

Zevran chuckled dryly. "Strange? No. Foreign? Absolutely. Whatever tie I might have had to their world was severed long ago. I am no Dalish, Leliana. Not truly. I am a man of Antiva, and even that title rests uneasily on my shoulders."

Cullen's voice cut through the quiet. "Maybe that's why they don't trust us. You said it yourself—they see us as outsiders. Why should they care about our problems when they have their own?"

Alistair sighed, tossing the stick he'd been poking the fire with into the flames. "Because the Blight isn't just our problem. It's theirs too, whether they want to admit it or not."

"But we can't blame them for being cautious," Leliana added. "Look at their faces, their camp. They're suffering, just like us. Perhaps more."

The group fell silent again, their thoughts heavy. Nearby, Tamlen sat slumped against a tree, his breathing shallow. He hadn't spoken since their arrival, though his occasional murmurs of "Mirror…" continued to haunt them.

Alistair glanced at the elf, frowning. "I hope Zathrian is right about the ruins. If there's even a chance we can help him…" He trailed off, the weight of his words lingering.

Zevran leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he regarded the group with a faint smirk. "You're all so serious tonight. Brooding, even. It's a shame we don't have wine. At least then we could brood with a proper drink in hand."

Despite the levity in his tone, no one laughed. Instead, Leliana gave him a knowing smile. "You deflect, Zevran. But even you must feel the weight of what's ahead."

"Of course," he replied with a shrug. "But what good does it do to carry it on our faces? I say we rest, as Felass'an so kindly suggested. We'll need our wits about us when we step into those ruins."

Cullen nodded reluctantly. "He's right. We'll need our strength for tomorrow."

The group gradually settled in for the night, though the tension in the air was impossible to ignore. Nearby, the Dalish kept watch, their low murmurs mingling with the rustle of leaves and the distant calls of nocturnal creatures.

As Alistair lay back against his pack, he stared up at the faint stars through the canopy above. "Do you think they'll ever see us as more than strangers?" he asked quietly.

Zevran's voice came from the darkness, tinged with a faint trace of humor. "Perhaps. But only if we don't die horribly in the process. That tends to leave a favorable impression, no?"

Alistair let out a soft chuckle despite himself. "I'll take that as a yes."

With that, the group drifted into an uneasy sleep, the shadows of the Brecilian Forest pressing in around them as the camp grew still.