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[Corker]

Prologue

“Why can’t anyone ever leave one of these things on, I don’t know, their mother’s mantelpiece or something?” Finn asked sourly. Hot updrafts from the chasm before them ruffled the mage’s hair as he stared at the ledge across and down from where they stood, and he unconsciously smoothed it back into place.

“It happens.” Vashti squinted in the dim and angry red-orange light of the lava flow below. “I found the Veshaille in a merchant’s cart.”

‘“We’ve found the Urn of Felas’era and all you two can do is complain?” Ariane asked incredulously. Vashti favored her with a dark look - she hadn’t been complaining. Ariane ignored it. “Well... now what? I suppose we head up tunnel to look for a way across?” They were underground, in the Deep Roads, in a long-forgotten tunnel that had once been part of the route from ancient Cad’halash to Kal-Sharok. When Kal-Sharok destroyed the smaller thaig, not all of the plunder returned to the great capital. According to the legends and rumors Finn had been chasing, the Urn was likely among the lost loot.

“The scroll.” The taciturn Grey Warden held out a hand to Finn. He responded with a martyred sigh, dropping his pack and undoing the buckles. Anyone else might have had to rummage for the scroll case, but not Finn - four such cases were neatly arrayed along the right side of the bag, and he plucked out the second from the top without hesitation. He removed the pair of polished wooden handles from the case and unrolled a section of the scroll. “What do you want to see?”

“The picture,” Vashti replied, hand still out. She waited as he fiddled, unspooling parchment from one handle and taking it up on the other until an image of the Urn was framed between his hands. “Be careful,” he admonished, as always. Ariane reflected that there was progress - he let them touch his papers, now.

Vashti looked at the picture of the Urn, then back across the chasm. They could all see the silver-blue glitter of its footed pedestal, but the tall, slender body and wide, branching arms were hidden from view by an overhang of rock. “If I can see these,” she pointed towards the arms in the picture, eliciting a “dut-dut-dut!” from Finn when it looked as if she might touch it, “I can put an arrow through one. With a string on it.”

“And when we pull back on the string, the arrow will turn longways and catch on the arm,” Ariane nodded. “It’s... a little risky. I don’t like the idea of the Urn hanging from a thread over a river of lava.”

“The map on the road-marker we found only showed the one bridge across this chasm,” Finn said thoughtfully. “And we passed the ruins of that yesterday. There might not be a way across anymore.”

Ariane sighed; the mage was right. “So we’re going to lower you over the side until you can get a shot?” Vashti nodded. “Let me get the rope...”

In short order, they had rigged a harness for the Dalish archer and Ariane was slowly easing her into the chasm. “Enough! I see it!” the hunter called. Then, more quietly: “It is beautiful.”

“And you are heavy!” Ariane shouted back. “We can admire it later, all right?”

The only response was the rope slowly twisting in her hands as Vashti shifted her weight to nock the specially-prepared arrow and draw. There was the familiar zip! and a clatter as the shaft hit stone. Vashti paused to check that the string was well-tied to her belt, and then she began to slowly, carefully pull it back in. Ariane could see the bottom of the urn edging forward, hear the grind of metal on stone.

She heard Finn’s breath catch when the Urn went over the edge, and he flinched when it clanged into the rock wall behind the Warden. Ariane grimaced herself; it was painful to hear the precious artifact get slammed about, but it was said to be lyrium-infused veridium and should be able to withstand the rough handling. “All right!” she called down to Vashti. “Up you -- “

The Grey Warden twitched suddenly, bow coming up as if to target enemies to their right. “Darkspawn!” she shouted. “A small band and close!”

Ariane cursed colorfully. “What do we do? What do we do?” Finn asked, looking rapidly between Vashti dangling below them and the darkness ahead. No longer still and silent, gutteral rasping voices and dangerous metallic sounds could be heard from within it.

“You hold this,” Ariane decided suddenly, thrusting the rope at Finn, “and I kill them.”

“But I... uh! She’s... she’s very heavy... Maker, I... Ariane -- !”

“Do it, Finn!” she shouted, as the first hurlock emerged from the shadows, a lipless grin twisting its tainted features.

“I am the sword of my fathers!” Ariane’s battle cry echoed off the stone walls as she charged the thing, blades in both her hands. Three solid blows and it was down, but two blackened shafts suddenly sprouted from her shoulder. Genlock archers - the thought flashed through her mind even as her left arm went numb and she dropped Rain of Petals. Normally, Vashti would have put arrows through their eyes by now, or Finn would have caught one in a glyph.

The archers were not far down the tunnel; five running steps and she could smash the bows out of their hands. But that would leave nothing between Finn and the remaining two hurlocks that were advancing. Ariane grimaced and tried to keep them between her and their archers.

She was accustomed to using two blades for attack and parry; with only one at her disposal, she found that she had to miss opportunities to strike to defend herself instead. She tried not to notice that it was frighteningly quiet behind her and focused on downing one hurlock and then the other.

An arrow took her in the thigh, just below the hem of her chain, and she staggered. Five running steps away... but they both had arrows trained on her. Swallowing, she raised her father’s blade and --

Zip! Zip! Pale grey goose feathers bloomed in the throats of the genlocks. Their filthy hands reached up to claw uselessly at the ash shafts as they gurgled and fell to the floor. Ariane paused a moment, waiting to be sure that no more were coming, and she heard Vashti call out, “That’s it. They’re dead.”

The Dalish warrior sagged, easing herself down to the ground to wait for help. “How are you?” Vashti asked, still well behind her. The distant clanking sounds seemed to indicate she was drawing the Urn up.

“Been better. Not dying in the next five minutes.” Where was Finn? She should have heard him fussing and scolding by now. She craned her head to see what was going on.

Vashti was indeed reeling in the string, and as Ariane watched, the shining Urn came into view. It was beautiful, with elegant lines and proportions that whispered quiet secrets about the shape of life. The Grey Warden quickly put a hand on it and placed it safely beside Finn. The rope Ariane had handed him was wrapped once around his waist and clenched in one hand; the other was held somewhat apart, frozen in the final gesture of a spell.

“He’s heavy enough,” Vashti said, nodding at the larger human man, “but I don’t think he could keep a grip on the rope. I climbed up once he got it secure.”

“He paralyzed himself?” Ariane asked incredulously.

The glyph flared again as it died, and Finn stumbled backwards. “I paralyzed myself,” he said proudly, recovering his balance. “My magic’s stronger than my muscles, it seems.”

Ariane laughed, although the sound was frayed at the edges. “Clever, ser mage,” she said. “Now please... the bandages? And the poultices? I’ve taken three of their corrupted arrows and I want them out of me, now.”

Now it's time for our heroes to return with their treasure to the new elven homeland in the Hinterlands, and the great fortress of Ostagar.  Little do they suspect that someone is already there, eagerly awaiting a reunion with one of them...

Modifié par Corker, 09 mars 2011 - 06:38 .

[Morwen Eledhwen]

This was fun! *rubs hands in anticipation*

[Corker]

@Morwen - thanks!  Fun is what I'm aiming at.

Reunion

Our heroes return to Ostagar following their successful adventure of the Prologue...

Perched high in the pine-covered hills, the fortress of Ostagar was a hive of activity. Teams of surface dwarves oversaw gangs of elves, shifting cut stone from the Imperial Highway to here, then shuttling it around to different worksites. Sturdy cranes loomed higher than the granite walls, perfectly-shaped white blocks dangling from them like children’s toys.

The Dalish had no particular confidence that the humans wouldn’t eventually try and take this land from them, too.

“How do they pay all those dwarves, anyway?” Finn asked, watching a work team as they passed it by. “They’re not selling the artifacts we bring back, are they?”

“No!” The two Dalish replied simultaneously, scandalized. “I traded for it,” Vashti said, glowering at Finn.

“You traded for... enough labor to rebuild Ostagar? That’s impossible!” Finn gestured broadly, encompassing all the ongoing bustle. “This must be worth the ransom of a king. Several kings! A kingdom, even! What could you possibly trade for that?”

“Kal’Hirol,” the Grey Warden said, looking away with a slight smile.

“But... oh.” Finn paused. “I see. Yes, I suppose... that might do it.”

Ariane hid a smile behind her hand. The longer she traveled with Vashti, the harder it got to remember that this was the Hero of Ferelden, Blight-queller, Warden Commander, who did six impossible things before breakfast. The hunter always insisted that she was just Fen’Harel’s chew-stick, in the wrong place at the right time.

Speaking of chew-sticks... As they entered the newly-roofed Great Hall, the Warden’s mabari hound let out a joyful bark and ran down its length toward them. Vashti dropped to one knee to greet him, far more affectionately than she treated... well, anyone Ariane could think of.

A murmur swept up the hall like a windy ripple moving through tall grass as their entrance was noticed. “We found it!” Ariane called, eager to announce their victory. “The Urn of Felas’era!” The gathered elves - mostly Keepers and hahren - cheered, while a few dwarves waited politely for everyone to get back to business. The best antiquarians were sent for, and people began to crowd around, eager to hear the tale of the adventure.

“I’m not the tallest one in the room today?” Finn suddenly murmured, surprised. “Who’s that?” He nodded in the direction of a large human man, standing back from the general crowd but observing with a look of keen anticipation.

Dog looked at Finn and barked smartly. He danced a little turn in front of Vashti (jostling dour Keeper Rynlas, Ariane noted with amusement), pranced a few steps away and turned back with another bark. The Grey Warden rose, familiar with this routine, and looked up in the direction he was headed. Her eyes went wide. “Alistair?”

The big man smiled widely and took this as leave to approach. Ariane stared a little. “Alistair? Warden Alistair? The one who fought the Archdemon with you?”

Vashti nodded. Dog barked and wagged his stub tail enthusiastically. Finn leaned down over Ariane’s shoulder. “I want to hear the good parts later,” he said quietly, before straightening up and calling more loudly, “This treasure, although ancient and mysterious and many other worthy things, is also made of veridium and quite heavy. If we could all move further down to the Path of the Ancestors... I see there’s an open niche... please let me put this down and I will be more than happy to relate my record of our expedition to the loremasters. This way, this way please...” The crowd shuffled off after Finn and the glittering urn, leaving Ariane and the two Wardens alone.

“Vashti.” He approached with one arm outstretched, and the Dalish hunter reached out to clasp his forearm. “It’s good to see you.”

She looked... not exactly unhappy, but somewhat resigned, Ariane thought. “Andaran atish’an, Alistair. Are you here to recall me to duty?”

“Always straight to business with you, right?” He chuckled good-naturedly. “No, don’t worry about that. I’m here as a glorified errand boy for Commander Howe, with a present for you.”

“A present?”

“Unbelievable, isn’t it? The dog refused to believe it, either. Because he’s such a smart boy.” He grinned down at the mabari, who slapped the ground with his front paws in response to the attention. “Aren’t you? Yes you are! So,” he looked back up, “we’re quite caught up. But I don’t believe we’ve met.” He sketched a brief bow in Ariane’s direction. “Alistair of the Grey Wardens.”

“Ariane, of Solan’s clan,” she replied slowly. She couldn’t decide if his easy manner came from an excess of natural good humor or the arrogance of a human among elves. He did know the Dalish weren’t city elves with odd tattoos, didn’t he? “It’s funny; I didn’t realize it, but I always pictured you as an elf.”

“Always pictured me...? Have you been telling tales?” he asked Vashti. “Not the ones where I look like an idiot, I hope.”

“I save those for special occasions,” Vashti deadpanned.

“Snow is very slippery,” Alistair told Ariane earnestly. “And it’s hard to climb in armor with a shield strapped on.”

“I’ll... keep that in mind?”

“Great! Well. Let’s take care of business and maybe I can hear some tales about your adventures. Just to even things out.” Creators, did the man ever stop smiling?

“There’s other business,” Vashti said suddenly. “About Morrigan.”

That sobered the other Warden up in a hurry. “Morrigan? You... found her? And... and the... the... you know.” He glanced apologetically at Ariane. “Sorry. It’s sort of Grey Warden business.”

“The eluvian?” Ariane guessed, determined to prove... something. “Or no... the boy?”

She was not expecting the sudden raw pain that crossed his face. “It’s a boy?” he asked, sounding a little distant.

Vashti was scowling at her. And not her habitual scowl, either, but one with real anger behind it. “Ir abelas,” Ariane apologized quickly, holding up both hands palm-out. “I’ve... spoken out of turn, I think. I’ll... I’ll be quiet now.”

“Ma serannas,” Vashti gritted. “Abelas, but my blood-brother and I must speak alone, Ariane. I will look for you later by the Warden’s Fire.” She turned on her heel sharply and marched back toward the door, Dog trotting happily alongside.

Alistair took a step to follow after her, then looked back at the Dalish warrior. “Sorry,” he said, before hurrying along, and she wondered why he was apologizing to her.

“Have I mentioned that I love what you’ve done with the place?” was the last thing she heard before they were all three out the door into the courtyard.

Ariane sighed. That could have gone better.

She paced slowly down the Great Hall, passing the relics stationed along the Path of the Ancestors. Her clan’s book was there, as were the eluvian and the Lights of Arlathan. Vashti had turned over the Veshaille for display as well; she’d said it was reckless for her to carry it into danger so often, particularly when she did not even use it frequently. The great bow, Sorrows of Arlathan, rested on a dragonbone stand Vashti had carved herself. She’d parted with the bow with far more reluctance than she had the Veshaille, but it would have been too great a tragedy to lose it on the road somewhere. The ancient Brecilian armor, the set finally complete, glittered in its shadowed recess. Ariane’s own armor was modeled on it, a new suit made from an old pattern.

Piece by piece, they were reclaiming the heritage of Arlathan.

The magical belt, Andruil’s Blessing, that had been purchased from the Circle Tower lay coiled in its niche. Next to it lay a pile of crystal shards, the remains of a phylactery that had housed the spirit of an elf from a mysterious bygone era, and a manuscript that contained the final teachings of that spirit. A collection of ancient dar’missan, a bow older than Denerim, and - controversially - a lyrium-inscribed breastplate made for a Tevinter general. But it had been found in elven ruins...

Finn was still lecturing on their latest acquisition. Keeper Lanaya was listening eagerly, asking questions about Finn’s research and sources. Her own Keeper, Solan... he stood with his arms crossed and his face closed. Ariane knew that it pained him, and some of the others, to be instructed in their own history by a human. Ariane thought it was unfair herself, but since when had life been fair to the Dalish? Things were the way they were, and the Tevinter records that contained most of the existing references to the ancient elves were in human hands. Finn spoke and read Arcanum as well as any Tevinter, a brag no Dalish she knew could make.

And... he really was a scholar without borders, she thought. If he hadn’t met up with her and Vashti, he might be presenting his research to the enchanters of the Circle Tower. But he was equally happy to present it here, out in the Wilds, to a people considered savage by the rest of Ferelden, because he saw in the Keepers and hahren fellow scholars with a keen interest in his work. It wouldn’t occur to him that the knowledge should be kept to the Tower, secrets to make them more powerful.

Not that he couldn’t still be an utter ass around anyone who wasn’t a fellow scholar.

He was still quoting translations from Tevinter scrolls; he hadn’t even started talking about their actual adventure yet. This was going to be a while, and frankly, she’d either heard it or been there for it. She turned and walked back down the hall, leaving and quietly shutting the door behind her.

Vashti found her an hour or so later. The Warden’s Fire was a focal point in the courtyard, a large bonfire kept burning for practical and symbolic reasons. Most Dalish assumed it was named for their Warden, but Vashti had told her that this was the spot where the old Warden-Commander Duncan had made his camp, before the terrible battle.

Ariane raked a covered clay pot out of the coals. “I made some dinner,” she said, wondering if her earlier mis-step could just be overlooked. “Where’s your friend?”

“Alone for now. I will bring him something to eat.” She fell silent as Ariane split the contents of the pot between three bowls. “I’m a Warden-Commander again.”

Ariane nearly dropped the ladel. “What? But he said all he brought was a gift! Are they making you go back to the Vigil?”

Vashi gave a small smile; no, a smirk. “Warden-Commander of the Dalish Wardens. Whenever we get some.”

“Oh!” Ariane laughed with some relief. “Well, congratulations, Commander!”

“And the First Warden agrees that it is appropriate for the Warden-Commander of the Dalish to carry... this.” Vashti reached over her shoulder to draw a fine dar’missan, its blade rippling with purple-black folds of dragonbone. “I almost stole this from the Vigil,” she admitted, “but it belongs as much to the Wardens as to the elves. This is Dumat’s Spine, forged just after the end of the First Blight.”

“Just after... before the revolution, even?”

“Yes. Even while we were slaves, some of us were Grey Wardens,” she said quietly, tilting the blade so that the firelight ran along it.

“Is it... is it really...?”

“The bone of the first Archdemon?” Vashti finished it for her and shrugged. “None can say. It has always been called this, according to the records, but perhaps the name is a symbol.” She looked sideways at Ariane, dark eyes glittering in the dancing light. “The records also speak of a companion dar’misu, Dumat’s Claw. Alistair was kind enough to bring those records with him. It seems to have been... misplaced about a hundred years ago.”

“Warden-Commander, I think the dignity of your office demands a matched set of weapons,” Ariane said slyly.

“We should find it,” Vashti agreed. “Finn has no other leads as solid or as recent, I think.”

Ariane hesitated. “Will your friend be joining us?”

“I do not think so.”

Another pause. Ariane swallowed and looked down at her feet. Vashti would let it pass without remark, but then it would just be squatting there for days and days. “I’m sorry I... said what I did. I didn’t mean to hurt him with my words.”

To her surprise, Vashti shook her head. “Ma serannas, Ariane, but no apology is needed. You were there, you heard what was said, and I never asked that you keep it in confidence.” The Warden sheathed the blade and stooped to pick up two bowls of stewed quail and roots. “But you need not be jealous of him.”

Ariane opened her mouth to protest, but Vashti kept smoothly on. “With him, I may not share certain things of the elvhenan. With you, I may not share certain things of the Wardens. That is how it is.”

Ariane checked herself and simply nodded. “Ma nuvenin,” she said. “I understand. Or I will try to.”

“Ma serranas, lethallan.” The Warden turned to go, perhaps purposefully missing Ariane’s somewhat stunned look.

She had never heard Vashti call anyone lethallan before.

Tune in next week, as tales of the Grey Wardens and the Black Fox intertwine in Legends!

[Corker]

Legends


Having acquired Dumat’s Spine, our trio (plus Dog) have decided to quest for the missing dar’misu called Dumat’s Claw. Let us follow their route northward: Bold Ariane is skittish, despite herself, as they pass through Redcliffe, and ends up sleeping on the castle ramparts instead of in her room. Finn gazes over Lake Calenhad toward the Circle Tower, his face unreadable. Dog frolics in the snow of the Frostback Mountains, enthusiastically attempting to catch snowballs with his mouth. An entire tavern in Halamshiral is laid to waste when the locals unwisely taunt the Dalish women into a fistfight. Finn gently squeezes Vashti’s lips while she glares at him, trying to correctly pronounce an Orlesian phrase. An argument at the docks over the armed Dalish is resolved with a bag of coins, and, as the sails of the small ferry pull taut in the breeze, our merry band looks across this narrow finger of the Waking Sea to the distant domes and spires of the Grand Cathedral of Val Royeaux.

“This is preposterous,” Finn repeated as he carefully sidled down the gangplank. “Ludicrous, even!”

“We found the Urn working from older and more piecemeal sources, didn’t we?” Ariane asked.

“Older and more dignified sources! How am I supposed to look people in the eye and say, ‘Based on the twenty-second stanza of ‘The Black Fox and the Magister,’ we feel certain that the Claw never left Orlais’? They’ll laugh me off the floor. It’s... popular balladry! Half of it - more than half! - is entirely fictitious!” The mage was so worked up he failed to notice he’d reached the end of the walkway. His next step came up short and he stumbled, arms pinwheeling. “Whoa!”

Behind him, Vashti caught a handful of robe to steady him. He whipped briefly from side to side, once his forward motion was checked, but finally found his balance. “Don’t suppose anyone would believe I meant to do that?” he asked, rubbing his brow.

“What first?” Vashti asked, stepping off the gangplank. Dog brushed past her, barking at some seabirds further down the pier.

“Well, we’re quite the motley crew,” Finn acknowledged. “I should alert the local templars to my presence, before they take me for an apostate. And we should seek some sort of acknowledgement from the Grey Wardens for you. Ariane...”

“Is with the two of you,” the Dalish warrior replied firmly. “Surely in such august company, I can be trusted not to go berserk and start sacrificing human babies.”

“Surely,” Vashti agreed drily. “And here come the templars.” A pair of men in the Chantry’s distinctive armor who’d been watching the dockside were homing in on Finn’s staff. He straightened, brushed at a few nonexistent wrinkles in his immaculate robes, and settled a pleasant smile on his face.

“Welcome to Val Royeaux, Enchanter,” one said formally. That was all Ariane got before the Orlesian passed into sentences beyond the helpful phrases Finn had taught them. Finn replied almost cheerfully, and produced a piece of parchment from a pouch. That would be his permit from the First Enchanter, the one that let him continue his research outside of the Tower. He handed it to the templar, who read it carefully and returned it.

“Very good,” he said, another phrase she knew. She tensed as he started pointing at Vashti and herself, asking questions.

Before Finn could reply, Vashti was pointing to herself with her thumb. “Warden-Commander Vashti Mahariel,” she said, slowly and clearly. The templars glanced at each other, then at the double-headed griffon gilded on Vashti’s Dalish leather armor. “I killed the Archdemon.” She’d insisted on learning the sentence in Orlesian.

The templars looked to Finn, who merely shrugged. “Oui.”

There was some more muttering, but the templars apparently decided that wild Dalish on the streets of Val Royeaux were, unless they were wild Dalish mages, not their problem. They turned to go before the second one stopped. Frowning, he pointed back at Finn - specifically, at something on Finn’s chest. “What is that?” he asked.

Finn looked down, eyes wide with surprise. “It must’ve fallen out when I stumbled,” he muttered darkly. Ariane had glimpsed the silver pendant before, but the mage usually kept it under his robes. She’s assumed it was a personal token, but apparently the templars saw something sinister in it. Looking at it now, Ariane almost had to agree. The sinuous curving lines of the thing looked predatory, somehow. It was silver, but with that blueish sheen that meant it was alloyed with lyrium - but the iridescence seemed to ripple or pulse when she wasn't looking straight at it.

A tense little conversation followed. Finn, grinning desperately, talked at high speed and, at one point, attempted to reference his notebook. The anonymous templar helmets shook from side to side, and one reached for the pendant - but stopped, a casual question emerging from within. Finn blinked in surprise, then hurriedly agreed, digging two vials of lyrium potion from his pouch and handing them over. The templars departed.

The mage indignantly stuffed his amulet back into his robes. “Why, I never! A licensing fee? Outright extortion, that’s what that was.”

“Explain, please,” Vashti said.

“My pendant. It’s a replica of an old Tevinter amulet. One that... happens to be the sigil of an Old God. They were commonly worn in the heyday of the Empire!” he said defensively. “Apotropaically, in this case.”

Vasthi tapped a foot. “Which means...?”

“Um... defensively? Asking the god to turn aside his attention. This is the sigil of Zazikel, the god of chaos.”

Ariane laughed. “You? You? Are wearing the sign of a god of chaos? Finn, you press the wrinkles out of your smallclothes. You are the least chaotic person I have ever met!”

“Yes, well,” Finn bridled, “I said apotropaically. And not even seriously! I don’t worship the Old Gods. Anyway, I’ve enchanted the thing a good bit over the years, and I’d be quite put out if some templar decided it was a dark and dangerous pagan artifact and took it. Which they clearly realized. I suppose I should be thankful,” he sighed. “At least I had some lyrium to give them.”

Down at the edge of the pier, the dog barked impatiently. “We’re coming!” Ariane called. “Relax already.” She looked at Finn. “So where are we going? ‘Grey Warden headquarters,’ I know, but which way?”

“Ehem...” Finn squinted into the middle distance, as he frequently did when recalling facts. “Head for the Grand Cathedral and we’ll work from there. I suspect we’ll end up there anyway.”

“Why’s that?” Vashti prompted him.

“Well, in...” and he paused to sigh heavily, “...in ‘The Black Fox and the Divine,’ which directly follows ‘The Black Fox and the Grey Wardens’... well, one can infer that ordering, since he steals Dumat’s Claw from the Commander of the Grey (who is the brother of his archenemy) in the latter, and is seen using it in battle in the former... in ‘The Divine,’ Remi and Karolis fight the Lord du Chevin’s men in the choir loft of the Grand Cathedral, and Karolis is specifically mentioned as having the Claw. And that’s the last time it’s referenced, until it’s confirmed missing in ‘The Black Fox and the Magister,’ which since it also takes place in Val Royeaux, I tentatively place after ‘The Divine.’”

Vashti considered all this. “Dar’misu last seen in cathedral.”

“Right.”

“Why didn’t you just say that?”

“I did!”

They lapsed into silence as they moved away from the docks. Finn walked slowly, pausing frequently to look up and marvel at one thing or another, here in what was generally acknowledged to be the grandest city in Thedas. The two Dalish unconsciously drifted closer to each other, taking positions for close-quarters combat. Because these were the closest quarters Ariane had ever seen.

The biggest human settlement she had been in, prior to this trip, was the Lake Calenhad Docks, and that was just a handful of buildings. Redcliffe, with its bustling market and crowded palace, had been unnerving, but that had been nothing compared to Jader and Halamshiral. In the cities, the buildings had loomed tall on either side of narrow alleys; humans and animals thronged the streets and plazas in a great cacaphony of shouts and bellows and squawks. The smell was not to be believed! The dark tunnels and thick stone of the Deep Roads didn’t bother her at all, but the noisy, smelly, pushy crowds made her feel unaccountably trapped.

But Jader and Halamshiral were quaint, quiet encampments compared to Val Royeaux.

Men with bales of cloth on their heads pushed past women with baskets of fish. A man on a donkey cart alternately whipped his stubborn beast and the people too slow to get out of its way. Brass horns trumpeted somewhere ahead of them and up as the guards who patrolled the city walls changed shift. Merchants shouted from their stalls, children shrieked and laughed, and street performers sang and tumbled on the cobblestones. Flat ears followed many of the humans, although some were going about their own business. There were even dwarves here and there, promising goods from Orzammar and world over.

But Mythal had dropped her cloak over them. Not even the flat-eared pickpockets dared to come close, once they caught sight of either Finn’s staff or the elves’ vallaslin. Nobody wanted to anger a mage, and they wanted to anger one with a pair of Dalish guards even less. The crowd melted slightly away from them wherever they went, leaving a few blessedly empty feet of space around their group.

Finally, they rounded the corner of a four-story tenement and were suddenly in the presence of the Grand Cathedral.

The Andrastan sun actually shone over its doors, the great wooden beams covered with plates of gold. Its twin spires, namesakes of the Tower Age, reached up to dizzying heights that challenged Ferelden’s Kinloch Hold for ambitious reach. All about the plaza where it stood, chanters in their rose-colored robes recited canticles to passerby, a prose counterpoint to the haunting sung Chant that echoed from the cathedral windows.

“That’s... that’s beautiful,” Finn whispered, staring in awe. “We don’t sing it much in Ferelden, and when we do... it doesn’t sound like that.”

They sang the Chant in its original, barbarian tongue, the one still spoken in Ferelden:

These truths the Maker has revealed to me:
As there is but one world,
One life, one death, there is
But one god, and He is our Maker.
They are sinners, who have given their love
To false gods.

“For you, maybe,” Ariane grumbled quietly, thoughts of the Creators and the Long Sleep coming to mind. Next to her, Vashti, looking down, was also saying something under her breath, but the Grey Warden was starting to speak up. “...my teachings; remember the Vir Tanadhal: The Way of Three Trees that I have given you.”

The hunter’s dark head came up and she took a deep breath, as if she intended to recite the Charge of Andruil for all to hear. To her own surprise, Ariane put a hand on Vashti’s shoulder and gave a small shake. “Come on. This is their great temple. We can be courteous.”

“Please, please don’t get us arrested by the templars. Please,” Finn put in desperately. “Because I’m fairly certain that praying to, um, other gods is an arresting offense.”

Vashti growled in the back of her throat and turned a simmering glare on the cathedral. “In honor of Andraste, great hero and martyr, I will show respect,” she finally said grudgingly. “But let us go from here.”

“Yes, absolutely. If I remember the map correctly - and I do - the Warden headquarters should be four blocks east of -- Maker’s breath, what’s that about?”

To their left, a horse-drawn carriage had emerged from another street that fed into this plaza. The frothing beasts were being driven to a run by a frenetic driver, and pilgrims and chanters alike scattered before its approach. It rattled its way over the cobblestones when suddenly, the plunging horses veered to one side, driving the carriage right at them!

Isn’t that always the way with drivers in foreign cities? See how our quartet handle the situation in our next installment: Reflexes!

[Corker]

Reflexes

As Finn read more about the Legends of the Black Fox, the last known possessor of Dumat’s Claw, our heroes found themselves before the Grand Cathedral of Orlais. But the sacred spell of the Chant was suddenly broken as a racing carriage careered through the square, heading right for them!

Ariane threw herself to the left on instinct, rolling on the hard cobblestones and coming up on one knee. A few feet away, she saw Vashti doing the same; the dog had charged after his mistress, and was skittering in a wide arc as he tried to stop suddenly on the smooth stones. But to her horror, she saw that Finn’s reflexes were not the same as theirs.

They had jumped; he had cast. He finished just as Ariane stood up, the pair of horses only a score of feet from him - he would be under their hooves in less than a second unless -

The pale lines of the glyph flashed in the rapidly-narrowing space between Finn and the horses. The spell slammed into the beasts; the driver went flying from his seat. The horses were to heavy for the repulsion effect to throw them, but the impact confused and frightened them. Whinnying with terror, they lunged to the side, fighting each other and their traces, until they both toppled, one on the other, legs thrashing and heads tossing.

The carriage, of course, toppled with them. Painted and gilded wood scraped and splintered on the stones; the wheels spun uselessly. Finn stared at the destruction he had unwittingly wrought, mouth slightly agape. “I can... I can fix this,” the healer breathed.

“See to the velashi... the aravel-man, Finn, help him!” Ariane shouted. “Vashti, the horses...?”

“I will try.” The ranger had little experience with the large beasts, but it was more than Ariane could do. She dashed to the carriage, to see how those inside it might fare.

She had grabbed the edge of the carriage and gotten herself pushed halfway up when the door opened like a hatch. She found herself staring at a red-faced human whose elaborately coiffed brown curls had been turned into a disheveled bird’s nest. He screamed something in Orlesian, sounding much more angry than hurt. “Do you need help?” Ariane asked, but the man just kept shouting as he clambered up out of the carriage and then leapt down to the street. Ariane lowered herself down as well - she saw that a sword swung at his side, and she didn’t want to be clinging to the bottom of an upturned carriage if the angry man decided to draw it.

Finn hollered something from the other side of the carriage, and the man turned in that direction. “For the love of holy Andraste, do not do such violence to our language, you ignorant barbarian!”

“Ignorant barbarian? Ser, I am the foremost linguist of the Circle of Magi!” Finn sounded genuinely hurt.

“Of Ferelden! Which I imagine is something like being the most polite and cultured warhound of a pack!” Dog barked, although it was hard to tell whether or not it was in agreement. “Only an ignorant barbarian could fail to realize that when a gentleman is coming through, he should get out of his way!”

Ariane moved towards rear of the carriage, where the Orlesian was, glaring at Finn. The mage was rising from the side of the driver, who was moaning softly on the street. “I apologize for the damage to your vehicle, your beasts, and your man,” the mage said crisply. “Your man will need rest but will be well. Your horses, I cannot say - “

Vashti stepped into Ariane’s view. “Dead,” she said, mouth twisting. “Both were badly injured.”

“Those were a matched pair of the finest steeds of Val Chevin!” the man fumed.

“Then perhaps you should have driven them more carefully!” Finn retorted sharply.

“You dare speak to me so, mage? On the very doorstep of the Grand Cathedral? You overreach yourself, barbarian.” Stepping towards Finn, the man drew his fist back. Both Dalish started forward, but Vashti got there first, catching his forearm in a viselike grip. Ariane didn’t think it was possible, but he got even redder. “You should keep your hounds leashed, mage,” he spat, trying - and failing - to shake Vashti off. She stared up at him steadily and smiled, just slightly. “Well. Two hounds for two horses. That seems fair.”

“What?” Finn sounded horrified, but Vashti just smiled more widely. With her free hand, she rapped the gilded griffon on her chest. “Try. Please.”

He looked down at the griffon, looked up at her vallaslin, then down at the griffon again. “You,” he breathed, and there was more venom in the word than in all his prior abuse. “You lying knife-eared b!tch.” He yanked his arm free; Vashti was staring in surprise, clearly not expecting that.

Ariane and Finn exchanged uneasy glances. The crash and the shouting had drawn a bit of an audience. A pair of chanters was hurrying towards the cathedral, possibly to summon templars. Ariane was confident she knew whose side they’d take here.

“You stole our glory, destroyed our men and took our ancient blade,” the man hissed.

Vashti turned her head to regard him sideways. “I killed your horses. Otherwise, I do not know you,” she said carefully.

“You are Mahariel, the so-called Hero of Ferelden, yes?” He swept into a mocking bow. “Warden-Commander Theirry du Montsimmard, Commander of the Grey of Orlais. And I know.”

Vashti regarded him dubiously. “You know?”

He stepped in closer to her; Vashti warily stepped back. From his rear, Ariane and the dog closed the distance between them, and he stopped, head turned slightly to place them. “I know you did not kill the Archdemon. I know Riordan of Jader did, and that Loghain Mac Tir’s dirt-born daughter would not allow the credit to accrue to Orlais. I know that good Orlesian men were sent to serve under the so-called hero and that they all died, because she was really nothing more than a savage barely fit to follow, much less to lead. And I know that the First Warden elected to ignore all of this and grace you with Dumat’s Spine, an honor thoroughly undeserved. And I know - “ his eyes flickered to the distinctive pommel rising above her shoulder, “ - that the honor is now rightly returned to Orlais.”

Vashti shook her head, but Ariane thought she looked uncharacteristically uncertain. “No,” she said slowly. “That is not so.”

“It must be so,” he hissed, leaning in again. “As your presence here makes clear.” He paused, and it seemed that something passed between the two Wardens unsaid. “Admit it, return the blade to my keeping, and I shall forgive you the horses.”

Vashti sighed, but shook her head again. “That is not so,” she repeated.

Across the plaza, the doors of the cathedral swung open, and four templars emerged, heading towards them at a jog. “Oh no,” Finn said quietly.

Commander Thierry’s lips twisted contemptuously. “You are a Grey Warden,” he said to Vashti, “and for the honor of the Order, I will not simply horsewhip you as I might,” and he turned his again slightly to look at Ariane from the corner of his eye, “any other elf. As comical as it might be, let us settle this as equals.”

Vashti squinted. “A... duel, yes?”

“Indeed. Greetings, sers,” the Commander hailed the templars who were pushing their way through the crowd. “You are just in time to witness a settlement between Wardens. I claim the woman’s blade as recompense for my carriage and horses. She will not yield it.”

“You stand in the sight of the Maker,” one of the templars intoned, “before the greatest cathedral in Thedas. You will not sully these stones with murder.”

“Til one yields, then.”

“Acceptable,” replied the templar, after some consideration. “Do you agree to these terms, Warden?”

Finn leaned forward to murmur something into Vashti’s ear; she nodded. “Yes,” she repeated aloud. “I agree.”

The templars turned to the crowd and cried something in Orlesian, and soon a space was cleared. The church warriors took up positions north, south, east and west to observe and ensure proper protocols were followed. Finn, Ariane and the dog stood behind and just to the right of one of the templars, sidelined as observers. The templar turned his helmeted head to regard Finn for a moment, a silent warning against magical meddling in the outcome.

The templar to the north went over quite a list of questions. Were both parties satisfied with their armor - or lack of it, in Thierry’s case? They were. Were they satisfied with the weapons - Thierry’s narrow Orlesian blade against Vashti’s dar’missan and dar’misu? Thierry suggested it would be more equal if they fought single blade against single blade; the templars upheld it as a reasonable request, and Vashti reluctantly surrendered her dagger to Ariane’s keeping. No one had the sun in their eyes, the ground was acceptably level, and so on, until at last the templar called: “Begin!”

Ariane twisted the handle of the dar’misu in her hands as the two Warden Commanders circled each other. She did not know of Vashti’s equal with a bow, but with a blade? And without her customary offhand dagger? And if this man did not hold to his promise to fight only until a yield... She glanced at Finn. His face was closed and his eyes were narrowed; he was calculating something. Probably how he might possibly be of use with four templars standing about. Beside her, the dog whined, unhappy to see his mistress in a fight without him.

Thierry lunged first. He attacked strangely, with the point of his blade, as if it were a giant dagger instead of a sword. It was unexpected, and Vashti’s parry was clumsy. The tip of the weapon scored a long line across her armor, scratching the golden griffon.

Thierry smiled.

Vashti stayed on the defensive, blade still and protective in front of her, but Thierry seemed disinclined to give her further experience with his fighting style. She feinted, swinging the dar’missan like a Ferelden longsword. He parried easily enough, but was surprised in his turn when she brought the weapon around in the curling, dancing strike the Dalish favored, starting low but ending high. He got his thin sword up barely in time, holding it nearly vertically in front of him, point-down, but the force of her blow knocked it back so that the tip pricked his own calf. Blood spotted his silken hose, but the wound did not even make him stagger; it was obviously superficial.

“First blood to you,” Vashti said drily. He glared back and they continued to circle.

They exchanged another set of blows and fell back, and then another. If Ariane were any judge, he was the more skilled swordsman, but Vashti was simply ridiculously fast. Which, if her friend was wise, meant that she would try and end things soon, before fatigue sapped her speed and his skill would win the day.

The cadence of steel-on-steel increased in tempo, but still sounded off to Ariane; the secondary ting! ting! of the dar’misu was absent. Vashti was, indeed, attempting to bring a quick conclusion to the bout, raining blow after blow on the other Warden. He kept up a steady rhythm of parries, and then - just where Ariane should have heard one of the missing tings - his blade snaked out.

But not to hit Vashti. He struck Dumat’s Spine, blade against blade, and rolled that narrow sword of his around it, binding it and - with a snap of his elbow - sending it flying out of Vashti’s hand to clatter on the stones. Another snap, and the point was back and at her throat.

“Yield,” he said gravely.

There was a long moment of silence as the Dalish Warden looked, bewildered, from the Orlesian to her blade and back again. The chief templar cleared his throat noisily. “The duel is done,” he said, “and Commander Thierry is the victor. Commander, take your blade and - “

“No,” Thierry said mildly, not moving. “The duel was til one yields.”

Ariane had thought that Vashti hated darkspawn. She knew the Warden had a certain bond with the verminous monsters, that she could feel their presence, and that it revolted her. Ariane had seen the Warden’s grim but eager smile that welcomed them to their deaths, and the look of utterly focused satisfaction that Vashti had when she killed them.

That was nothing compared to the expression of black hatred she wore now.

He didn’t poke or prod her; the threat would be empty, with the templars standing there. But he did not put down his weapon. The silence stretched out until the crowd started to murmur. “Wardens, please,” the templar implored. “We cannot be at this all - “

“As the sapling bends, so must I,” Vashti said suddenly, and Ariane and Finn both let out sighs of relief. “I yield.”

Thierry’s sword flickered away instantly. Without so much as a word, he turned, picked up Dumat’s Spine and handed it to his recovered driver. “Have this mess cleaned up,” he said offhandedly to the templars, waving at the carriage and dead horses, “and send the bill to me. My thanks for your assistance, gentlemen.”

And then he strode off, the driver hurrying behind, taking the ancient sword with him.

Oh no! Our heroes went searching for a dagger but have lost the sword! What will Finn and Ariane make of his dire accusations? Tune in next week to find out as they work through their shared History!

[Corker]

History

After Finn’s magical Reflexes accidentally destroyed the carriage of the Warden Commander of Orlais, the angry man accused Vashti of claiming false honors and challenged her to a duel. Templars from the Grand Cathedral adjucated, and the Dalish Warden lost, forfeiting the sword Dumat’s Spine. Warden Commander Thierry has swaggered off, and we rejoin our stunned team in the shadow of the largest Chantry in Thedas...

A great babbling of Orlesian rose up around Ariane as the crowd began to talk about what they had seen. A few were talking urgently to the templars; the one next to Finn laid a gauntlet on his shoulder. “I think we have some questions,” the templar rumbled. “They are saying that the carriage crashed because of magic?”

“Oh,” Finn said weakly. “Yes, about that. I can explain. It was strictly a matter of self-defen--!” And suddenly a dusky Dalish was standing in front of the templar, and Finn was laid out on the ground, gripping his jaw with one hand and staring up at the Warden in shock.

Ariane pulled Vashti back before the templar could. “Nice savage elf routine,” she hissed. She couldn’t imagine how upset Vashti must be over being made to yield and losing Dumat’s Spine, but more brawling right in front of the authorities was not a good way to deal with it. “Can we save it until we’re in private?”

“It’s his fault,” Vashti gritted, glaring at Finn.

White healing energies bloomed under the mage’s fingers, and he slowly got up, stepping back as he did so. “I suppose I deserved that,” he said, sounding thoroughly unconvinced. Glancing at the two Dalish uncertainly, he switched to Orlesian to finish his conversation with the templars. However he explained things, they seemed satisfied with it. Their leader gave him a few more sternly spoken words, and then the four headed back to the cathedral.

“You idiot -- “ started Vashti.

“What in the Maker’s name -- “ Finn shot back angrily.

“Stopstopstop stop!” Ariane talked right over both of them, holding up two hands. “Not another word, either of you! We are not going to argue in the middle of the street in front of a Chantry that doesn’t like any of us. All right? We are going to leave, and find lodging either in or out of the city, and then you can argue.”

The dog barked in agreement.

Finn raised his hand and looked at her expectantly. “About lodging,” he said briskly.

“All right. Just about lodging.”

“Around the city walls, there will be all manner of footpad and bandit waiting to prey on travelers. Not that we couldn’t handle them, but it’s not conductive to a good night’s sleep. And I’ll have to explain to more templars why I’m going in and out of the city so frequently.”

Ariane grimaced; she had really been hoping for a good reason to camp outside of Val Royeaux. But less exposure to templars poking and prodding Finn was better. “Fine. In the city, then. Let’s go.”

It was easier said than done. Shingles were turned at their approach and rooms were uniformly sold out. Even Finn’s attempts to impress proprietors with his role as a traveling mage of the Circle met with no success. This was Orlais, and if you didn’t have a patron’s name to drop, you weren’t a player in the Game. They tried shadier establishments with similar luck, until at last one innkeeper - after a whispered conversation that left Finn red from collar to crown - deigned to take their silvers and lodge them.

“Do I want to know why we have this room?” Ariane asked, dropping her pack.

“No. No, you do not,” Finn confirmed. “Moreover, I really don’t want to tell you.”

“Thought as much. Well.” She settled herself on the pallet. The dog hurried to lie down next to her. “Here we are. Go ahead.” Mage and hunter glowered at each other. It was a step up from glaring, Ariane thought. The long search for an inn had given them both a chance to cool down somewhat.

“Why didn’t you just jump?” Vashti finally asked. “Then we would not have had this problem at all!”

Finn steepled his fingers thoughtfully. “I suspect that is incorrect, as the Warden Commander appeared to have a problem with you that went well past the damage I did to his coach. However... I did not jump because for the past eight months, I have been dragged through tainted elven ruins, a lost dwarven thaig, up and down Drake’s Fall, and the Deep Roads. I have had the pleasure of nearly being killed by darkspawn (including ogres), dragons, golems, and a vartarrel. Jumping and running only means I get flattened from behind. I have to respond a little more... forcefully. Like I said, my magic is stronger than my muscles.”

Vashti suddenly looked thoughtful, but Finn shook his head and slashed one hand through the air. “The Keepers would consider it theft, and the Circle would consider it potentially maleficent magic. But... I appreciate the thought.”

“What thought?” Ariane asked, confused.

“He could learn to be an arcane warrior,” Vashti explained. “It’s in my head. Then his magic would be his muscles.”

“It’s an elven discipline and I’m a human,” Finn waved the idea away. “I’m not totally blind to my reception at Ostagar, you know. I don’t mean to cause problems.”

“Good thinking,” Ariane murmured, a little surprised.

“And then you told me to duel him!” Vashti returned to her list of grievances.

“There really wasn’t an option! Unless you count turning the plaza into a sea of blood. He’d issued the challenge. If you turned it down, you’d be liable to forfeit the blade anyway. Or it might have gone to the court, and then we’d be well and truly in trouble. I used magic against an important man - at best, I’d be sent back to the Circle Tower with my permit torn up. You two... if the Wardens aren’t behind us...”

If the Wardens weren’t going to support Vashti, the two elves had few more rights than chattel here. The knowledge of it galled Ariane, and she found herself hoping they would be able to leave the place quickly. “Right. So. We find the Claw, then sneak into the Warden Headquarters and pull a Black Fox to steal back the Spine. Then we run for the border. It’s a plan?”

“It’s a plan,” Vashti agreed.

“I suppose,” Finn agreed, but reluctantly. “So do I get my turn now? For asking uncomfortable questions, I mean.”

Vashti folded her arms and leaned against the wall. “Haven’t you got it all figured out?”

“I believe I may have. That apostate woman at the eluvian, she said she saved your life, as a part of a deal.”

“You’re a good listener.”

“She was talking about the Archdemon, wasn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“And the Grey Wardens...”

“...do not know. Yes.”

“Am I allowed to know what’s going on?” Ariane asked, confused and disturbed.

Vashti remained stubbornly silent, so Finn dropped into his lecturing mode. “In each of the four previous Blights, the Grey Warden who killed the Archdemon died. Vashti obviously did not; ergo, Warden Commander Thierry surmises that she did not kill the Archdemon.”

Ariane made a face. “Well, that’s stupid. Vashti’s an archer. She must’ve killed it from far enough away that she didn’t get squashed.”

“It’s... more complicated than that. I’m... not sure of the exact mechanics,” Finn admitted, “but the first Archdemon was killed many times, by many people - some of whom survived the experience. But it didn’t take, you understand, until a Grey Warden sacrificed himself.”

“I should be dead,” Vashti confirmed. “Morrigan made it so that I wouldn’t be.”

“Well... that’s good, right? A magic spell that saves Grey Wardens? Why haven’t you told them about it?”

Vashti looked carefully at the floor. “It’s not just my secret to tell.”

“But Morrigan’s gone now and... oh.” The memory of the human’s pained face and half-whispered question, “It’s a boy?” came back suddenly, and she thought she understood.

“Oh what?” Finn’s curiosity was reflexive.

“Oh, it’s not your business,” Ariane shot back.

“Peace,” Vashti grumbled. “The magic was old, Finn, and probably forbidden. I would tell and accept the consequences, but there would come trouble also for my blood-brother. He wishes to not speak of it, and so I honor that.”

“But now they think you’re a charlatan.”

Vashti shrugged. “Don’t care. I’ll get the sword back and go. Warden politics...” She snorted. “Not interested.”

“So that child you asked her about...” Finn was still worrying around the edges of the mystery, poking at loose threads.

“Good night,” the Grey Warden said bluntly. “I’ll take the floor.” So saying, she busied herself with the buckles of her armor.

Finn closed his mouth, gave a small shake of his head and looked at Ariane and the room’s pallet. “Flip a coin, or...?”

“I’m not listening to you complain about your sore back tomorrow,” Ariane said. “But it’s wide enough for two, especially if we go head-to-toe.”

To her amusement, he went utterly red again. “Are... are you sure that’s a good...” He swallowed. “Idea?”

“Finn. We’ve slept huddled up on rock ledges in closer quarters than this. I’m just not as fond of the floor as Vashti is.” She paused. “Unless this seriously upsets you?”

“No, of course not! It’s just that... it’s a bed. Sharing a rock ledge is one thing, but a bed has a certain... symbolism that, you see... well...” He coughed. “You surprised me.”

“It’s not symbolic of anything, trust me.” She smiled impishly; teasing the straight-laced mage was always fun, and after the mess that today was, she felt like a little fun. “Hey, if we all snuggled together, I bet we could fit Vashti in as well. Wouldn’t want to lie to the innkeeper, right?”

Vashti, already unrolling her bedroll, gave a chuckle. Finn made a more strangled sound. “Now he’s not going to sleep at all,” the Grey Warden noted.

“If I made remarks like that, you’d both flay me,” Finn said weakly, and both elves nodded. “Right. It’s terribly unfair.”

Vashti edged her blankets closer to the door to make more space on the floor. “There. The dog can stay there now, and later, there’s room for when he won’t fall asleep and you have to move. We need him rested tomorrow.”

“I’ll be fine!” Finn protested. “I’m not some adolescent apprentice!”

Of course, that sealed it. The tossing and turning eventually sent Ariane, as predicted, to the floor as well.  And the dog joined Finn on the pallet.

Continue on with us as our heroes return to the Cathedral to begin their search for Dumat's Claw in earnest!

[Corker]

Cathedral

Since it’s clear that Warden Commander Thierry will not be interested in helping them, and they've hashed out some personal History, it’s time for our heroes to being their investigation. Their only lead: a popular ballad about the Black Fox describing his epic fight in, and escape from, the Grand Cathedral of Val Royeaux.

“And they’re just going to let us run around their cathedral?” Ariane asked dubiously, feeling quite naked without her armor.

Finn nodded. “It’s just a fact of city life. We’d get an infestation at the Circle Tower every so often, more than the cats could handle, and they’d have to row a rat-catcher over from Redcliffe or somewhere. And then you just have to let him nose about, placing his traps wherever he tells you the rat runs are. Even the templars had to give way.”

They were back in the square before the Grand Cathedral. The sun was setting, red-golden light lancing between the two great towers and pooling on the cobblestones between their enormous shadows. The Chant flowed on, out of the tall cathedral windows and into the streets of Val Royeaux.

The direct approach had failed. Finn had produced his piece of paper and asked to be taken to the choir loft so that he could conduct research there. The priest had sniffed, shook her carefully coiffed head, and coolly informed him yet again that magic was to serve man. The singing of the Chant would not be disturbed for his convenience. Finn had protested that they wouldn’t be a disturbance at all, which had earned them all an arch look and a nod towards the street, where the blood of Warden Commander Thierry’s carriage horses still stained the ground.

So they’d spent two days trying to come up with some other way to gain access to the loft. Vashti was certain she could sneak in unseen, but that didn’t help the others. Finn had initially proposed disguises as choristers, but Ariane insisted that she couldn’t sing and besides, elven choristers were probably rare to nonexistent. Her idea to light a small fire to scare the singers out of the building was met with a horrified stare from Finn.

Finn had reluctantly proposed going to the other Warden Commander to enlist his influence in gaining access to the cathedral when inspiration struck. Vashti was in the middle of telling him the many ways the idea was unacceptable when the dog growled, cutting her off. A rat had appeared and was too close to the mabari’s bone for his comfort. The rodent turned tail and dashed for a ****** in the wall, but the dog lunged and caught it in his powerful jaws. There wasn’t even a squeak as he crunched down on the would-be thief.

“Rat-catchers!” Finn had exclaimed, and now here they were.

Rat-catchers did not wear elven chain mail, nor did they carry a pair of swords. Or a mage’s staff. They were both wearing simple woolens, and Ariane acquired daggers. The dog had been entrusted to Ariane... or perhaps it was the other way around? But Vashti had gone in ahead of them, much to Finn’s anxiety. The Warden was confident that, after sneaking through all manner of cavern, wood and palace, she could successfully conceal her movements through a cathedral after dark. Still, Finn didn’t like them splitting up. He rubbed his hands together nervously. “I hope she’s not spotted. We’ve gotten into enough trouble as it is. Another incident... She knows what a choir loft is, right? She’ll be there to meet us?”

“The place with all the pink robes singing, I bet,” Ariane said dryly. “Come on, let’s give this a try.”

Rat-catchers worked at night, when the rats came out to feed. Although the sun hadn’t quite set, it was already very dark and cool inside the Grand Cathedral. Small girls in miniature Chantry robes were solemnly lighting candles all around the walls as night came on. They paused as their eyes adjusted to the dark, looking right and left for the stairs leading up.

Before they could go anywhere, a brother bustled up to them, pointing indignantly to the dog and saying something quietly but very intensely in Orlesian.

The dog barked back, the short, sharp sound echoing around the shadowed columns, a single unwanted beat of percussion in the Chant of Light. “Ssssssttt!” the brother shushed, extremely agitated.

The dog lowered his head penitently. Finn leapt in, giving their cover story, Ariane assumed. The brother looked perplexed and said something questioningly, again indicating the dog. “Ehm...” Finn swallowed, blinking rapidly.

“What’s the matter?” Ariane asked.

“He wants to know why we had to bring such a large dog.”

The brother switched to the Ferelden tongue when he understood that Ariane did not speak Orlesian. “The dog is too big to go after rats,” the brother said, puzzled. “It is a waste of time to bring this large, noisy beast in here.” He wasn’t concerned about money; rat-catchers would be paid by the rat. But if two incompetent rat-catchers wasted time with unsuitable equipment, it would mean more time for rats to breed.

“They’re big rats,” Ariane improvised.

“Blighted rats,” Finn confirmed, shooting her a thankful glance of pure relief. “They must have come in on a Ferelden ship. They brought us in especially from Denerim to deal with them.”

“Lots of Blighted rats in Ferelden right now. We’re good at getting them.”

“And you really want a mabari for that job. A Blighted rat will just tear your average terrier to bits,” Finn said, with the authority he usually reserved for pronouncements on ancient Tevinter tomes. The dog sat proudly, tail wagging rapidly, and quietly whuffed in agreement.

“Blighted rats?” The brother’s horrified expression was exaggerated by candlelight and shadows. “In this sacred place? I have not heard of this!”

“Of course not,” Ariane said. “Don’t want to cause alarm. We were told to be discreet about it.”

“We’ll want to start high and go low,” Finn said, “but ehm, we were told there’s no sign of them up in the towers. Just in the cathedral proper. So if you could show us to the stairs...?”

“Of course, this way.” The brother led them to the darkened staircase. “Your dog, it will hunt quietly? The Chant of Light is praise to the Maker and should not be disturbed...”

“Quiet as a mouse. Well. Perhaps that’s a bad analogy,” Finn said thoughtfully.

“Very good, then. Bring me your catch and I will see that you are paid,” the brother said, leaving them to do their work.

They waited until he was well away down the length of the cathedral before letting out twin sighs and a happy panting sound. “See? It worked,” Finn said.

“I can’t believe he didn’t notice my vallaslin” Ariane said.

“Well... your hair is a bit in the way,” Finn said, with an air of unease that indicated he was lying badly. Ariane sighed and decided to skip this particular lesson in How Humans See Elves in favor of getting on with their job. “So now what?” she asked.

“The ballad indicates that the fight was going badly for Remi and Karolis until ‘Andraste covered them with the cloak of her mercy.’ I suspect some sort of hidden escape route, concealed by an image of Andraste.”

“An image of... Finn, we’re in the biggest chantry in Thedas! It’s covered in images of Andraste! And statues and stained glass windows and carvings and... isn’t there anything more specific?”

“I’m afraid not,” the mage sighed. “We’ll just have to be very thorough as we search for rat runs, right?” Ariane groaned as they started up the stairs to the choir loft. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad, Ariane thought. How large and ornate could this little balcony be?

As it turned out, very.

Emerging from the stone staircase, the sound of the Chant hit them with an almost physical force. It hadn’t occurred to Ariane to wonder at how many voices would be needed to create a sound that could be heard for blocks around the cathedral. It needed a lot. Scores, maybe hundreds, of rose-robed brothers and sisters stood on a pair of risers, back to back. Perhaps a quarter faced into the cathedral, while the remainder sang out through the large, open windows, into the plaza beyond. The harmonies were simple, pure and perfect, designed to carry the words and their meaning.

Ariane was momentarily stunned. She’d never heard anything like it. Even at the decadal clans gathering, when they might have had enough singers, they didn’t combine their voices like that. The Dalish warrior was not much of an aesthetic, but the tremendous beauty of the most rigorously-trained choir in Thedas was affecting nonetheless.

It was the dog who nudged her and Finn both, bringing their attention back to the present. One of the two song leaders was shooting suspicious glances their way, and Finn hastened to brandish his rat-trapping equipment. That seemed to mollify the woman, and she returned her full attention to the singers before her.

The chamber was huge and, as Ariane had predicted, full of representations of the Maker’s prophet. Ariane didn’t see any way they could possibly investigate them all before someone grew suspicious, but Finn just indicated that he’d start work across the room from her. They’d do what they could and hope they’d be lucky.

The mabari sat with his head cocked, seeming to listen to the music for a while, before getting up with a quiet chuff. Nose to the ground, he started to snuffle around the edges of the room. Ariane’s eyes widened. He’s not looking for Vashti, is he? No, don’t do that, bad dog! She gave a low whistle, which the dog ignored. But the lead cantor somehow detected the off note despite the volume of the Chant being sung at her, and she directed a truly fearsome glare at the Dalish. Ariane ducked her head pentitently, watching the dog out of the corner of her eye.

He stopped before a statue of Andraste holding a bowl, a long scarf of some kind falling gracefully from her bent arms. One last definitive whuffle and he sat, scratching his ear with his back leg and then panting with evident satisfaction. He looked at Ariane, then at Finn, and then back at Ariane. He shook his head and went after the ear again.

Ariane moved, not so quickly as to be suspicious about it, to the dog’s side. “See something interesting?” she whispered to him. He licked his nose and got up to root at the left side of the statue’s pedestal with his muzzle. Ariane caught Finn’s attention and motioned him over.

The mage took the scene in and almost immediately reached up to run a hand along Andraste’s shawl. There was a soft click, and the dog had to jump back as the entire stone panel he’d been investigating came loose and fell forward with a very loud crack. Unpleasant wet and rotting smells wafted up from the hole - undoubtedly what had drawn the mabari to the spot.

The cantor whirled around at this disturbance; behind her, the choir kept on singing, although they were watching the scene with wide eyes. She actually left her post to stalk over to them, finger already pointing in stern disapproval. “This is the holy Chant of Andraste!” she hissed quietly as she got near. “Offered as a prayer to the Maker! Do you understand that it is not to be marred by your clownish antics?”

Finn shifted his weight nervously and indicated the hole. “Probably where your rats are coming from, your reverence,” he whispered.

“Then get in there and lay your traps. Quietly!”

“Yes, your reverence.”

Ariane rubbed at her nose to conceal a smile. At least sneaking into the not-so-secret-anymore passage wouldn’t be an issue.

Hurrah for good Ferelden mabari! Tune in next week as we leave the cathedral behind and enter instead the Temple...

[Corker]

Temple

Disguised as rat-catchers, our heroes managed to conduct their investigation of the Grand Cathedral while the choir sang the Chant of Light not thirty feet away. Armed with only a vague clue and a mabari’s sense of smell, they found a hidden hatch that led into a damp and dirty crawlspace...

Although the entrance was low enough that even Ariane had to duck to go through it, there was plenty of space beyond Andraste’s cloak. Moving carefully away from the entrance, Finn summoned up a spell wisp to cast some light in the pitch black gloom.

Ariane startled when Vashti suddenly materialized out of the retreating darkness. “Creators! How did you get in here ahead of us?”

“Had to slip in while they were all watching that human lecture you,” Vashti shrugged.

They were in a very long but narrow chamber that seemed to run across the front of the cathedral. The wall opposite was so close, Ariane could almost reach out and touch it - yet the empty space above her head stretched up beyond the light of the wisp. “What is this?” she asked quietly.

“Of course... the new facade...” Finn murmured. “At the start of the Blessed Age, to celebrate the birth of his twins, the Emperor of Orlais paid for a lavish new stonework facade to be put on the Grand Cathedral. The workers must have left this space for access of some kind and closed it over with the statue... but leaving a way to get back in, perhaps for future work. Ingenious!”

Very narrow stairs descended into the gloom. Ariane looked down dubiously and knelt next to the dog. “Can you even get down those?” The mabari padded to the edge of the landing they were on, snuffled at the stairs and whined. The steps were only slightly wider than the dog’s shoulders, and it was a long way down to the next set of stairs if he fell... and then he’d possibly bounce right off those steps, too, and keep falling.

“Not a place for a dog,” Vashti agreed. She looked the hound in the face. “Wait for us at the inn. We’ll get you. If we can’t, go home.”

The dog’s head dipped as it usually did before an affirmative bark, but he stopped mid-bob and looked guiltily back at the pale square of candlelight that marked their entrance. He whuffled instead.

“Good dog.” Vashti knelt as well, embracing the beast briefly. “Dareth shiral. Now go.” Obediently, he turned and paced back to the door, nails clacking on the stones. The Chant continued on without so much as a ripple, not to be disturbed even by the sight of a masterless dog wandering the Grand Cathedral.

“I hate it when we split up,” Finn said nervously, watching him go. “And just after we all got back together, too.”

“Nothing for it,” Vashti said quietly as she and Ariane got to their feet. “Let us see what may be seen.”

“Right,” Finn reluctantly agreed. “Well, this makes some kind of sense, so far. The Black Fox and his men retreated into this chamber, where their opponents’ superior numbers could not be brought to bear. In fact, just one or two men could hold this door while others escaped - that would fit quite well with Remi’s modus operandi, yes...” He looked up questioningly as both Dalish lightly cleared their throats. “What? Oh. Modus operandi, method of operations. His style, tactics - “

“Got it.”

“The ballad claims that all eventually made it out of the cathedral, so I suppose it doesn’t matter who fought the Lord du Chevin’s men to the end. Let’s follow the path out and look for clues as we go.”

Ariane moved to start down the stairs, but felt a hand on her shoulder. “Me first,” Vashti said.

“You’re the archer; you’re always in the rear,” Ariane protested.

The hunter plucked at Ariane’s cheap woolen shirt. “Usually you’ve got better armor than this.”

“True, I suppose...”

They went slowly and carefully, staying as close to the wall as they could as they descended into the fetid darkness. The steps were stone and slick with moisture, but fairly well-cut. They reached the first landing, and then a second, criss-crossing the front of the cathedral as the sound of the Chant faded above them. At last, the steps ended and the familiar cobblestones of the plaza were under their feet.

Which was a little odd. Ariane had expected trash or other filth, from the odor.

Ariane looked back up at where they’d come from, the two black stone walls towering high on either side, but so close to each other... “Worse than the Deep Roads,” she muttered, tearing her gaze away. You couldn’t see how much rock was waiting to fall on your head down there...

“Now let’s see...” Finn began to pace the length of the narrow space. “There must be some alternate exit from down here.”

“Why?” Ariane asked sensibly. “You said the workers left the one up there as an entrance, and they disguised it. Wouldn’t a door down here just invite passerby to pop in and hide out?”

“Well... that is... there’s always a secret escape in a Black Fox ballad. It would be boring if they just fell back into that small doorway, held off the Lord du Chevin’s men, and then came down the stairs.”

“And yet...” Ariane rolled her eyes, “ that’s exactly the most likely thing that would have happened.”

Finn ran his hands carefully over the outer wall, checking for some line or crack that might indicate an exit. “Well, it’s rather implied that there were more of the Lord’s men waiting outside...”

“So what good would a secret door that opens right into the plaza be?” Ariane pressed.

“And what is making the stink?” Vashti asked.

“What do you mean?” Finn replied, looking over at the Warden as he sidled along, continuing his search.

--- And abruptly vanished from sight with a startled shout, leaving the two Dalish alone in the dark.

Neither was so raw as to stumble forward; Ariane reached towards where Vashti had been, and quickly encountered the Warden’s searching arm. They clasped hands as they started calling for the mage. “Finn! Finn, can you hear us?”

“Uhnnnnnn!” The keening, whining sound came from below them, high and just a touch hysterical. As their eyes adjusted to the sudden loss of the spell wisp, they could see a square of light in the floor, a hole through which Finn had fallen.

“Finn, are you all right?” Ariane demanded, trying to command some information out of the obviously shaken man.

“I’m... I’m in... in... oh Maker, I think it’s... it’s...” The elves moved as quickly as they dared to the hole and, kneeling, looked at the scene below.

The chamber below looked to be of cut white stone, and vile-looking piles of glistening sludge oozed darkly in the wisp’s light. Finn was half-risen from a crouch, arms held out wide to either side and staring down at what was now a very dirty shirt and trousers in absolute horror; he was still more than ankle-deep in filth. The normally immaculate mage looked up at them, face blank with shock. “I think it’s a sewer,” he said, panic edging his voice, just before he fainted.

The spell wisp was extinguished along with his consciousness.

Ariane sighed. “Great.” She rubbed her face with her free hand. “So we wait for him to wake up, I go back up the stairs, in the dark, steal a candle and carry it down here, or we try to make a light in total darkness.” She had a tinderbox in her belt pouch, but trying to get sparks to land on tinder when you couldn’t see the tinder was tricky at best.

“On it,” the Grey Warden said. “Stay put,” she cautioned Ariane, reclaiming her hand. Ariane listened to the rustling sound of Vashti finding various items stowed about her person by feel, and then there was the harder clink of something set down on the cobblestones. That would probably be the palm-sized lantern Vashti kept for when she needed extra light for fiddling with locks or traps; it was little more than a very thick-walled glass bottle holding a bit of oil. The wick was stored tied around the neck - just pull the stopper, drop in the oily wick and light it.

Lighting it was still the problem, Ariane thought, as she heard what sounded like steel on flint. But instead of a spark or two leaping out in the darkness, a dull reddish point of light was developing, growing stronger with each strike. “What are you doing?” she asked.

“Fire crystal,” Vashti grunted, giving it another good bang against the cobblestones. “Dwarves use them. Just got to hit it til a bit chips off...” A few more strikes and the dull red suddenly turned orange-yellow, bright enough that the Warden’s hands and face were suddenly visible in the dark. “And then it gets real hot.” She touched the glowing crystal to the lantern wick, which caught almost instantly. She looked at the crystal, still glowing with heat, and at the open drain. “Nothing for it to burn here,” the Warden decided, setting the stone aside. “Let’s go get him.”

They dangled the lantern down on a bit of string first, and then dropped down into the ordure themselves. “Ugh,” Ariane grimaced, trying not to retch. “This is... this is foul. Oh Creators, he’s covered in it. There’s a clean...ish spot over there, let’s - ”

“Oh...” Finn groaned, coming to. “What... ohno.” He stared rigidly up at the ceiling. “I’m... laying in something quite unpleasant, aren’t I?”

“At least you’re not wearing your good robes?” Ariane suggested.

“Get up,” Vashti said, although not entirely ungently. “I’ve got a canteen of water. You can wash. A little.”

“I suppose... it was good that at least one of us came with... standard gear,” Finn said haltingly, as he picked himself up. “Oh. Oh. My clothes are...” He closed his eyes and swallowed. “S-s-s-sticky?”

“So take them off,” the Warden suggested.

Finn’s eyes flew open. “What? Are you joking?”

“Not really,” the hunter said, crossing her arms. “You’ll be cleaner without them. It’s not too cold down here.”

“Cleaner. Cleaner, yes.” The mage jumped on the idea. “Give me a knife, I don’t even want to touch it if I don’t... have... there we go, yes. Off, off, off!” The sodden woolen shirt was sliced and shrugged off, and the trousers soon followed. Ariane and Vashti turned to give Finn some privacy as he cleaned the worst of the muck off his skin with the water from Vashti’s canteen.

“Novel solution,” Ariane murmured.

Vashti shrugged. “Didn’t want him fainting again.”

The dim light of the lantern was suddenly overwhelmed by the cool white glow of a spell wisp. “There. Much better. If somewhat drafty,” he added self-consciously, standing there in just his boots, smallclothes and silver pendant.

“I’m not lending you my shirt,” Ariane said.

“I didn’t ask for it!”

Vashti blew out the lantern. “Wouldn’t fit anyway. ...Is that a pointed arch?” she asked, with some dismay. The spell wisp’s light illuminated the chamber more fully. It was much longer than it was wide, with the floor slightly concave to channel the effluvia. At either end, two thick columns rose to support the ceiling, flared out at the top to create the impression of an archway.

“Yes, indeed,” Finn said. With a bit of history to impart, he was suddenly as assured as ever. “When Val Royeaux was a Tevinter settlement, they would have built these sewers to handle the city’s waste. They must empty into the sea, which is... south.” He glanced back at the opening in the ceiling. “Given the cathedral’s orientation... the drain was in the eastern corner... that way,” he pointed. “That’s the way the Black Fox would go to make his escape.”

“So... do we think Karolis... dropped Dumat’s Claw down here?” Ariane asked, looking at the ooze.

“Sweet Andraste’s mercy,” Finn muttered. “I truly hope not. Let’s look for other clues first before we go wallowing in filth.”

“Wallowing again, you mean.”

“Please do not mention it?  Thanks.”

They went on, heading in the most southerly direction every time there was a branch in their route. Vashti still took the lead, bow at the ready, but the rats that were down here just scampered away from the approaching light. It was disgustingly slippery going but uneventful enough, and after some time, they began to hear the distant sound of the sea. “We must be nearly to the exit,” Finn said. “It seems like exactly the right sort of place for the Black Fox to establish his secret camp in Val Royeaux... perhaps there will be relics, records - “ He broke off when Vashti stopped suddenly, one hand raised for silence. The Grey Warden pointed off to one side of the tunnel. There, half buried in rotting muck, were four huge eggs, each bigger than Ariane’s head.

They’d seen these at Drake’s Fall - dragon eggs. In an Orlesian sewer? Ariane looked all around her. A high dragon wouldn’t even fit in these tunnels. The eggs had to have been brought here.

Vashti pointed to herself, then down the corridor. Ariane gave her a hangdog look and pointed up at the spell wisp. It was one thing to hide in shadows, but another entirely to stumble about in pitch darkness. They weren’t yet so near the end that any moonlight could help her find her way. The Warden’s shoulders sagged, but she nodded reluctantly. As quietly as they could, the trio proceeded down the tunnel.

More eggs, incubating in piles of filth, soon littered their path, and awkward sconces holding guttering torches began to appear at odd intervals on the walls. Finn let the wisp wink out, and Ariane finally agreed to let Vashti scout ahead. The Warden disappeared past the next set of twin columns - and promptly returned, beckoning.

They hurried forward to find this section of tunnel had been widened, the old Tevinter stonework pulled down and earth dug out to create a small niche for a dais and pedestal. The floor was mostly cleaned, with the filth all carefully washed down into the lowest part of the channel. Ornate lanterns and a few enormous bones served for decoration of the unholy chapel.

Finn went straight to the pedestal to investigate. “There’s a plaque,” he said breathlessly. “The cult chose this spot because... yes! They found a dragonbone blade on this very spot and took it as a sign!” he exclaimed excitedly. “Dumat’s Claw was here!”

“Ssssh!” the Dalish hissed.

“Right, sorry,” Finn apologized quietly, reading and rereading the plaque. “Caught up in the moment, you - “

“Ssssss!”

“I said - “

“Finn, that wasn’t us!” Ariane clarified.

The mage looked up, blinking. “Oh, dear.”

Whatever might go “Ssssss” in a dragon cultists’ lair? Tune in next week to see how our underequipped trio handles the problem!

[Corker]

Dragons

Our story so far: Having been given the Warden blade Dumat’s Spine, Warden Commander of the Dalish Vashti Mahariel and her friends Ariane and Finn set out to find its companion dar’misu, Dumat’s Claw. Following references in the ballads of the Black Fox, the trio (plus faithful hound) arrived in splendid Val Royeaux. The Warden Commander of Orlais, however, rather than offer them assistance, accused Vashti of fraud and treachery and challenged her to a duel, in which he won Dumat’s Spine. Letting that go for now, the companions followed the ballads’ tale to the Grand Cathedral, uncovering a secret passageway the Black Fox had once used as an escape route. It led to the ancient Tevinter sewers under Val Royeaux, a perfect place for the Fox’s urban encampment... but also the perfect place to hide a dragon cult! When last we left our heroes, they had just found evidence that Dumat’s Claw had indeed been left here, but were interrupted by an ominous hiss from the darkness!

Flames erupted in the darkness as the agitated dragonlings skittered towards them. One and then another dropped, thrashing, halfway into the room, goose-fletched arrows protruding from their slender necks. Ariane drew her two daggers - Daggers? I don’t fight with daggers! What was I thinking? - and stepped forward to intercept any that got past Vashti’s arrows. She keenly missed the comforting weight of her chain mail; dragonlings could scratch at that all they liked and never draw blood. But those claws looked more dangerous now...

“Yours!” With a nest’s worth of dragonlings streaming into the room, Vashti had elected to let one of the frontrunners past to keep those in the rear from closing in. Ariane took that as her cue and feinted at the beast, drawing its attention from the archer. “Hey ugly! Over here!”

“Ssssss!” The serpentine head swiveled to regard her and she feinted again, a big wide motion that cut nothing but air. But the ploy worked - the noisy, flailing threat was more interesting than the comparatively still, silent archer.

“Come on, you...” Ariane rocked on the balls of her toes, waiting for the dragonling to make its move. When the long neck snapped out toward her, she jumped and rolled forward, slicing at a wing as she came back up on her feet. The creature flapped the useless appendage instinctively in pain and caught Ariane in the midsection with it. It pushed her back harmlessly - but her heel ran unexpectedly up against the edge of the dais. Losing her balance, she toppled backwards.

For a split second, she had a much too personal view of Finn standing next to her, but then he gestured and everything went white. Glyph, she thought as she got up, hoping the dragonling’s eyes were as dazzled as hers by the sudden bright light.

“That should keep them at range,” she heard Finn say, as her sight recovered enough to show her the dragonling she’d been fighting sliding, bewildered, across the floor and away from them. Its puzzlement was ended a heartbeat later by an arrow to the chest.

Thwip! Thwip! Thwip! The dragonlings milling about the edge of the ward in confusion all soon fell. “Do you think that’s it?” Finn asked nervously.

“Hope so. Bet not,” Vashti said, nocking another arrow.

The growl was something felt in the chest before it was heard by the ears. “Fall back!” Ariane cried. “Back through the arch!” Finn dashed ahead first, skidding to a stop beyond the columns and immediately beginning a new spell. Ariane and Vashti reached the door at the same time, and each waited for the other to go through. The hunter loosed her arrow into the darkness beyond the far side of the chapel, and then pushed Ariane back. The warrior started to protest, but remembered that she was without her armor and her blades. By all the Creators, I am never letting Finn talk me into something like this again!

Thwip! Thwip! A roar from the darkness indicated a solid hit; then the drake surged into view. Finn’s spell finished, setting another glyph between the dragon and the door. But the drake stopped just beyond it, anyway, drawing its head back, which meant... “Cover!”

Ariane knocked Finn to the side, behind one of the pillars; Vashti dropped flat into the center channel of sewage as the drake’s head shot forward and its mouth opened, a jet of red-orange flame spilling out. It angled the burst of fire down, tracking its prey - but when the fire stopped, Vashti sprang up again.

“She’s... covered in...” Finn blinked unbelievingly.

“Mud,” Ariane said firmly, pushing the mage back into line of sight of the dragon. “Cold, wet, fire-resisting mud. Now help her!”

“Mud. Right. Mud,” Finn muttered, raising his hands - and stopping. “It’s too close for a paralysis glyph!” he shouted. “It would overlap the repulsion ward and that would be bad! Very bad!”

Vashti grunted. “As long as I’ve got range...” Thwip! Thwip!

But it was not to last. The drake butted its head against the ward a few times and then, with an ear-splitting roar, threw its bulk forward. Vashti barely had time to shoulder her precious bow and draw daggers before the dragon was surging through the doorway, knocking her down with savage raking blows from its taloned forefeet.

Ariane dove in from its flank, stabbing for all she was worth. The serpentine head swiveled instantly to regard her, and she slashed at that, too. Behind it, she saw Vashti staggering to her feet, the warm light of Finn’s healing magic playing over her. The hunter was back in the game instantly, hammering the drake’s other flank. The drake made a quick snap at Ariane; she moved, and its teeth skated over her arm, leaving bloody trails behind them. Then it whipped back toward Vashti, open mouth closing on her armored thigh.

Light flashed and the dampness in the air suddenly formed frost on the drake’s scales. The cold slowed the great reptile; it blinked groggily as Vashti pried it off her leg. “Can you paralyze it yet?” Ariane shouted to Finn.

“The repulsion ward is almost spent!” he shouted back. “Just a moment more and - ah!” The mage’s hand went to his shoulder, instinctively clutching at the arrow that protruded there. “Cultists!”

The ward was keeping the cultists at bay, and the intervening doorway plus the drake’s bulk made them work to get line of sight on the trio. If we can just drop the dragon before the ward drops... Ariane sunk both daggers into its back, hoping to sever spine.

Daggers didn’t chop like her usual blades; the points seemed to hit bone and slide to the side, despite the considerable force she put behind the blow. The drake noticed that, cold-induced torpor or not, and let out another roar. Its thick, muscular tail whipped from side to side as it thrashed in pain, and Ariane found both daggers pulled from her grasp as the tail slammed her to one side. She staggered, found her feet - and stumbled again as a bolt of magical energy hit her. Not an apostate, too...

She heard a sudden rush of footfalls and bloodthirsty battlecries, Finn chanting, Vashti crying out. A new glyph flashed to light under the drake -

- who ignored it. Perhaps it caught one of the cultists instead, or the beast was just too strong.

An arrow flew past her head and shattered on the stone behind her; between her and the archer were two cultists, approaching quickly with swords and shields at the ready. Energy crackled through the air, purplish tongues of lightning that licked at Finn. Their own mage screamed and fell to one knee.

No more of that. The warriors were closing in, but Ariane ignored them, focusing instead on the apostate who had her staff leveled at Finn. “Know the fury of Elgar’non!” she cried, calling down the wrath of the elven warrior-god on the mage. Her mana tore free from her control, ascending skyward in a column of white light, leaving her, Ariane knew, in pain and breathless.

The shield bash knocked her back into the wall. She ducked one swordblow, and then another, using her small size and elven grace to good advantage - so one of the brutes just lashed out again with his shield, slamming her back. Her head cracked against the wall this time and she slid down it. A silver sword came up, and she found herself hoping hazily that the other two were doing better...

A sudden shout in Orelsian distracted her would-be executioner. He checked his blow and turned his head, even as his partner kept a blade leveled at her chest. Looking through his legs, she saw a cultist helpfully drape his cloak over Finn; the arrow was somehow gone and she supposed he must have healed the wound. The apostate staggered into view, glaring daggers at her; three cultists were soothing the drake and two more had Vashti, her leathers torn and bloodied, pinioned between them.

Finn was speaking so slowly and carefully that Ariane was sure he was lying. He was naturally a rapid-fire speaker, mouth hardly able to keep up with his mind. But the cultists wouldn’t know that. He nodded, patted various cult members on the shoulder, and finally gestured to the two elves. Ariane was pulled to her feet and marched over.

“The Dalish of the Tirashan,” Finn said carefully, “will find no victory against us whether you fight us here or in the very shadow of Arl Dumat. As a magister of the second rank,” he fingered his silver pendant, the one in the shape of the Old God Zazikel’s sigil, “I have decided that, despite your attempt on my life, you shall be spared. Go and tell your people of our strength and battle us no more; while we would be victorious in the end, I would rather not lose the lives of our brethren and our scaly children. Pierre here will show you a way out.”

The Dalish looked at each other, and the potentially hapless Pierre. “Finn...” Ariane began.

“Go!” he repeated, with a slight break in his voice; he was afraid that they would not, Ariane realized. “Please, go, so that no one else gets hurt today.” He spoke slowly again, emphasizing the words as he looked from the injured Warden to the weaponless Ariane to the rather impressive number of enemies in the room.

“We return to the Tirashan,” Vashti repeated.

“Right,” Finn said, relief coloring his voice. “Take the message to the Dalish clan there.”

They stood there in silence for a moment, then Ariane said, “You haven’t seen the last of us, Magister.”

Finn dared the smallest half-smile before turning to Pierre and issuing a command. The cultists holding the elves released them warily. Pierre took up a torch and led them back the way they came, into the darkness.

Talk about splitting the party! Will Finn be able to maintain his ruse long enough for Ariane and Vashti to find him in the vast Tirashan Forest? How are the Dalish elves involved in this? And never mind that - where is Pierre leading them? Tune in next week to find out in Blood!

[maradeux]

*g* Nice story - entertaining, exciting, funny and interesting. I like your summaries and previews to the next chapter - good idea.

[Corker]

@maradeux - Thanks!  Glad you like it!


Defeated by the dragon cultists and faced with certain death, our heroes avoided a crispy fate at the last moment when Finn’s Genuine Replica Sigil of Zazikel was mistaken as the pendant of a high-ranking magister of the cult. Finn played along to save their lives, telling the elves that they should “return” to the Dalish of the Tirashan next, bearing a message from the cult to stop their interference both in the great forest and here in Val Royeaux. Then he dispatched a cultist to escort them out of the sewers. Pierre leads the way with his torch...

Pierre led them in silence back through the sewer. They retraced their steps only to the first junction, where he turned into a side-channel. And then another, and another. If his goal was to keep the intruders from finding their way back to the cult sanctuary from this exit, he was succeeding, Ariane admitted to herself.

A pile of beslimed crates were stacked up under a grate set in the ceiling. Setting the torch into a bracket the cult had surely placed there, Pierre clambered up first and jostled something to get the grate loose. After peering up into the street, he slid it carefully up and pulled himself out of the tunnel. The two Dalish followed.

As soon as they were out of the hole, Pierre was slipping back in, setting the grate back into place behind him. He whispered something dire in Orlesian before disappearing into the gloom. The faint glow of the torch soon diminished further, and they were alone in the streets of Val Royeaux.

It was probably a crime, Ariane thought as they oriented themselves on the great towers of the Grand Cathedral, for elves to be out after dark. But no chevaliers were unlucky enough to spot the pair of them as they made their way back to the dingy inn.

The mabari was waiting for them outside in the street. His initial happy bark turned to a puzzled whine. “I know, I know,” Ariane told him as Vashti regarded the front door, locked for the night. “We misplaced Finn. We’ll go get him.”

She jumped at the sound of splintering wood; Vashti had smashed the door open in rather than picking the lock. “Vashti? What - “ But her companion just went on inside, staggering slightly now, Ariane saw. They turned down the hall as the innkeeper appeared, a wooden club in hand. He shouted something in Orlesian and brandished it.

Stiff-legged, the dog stalked between them, ears back and growling ominously. The innkeeper halted, taking in the thick, powerful neck and wide jaws. He brandished the club again, making a few threatening swings, trying to scare the dog away. Dog barked positively savagely, the challenge of a war beast who had fought everything from armored knights to werewolves to ogres to the Archdemon itself. A pasty man in his nightshirt with a stick was nothing.

The pasty man knew it, too. Making one last threat - Ariane caught the word for ‘money’ - he retreated as the two elves slipped into their room.

“Vashti, why did you - “

“Too tired, can’t focus.” Vashti sat down heavily as soon as she was in the door. “How is your arm?”

“It’s stopped bleeding; needs cleaned and wrapped. You?”

“Water, please, and soap, bandages and poultices,” she said, stripping off her befouled armor. “It... hurts.”

Ariane grabbed a canvas bucket from their gear and hurried to the nearest well outside. It obviously couldn’t be that bad, right, because she’d walked this far? ...but it was bad enough for Vashti to actually admit to pain and ask for help. I wish Finn were here...

Finn was not there, but his pack was. By the time Ariane returned, Vashti had its orderly contents spread out on the floor and was pressing a gash in her thigh with a folded mass of linen. “Ma serranas,” she said as Ariane placed the dripping bucket next to her. She’d already lit several lanterns for light.

“Wash, stitch, poultice, bandage, right?” Ariane confirmed the right order of their field treatments. “Let’s see how bad it is.”

“Ma serranas, but I will do it.”

“Look, I already know you’re as tough as dwarven shoeleather,” Ariane replied, a little peeved. She reached for some clean rags to use to wash the wound. “You don’t have to keep proving it over and over.”

“I said that I will do it,” the hunter repeated. “Please. Just... give me the rags.”

“And are you going to stitch it yourself? Don’t be ridiculous.” Ariane soaked the rags, turned - and was brought up short by the other elf’s hand on her breastbone. “What is your prob- “

“Poison. It’s poison. Stay away.”

“You’re poisoned!” Ariane’s eyes widened with shock. “Mythal’s shield, you should have said! Oh... um... what... what do we do for...”

“Not the wound. The blood. Is poison.” Vashti’s voice was strained with a pain that did not come from her wounds. “Stay away.” She removed her hand and took the wet rags from Ariane’s unresisting grip.

“How... that doesn’t make sense. How can blood be poisonous?”

“Get different water, clean water for your arm.” Vashti ignored the question. “Talk when we’re done bleeding.”

Ariane looked at the dog, who whined and waggled his stub tail earnestly. Uneasily, she got up to fetch a bowl and dipped a measure of water from the bucket before Vashti could re-soak the rags in it. She shucked off the filthy rat-catcher’s costume and washed her own wounds in silence. She was smoothing elfroot poultice over them when a sudden hiss of breath (and an anxious whine) told her Vashti had started suturing herself. “Are you sure I can’t - “

“Stop asking. Please,” Vashti grunted. So Ariane did. Seeking to busy herself, she cleaned Vashti’s armor instead, taking the same precautions she would if they’d been fighting spiders or shrieks that left venomous residue where they struck. The Grey Warden did not object.

At length, Warden and armor were cleaned and patched passably well. Seated on the pallet, Vashti leaned tiredly against the wall, one arm resting on the dog’s broad back. White bandages were bright against her dark skin, covering wounds on torso, both arms and the one leg. Ariane spread wet things out to dry and tried to repack Finn’s kit, thinking that the Warden would explain when she was ready.

Or maybe she’s hoping I’ll drop it, Ariane thought as long minutes went by. Looking critically at a bottle of some reagent, she said, “Finn said something, in Cadash Thaig, about Grey Warden blood being different.”

“Yes. It’s... tainted. I’m tainted,” she added, very quietly, looking down at the dog as she scratched his neck.

Ariane frowned and looked at her. “Tainted? What do you mean by that?”

“Tainted!” Vashti repeated it, angrily, shamefully, head coming up from the wall. Almost as fast, the fight went out of her, and she leaned back again. “Darkspawn taint, Ariane,” she clarified sullenly. “We are joined to them; it is how we sense them; it draws us to them as we die. Tainted.”

Ariane fought down a reflexive wave of revulsion; by the sudden rigidity in the Warden, she was not entirely successful. “Vashti... all right, I didn’t... know that about Grey Wardens. But come on. I’ve been splashed with straight darkspawn ichor more times than I care to think about and I’m fine. I could have helped you just now.”

“No.” The other elf shook her head and stared dully at a blank wall. “It’s... I thought I’d found a cure. Something that would push it back. Contain it. That’s what the note said. But that’s... not what it did. It pushed it back, concentrated it, made it into a weapon. Poison. In my blood. Of my blood. It was a... bad mistake. Another bad mistake.”

“This is why you didn’t return to your clan? Why you dwelt apart in the Asha’belannar’s home?” Ariane asked quietly. Vashti, face still turned to the wall, nodded. Her arm slipped around the dog’s neck, hugging him fitfully. “...Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Grey Warden secret. Shame. Na inan, your eyes.”

“My... what?”

“Eyes. Abelas, abelas, lethallan...” The proud head dipped, eyes shut tight, and Ariane could see tears glinting in the lantern light.

For the space of three breaths, Ariane was too stunned to do anything but try to marshal her thoughts and reactions into some semblance of order. Are her tears tainted, too? was not a helpful question; Does Finn know? wasn’t really important at the moment. But the dog likes her was neither helpful nor relevant.

“Vashti...” Impulsively, Ariane got up and moved, sitting down on Vashti’s other side. The Warden turned her head the other way, toward the dog. “Vashti, it’s all right.”

“Din.” No, denial.

“You made a sacrifice to become a Grey Warden, so you could fight the Archdemon and save all of us. You should not be ashamed of that.”

“I am...” She choked it off, holding back a sob. “I am unclean. You...”

“I suppose by the standards of our ancestors, I am as well,” Ariane said, trying to shrug. “Tainted by the shemlen and doomed to die young, right? Impure in the body. But the spirit... you know that you have done more to reconnect us with our ancestors than any Keeper living? A new homeland, Creators protect it, artifacts from our past, even the lost lore of the arcane warriors. You’re bringing our people home. Isn’t that what it is to be Dalish?”

She turned back suddenly, dark eyes damp above tear-stained cheeks, searching Ariane’s face. “You... mean that.”

Ariane nodded. “Of course I do.”

“I see it here,” Vashti lightly pressed two fingers to one of Ariane’s temples, “and here,” again, on the other side. “I see hope here, same hope I saw when we met. Hope for me.”

The stranger who claimed to have killed the Asha’belannar and befriended her daughter offered to help reclaim the book. “Ma serannas, friend,” Ariane said. “You may have no clan, but you are Dalish still.” And the cold, dark storm clouds that were in the stranger’s eyes parted as if blown by a great wind, and the warmth of the sun was in them again.

Ariane gave a small smile she hoped was more encouraging than nervous. She wasn’t sure what to make of such open emotion in the usually taciturn Warden. “Well... good? I’m... I’m glad of that.”

There was another long moment of silence. Ariane grew increasingly aware of the fingertips still clinging to her face. Surely, in another second, she’ll pat the dog again and then we can get back to -

It was the very shortest dance. Vashti’s face dipped forward very slightly, tilting unmistakeably; Ariane’s pulled back reflexively, out from under Vashti’s hands.

Almost smoothly, she continued the motion into a turning away and rising from the pallet. “We should get some rest, and you’re much worse off,” she said. “You take the pallet, I’ll take the floor.”

“Ma nuvenin,” Vashti replied behind her. There was a peculiar hesitation, as if she might be about to add something, but she merely sighed. “And... ma serranas, Ariane. For everything.”

“Of course, lethallan.”

And there they left it.

Alas for our heroes, but their lives don't permit the luxury of much introspection.  The time is swiftly coming when they'll need to leave Val Royeaux to go after Finn, and to do that, there's first the matter of a little Theft!

[Corker]

Theft

Our heroes have had some time to recover from the wounds they were last seen bandaging in our last installment, Blood.  Finn had indicated that they should proceed next to the Tirashan Forest in the north, but before they can depart Val Royeaux, there's one last piece of business to take care of: Dumat's Spine must be reclaimed from the Orlesian Wardens!

The headquarters of the Orlesian Grey Wardens was nothing at all like the sturdy stone keep Vashti said she served in. It seemed quite at home amid the apartments and palaces of the wealthy, a beautiful sprawling low building surrounded by wrought iron gates. The city walls were obviously considered protection enough; this was a comfortable estate for the Wardens to live and work in.

“Can’t get caught,” Vashti muttered. “Or I can’t tell Howe I did him one better.”

It had been two weeks, long enough for the deepest of Vashti’s wounds to heal to mere nuisances. They had maps and supplies; it was time to go. Their very last task was to reclaim Dumat’s Spine.

They had watched the headquarters for a few days; neither the Warden Commander nor his captains appeared to be carrying the dar’missan. Vashti thought they would put it in a vault, so tonight they were breaking in to find it and make off with it. Even the dog was along, which complicated things somewhat, but since there was a chance they’d be exiting with pursuit, they didn’t want to split their numbers again.

Last night, in between passes of the perfunctory guardsmen, the dog had dug a shallow ditch under the fence surrounding the compound. Tonight, all three squeezed through it and darted silently across the manicured lawn to a small side entrance. Vashti paused, eyes closed, for a moment, then gave a decisive nod. Ariane watched the lawn nervously as the Warden finessed the lock, and soon they all slipped inside.

The kitchen was empty; Vashti could only sense if her fellow Wardens were near, but they hoped that the regular staff would be asleep at this hour. The dog casually lifted his head to snag a hunk of cheese that had been left too close to the edge of a counter while the other two quickly crossed to the door.

Another pause, and then the door was eased open. Vashti dissolved into the shadows, returning when she’d determined that the path to the next convenient hiding spot was clear. They’d move quickly, with even Ariane making little noise on the thick carpets here, and repeat. Even focused on moving quickly and quietly, Ariane found herself wondering at the opulence on display. Large windows admitted enough starlight to spark gently on gilded candlesticks and glint on the smooth, polished wood of an ornate chair or table. Even the walls were covered with tapestries.

Ariane and the dog were waiting in a small, empty infirmary that smelled of elfroot and soap when Vashti signaled that she’d found the vault. “Two guards,” she whispered, then put a hand on the dog’s neck. “No kill,” she told him sternly. He wagged his tail in understanding.

Vashti moved into position first; then the dog went out, padding along with his tongue lolling out. Ariane followed carefully, keeping close to the walls; when the dog rounded a corner, she waited.

When she heard the confused question in Orlesian - along the lines of “What’s that dog doing here?”, she was sure - she whipped around the corner and sprang forward. Both men were looking at the dog; one had his back to her. The other looked up and saw her, eyes going wide. Before he could shout alarm, Vashti materialized behind him, the pommel of her dar’misu hitting the back of his head hard. Her own mailed fist connected with the head of the other shocked guard, just behind the ear. The two men both slumped, leaning forward into each other and sliding to the floor.

“Good dog,” Ariane told him quietly as she and the Warden check the guards for keys. He wagged again, ears back with happiness.

Ariane’s hand closed on a large iron ring and she lifted it carefully from the hook on the unconscious man’s belt. Vashti ‘listened’ at the door, then nodded and stepped back. Ariane tried two keys before the third turned easily in the lock and the iron-bound door swung slowly open.

Now was the time for speed. Even if they concealed the unconscious guards, any late-night passerby would note their absence. Ariane and the dog stayed by the door as Vashti ventured deeper into the vault, striking her small lantern alight. The windows here were high and small; they let in enough light in full day, but on a dark night, the vault was almost pitch black.

“I see it.” Vashti’s voice was quiet, but it carried in the silence. Ariane glanced back, saw the lamp-light glittering on the dragonbone blade. Light no longer needed, Vashti blew the flame out and Ariane returned her attention to the hallway -

- which saved her eyes from the sudden bright flash of light behind her. Glyph! she thought as she turned back, seeing the Warden frozen in mid-reach for the blade. An unearthly clamour started up somewhere not too far away.

She dashed toward Vashti, the dog following on her heels. As soon as she was close enough, she stopped, summoning the energy to call on Dirthamen, god of secrets, by whose power the knots of magic could be undone. She felt the call ripple out, waves washing over the glyph, and it winked out, plunging the room back into darkness. The alarm stopped as well, although the damage was done - men were awake and shouting loudly in Orlesian.

There was a clatter in the dark, then Vashti barked, “Got it!” and all three charged back toward the pale rectangle of light that was the open door. Spilling out into the hallway, they tore back toward the kitchen. A half-dozen or more half-dressed but armed men appeared ahead of them, running down from a side passageway. They turned into the main hall and advanced, cutting the trio from using the passageway as an exit. The three skidded to a stop. “Here,” Vashti said, pressing the Spine into Ariane’s off-hand. “Need my bow.”

“Your bow?” Ariane took the blade and reached for her father’s sword with her other hand. “We’re going to fight the Wardens?”

“Oh, please do.” Warden Commander Thierry, clad in a breastplate thrown on over a dressing gown, stepped to the forefront of his men. “It’ll give us an excuse.”

Ariane looked at him as if he were mad. “You can see that we are armored and your men are not?”

He snorted. “My men are Orlesian Grey Wardens and you are savage elves. Badly outnumbered elves at that. Just surrender and this will go much more - “

Thwip! Thwip! Vashti drew and fired twice, rapidly, high over the heads of the Orlesians. Golden silk cords were sliced in half, and the beautiful tapestries hanging on either side of the hall peeled forward, falling with a soft chuff! onto the Wardens. The dog charged immediately, plowing into the enmeshed and confused men, trampling over the fabric so that it pulled them even more off-balance. The two Dalish were fast behind him, darting around the thrashing Orlesians and dashing for the kitchen.

The sounds of pursuit were behind them as they slammed out the door and raced across the lawn. A handful of men, the night watch, had heard the alarm go up and quickly spotted them. A few arrows zipped past, but in the dark and at long range, it would be pure luck if one hit. The archers realized this, falling in behind the swordsmen pelting over the grass toward the escaping thieves.

Ariane sheathed her father’s sword as she ran and threw Dumat’s Spine over the fence as they approached it. She and Vashti both vaulted upwards, catching the iron posts in their hands and pushing up and over them, as the dog wriggled back through the ditch. Ariane bent to take up the ancient blade and an arrow buzzed over her head; another splintered against her pauldron.

They already knew which way to run and took off; their pursuit was momentarily delayed by its own fence. Ariane didn’t know if they’d toss their shields over and follow or run around to the main gate, but at the moment, it didn’t matter. Running mattered.

Beside her, the Warden somehow found the breath to laugh delightedly, a sound so unexpected that even the dog looked back at her as they pounded down the empty cobblestone streets.

The city walls loomed ahead, dotted with torches and the figures of the city’s own night watch. They slowed as they came nearer, thinking that running through the gates would be a give away that they were trouble-makers.

And then they saw that the gates were closed.

It had not even occurred to either Dalish that such a thing might happen. Vashti had recalled Denerim’s great gates being closed for the darkspawn attack, but that was a battle. That made sense. They closed the things every night?

Ariane made a sharp turn into a darkened lane. “Great,” she panted. “Just great. Now what?”

Vashti glanced toward the walls appraisingly, but the dog whined. “Hmph,” she agreed. “There’s no sneaking you over that.”

“We can hide until morning,” Ariane suggested. “This city is huge and we had a good lead. They’ll have to search widely, so...”

Vashti’s head snapped up and she cursed. “Go, go, move!” she urged suddenly, just before Ariane heard the clanking of armored men running.

Her feet obeyed even as mind refused to believe it. “How can they have possibly tracked us over stone so quickly?” She staggered as a crossbow bolt hit her breastplate; the aurum held, but that was going to bruise.

The crossbowman, ahead, was rapidly reloading. “I’ve killed ghouls with less taint,” he said disdainfully, the voice revealing Warden-Commander Thierry. “You may as well be screaming your position as you run.” He leveled the crossbow at Ariane, thought the better of it, and sighted on Vashti’s leathers instead.

She dropped and rolled as the mabari surged forward, faster on four legs than either elf on two. The crossbow twanged and a second later, a cloud of noxious vapor erupted all around the Orlesian commander.

Against most animals, the acrid gas would have been effective, sending them yowling for clear air and water to soothe their burning eyes and throats. But the battle-hound charged through, striking the man at full speed and bowling him over. Teeth snapped, seeking throat but settling for an armored forearm. The hugely muscled neck snapped to and fro as the jaws crushed down.

“Dog! Come!” Vashti ordered as the two Dalish ran past. With a parting growl and a bark, he was at their heels.

“How far away can he feel you?” Ariane gasped.

“Don’t know,” Vashti admitted. “Earshot?”

“So we just need a good lead.” Just. They could hear the pursuit behind them, and these men knew the city far better than they. They’d eventually make a wrong turn and go down a bllind alley, and then...

They turned up a wide avenue and caught a glimpse of the two towers, straight and black against the starry sky. “The cathedral!” they said as one.

As they ran on, Ariane risked a glimpse over her shoulder. Easily half a dozen men in chain mail were jogging along behind them, no more than a few blocks back. “By the Creators! Don’t they tire?” She’d thought city-dwelling humans were supposed to be soft!

“Grey Warden stamina,” Vashti grunted.

The Chant swelled as they burst into the open plaza. Halfway across, arrows began to zip past them. The dog yelped but kept running, trailing blood. They crashed into the small side door Ariane and Finn had used earlier; either it was unlocked or the lock wasn’t very sturdy. It flew open and they spilled inside.

Cries of alarm arose immediately from the priests who were keeping vigil. Templars would surely be summoned, but the trio had no intention of waiting for them. They dashed back up the stairs to the choir loft.

The Chant of Light dissolved, the bass voices closest to the stairs dropping first, then the tenors began shouting, and finally the altos and sopranos shrieked at the appearance of two armed and armored intruders, moving at high speed through their sacred sanctuary. The sisters tried to crowd behind the brothers, who looked about desperately for templars. Only the pinch-faced cantor seemed uncowed; the small woman somehow towered with rage as the holy Chant fell apart around her. “Maker strike you down, you godless brigands!” she spat, grasping her music stand as if she intended to wield it as a staff.

Dog barked in definite approval, but Ariane just ignored her and rushed to the statue, pressing the trigger that dropped the stone slab from the door. Vashti nabbed a pair of large white candles as they all ducked into the darkness.

It was still no place for a dog. Vashti unshouldered her bow and held it out, parallel to the slope of the stairs like a railing, along the dog’s flank. Ariane reached back with one hand as well, hoping a timely shove might keep him from sliding right off the narrow stairs if he slipped.

They went as fast as they dared; they’d passed two landings when they heard deep voices and armor behind them. The voices commanding them to “Stop!” were unfamiliar - probably templars. They kept on, and the templars stayed above them, buzzing in confusion. Behind that, a ragged, uneven Chant wobbled back to its feet, the brethren determined to keep the lapse as short as possible.

Renewed shouting heralded the arrival of the Grey Wardens when the three were about halfway down. These voices did not remain in the choir loft but followed them into the narrow space between the church and the facade. “Mahariel!” Thierry shouted above them. “This grows wearisome. Surrender and your companion may go free.”

“Sure. You wait there. I’ll be right up,” Vashti called, never even pausing in her descent.

“You clearly know where you are going.” Careful steps above meant at least some of the Grey Wardens were following.

“Sure do.”

“And you know you cannot hide from us.”

“Yep.”

“Do you expect me to believe you’ve arranged some sort of trap down here, when you obviously tried to make it to the city gates?”

“Sure hope not.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“Guess we’ll both find out soon!”

Ariane reached the bottom of the stairs first; all three hurried across the front of the cathedral to the open sewer grate. Vashti snatched up the fire crystal she’d discarded there earlier and smashed it hard against the wall. It erupted in brilliant light as she let it fall into the tunnel below. The three quickly followed, pausing only to use the red-hot crystal to re-light the candles that had gone out when they’d jumped.

------------------

The Grey Wardens paused, pulling up into formation in the strange little chapel they found themselves in. Their quarry was just ahead, a score of feet beyond the far doorway - waiting for them.

That was suspicious, of course. Thierry had heard of ancient Tevinter traps: spikes and blades erupting from walls to pierce the unwary. Although why they’d be built into a sewer was beyond him. Perhaps to keep invaders from using it to enter the city? As good a thought as any.

He was signalling two shieldman to protect their trapsman from arrows when the cursed dog skittered to the left, out of sight. He heard it barking and growling furiously before it came running back at full speed. The two elves suddenly turned and ran as well.

He would not be baited into running madly into a trap. “Check it,” he ordered the trapsman - as something else beyond the doorway growled as well.

Thierry paled as the drake stalked into view, its beaked snout swiveling atop that long, snakelike neck to regard the Wardens. “Cover! Cover!” he cried, as the thing advanced on their position, a reddish-orange glow growing in its gullet.

------------------

The embankment leading up from the shore to the outside edge of the city walls was steep; the city’s defenders would have an easy time picking off men trying to make the climb as part of an attack. But the city wasn’t under attack, so no one on the night watch paid particular attention as the two elves and a dog hoisted themselves up onto the green.

They laid there for a moment, all three panting. “Think the drake will kill them?” Ariane asked.

Vashti shook her head. “Not unless they really lied to me about how good the Wardens are. In fact, we should - ”

“Keep moving.”

“Right.”

“Let’s go.”

On the road at last!  Onward to the Tirashan, Finn, and the Dragon's Claw!  Will the Orlesian Dalish be able to help?  Have we seen the last of Warden Commander Thierry?  Tune in next week to find out!

[Corker]

Dalish

Away to the Tirashan! The fabled forest of dark secrets nestled in the crook of a mountain range that may as well be the edge of the world. But how best to travel? Easily, up the Imperial Highway, far to the north of the peak called Arl Dumat, then south again along the forest’s edge? Due west, through the dry and arid plains of the Western Approach, where an ill wind might blow toxic fumes from the Abyssal Reach? Or a middle path that cuts directly through the Nahashin Marshes - not as roundabout as the northern route, nor as deadly as the westerly?

Yes, that will be our path, as our heroes are well acquainted with the swampy Korcari Wilds and do not fear the marsh. They pass by poor Orlesian rice farmers, half-submerged ruins - Tevinter or elven, who can say? - and rumors of yet another of Flemeth’s daughters. A huge water snake makes the mistake of hunting them, and a great chunk of it winds up spitted over a fire.

Urthemiel Plateau slopes down here, and they ascend, avoiding the steeper climb that would have awaited them to the south. Once upon the plateau, they turn toward the towering, smoking sentinel which is to be their guidepost. This is a lonely land, far from the court of Empress Celene, where tyrants and would-be saviors gather in equal numbers. The Dalish find a wary welcome - their people are sometimes traders and sometimes raiders in these parts. They soon learn the way toward a Dalish encampment under the shade of the Tirashan, a day’s travel northeast of the great volcano. That must be their destination, and so they set out on their journey’s last leg...

“Aneth ara!” Ariane called as they drew nearer to the camp.

“Andaran atish’an, soeurs.” Three guards finally made their presence known. Through gestures, broken Orlesian and fragments of elven, Ariane and Vashti were able to communicate peaceful intent. The guards, no less frustrated than they at the situation, took them straight to the Keeper.

He was a very elderly man, whose white eyebrows lifted in surprise when he heard the Ferelden tongue. “Ah!” he chuckled. “Many years since I have heard it, when a lad I was in the Planasene. Never would I think to hear it spoken under the boughs of the Tirashan. You have come far - please tell me why. Aisho,” he turned to a nearby boy, “bring bread and mead for our guests, ma serranas.”

“Ma serranas,” Ariane echoed in turn. “We are grateful for your welcome, and bring news I hope you will find pleasing. First, have you heard of the new homeland in the south?”

The Keeper chuckled again. “I have heard rumors of such, but also that it is a cold and dark place; I have heard that there is a fortress, and I have heard that the marshland is haunted. Hearing one thing and another - we have been slow to set forth.”

“We come from Ostagar, the fortress,” Vashti said. “Dwarves are rebuilding it, and it houses many lost treasures of the People. The land is colder than here, and damp, but not haunted.”

He rocked back in surprise. “Well! My First and I will have many questions for you, I think. Perhaps we should leave, after all, and let the shemlen face the consequences.”

“And that’s the other bit of news,” Ariane said. “We are tracking the humans worshipping the dragon. They have taken our friend, and we mean to get him back.”

“Ah, so you know already of what I speak. Yes. There is an ancient temple of Sylaise on the lower slopes of the volcano,” he told them solemnly. “These cultists have taken it over and defiled it. We have tried repeatedly to push them out, but...” He sighed. “We have failed, and lost many hunters in the trying. They have strong magic as well as the dragon herself.”

“Ariane is an allan’isa,” Vashti reported. “That will help with the mages.”

“I... am,” Ariane confirmed, blushing to the tips of her ears.

“We are honored, then,” the Keeper said, inclining his head. “Ah, Aisho, you are returned. Set the food there...”

As the refreshments were laid out, Ariane leaned toward Vashti. “I can explain...” she whispered.

“Of course, lethallan,” Vashti murmured, unconcerned. “Later.”

-----------------

They accepted the hospitality of an aravel that was vacated for them. It would have been rude to refuse. The dog stayed under one of the encircling canvas wings while the two women gratefully repaired to the narrow beds inside.

“So,” Ariane started self-consciously, “you, um, noticed what I did to that paralyzation glyph.”

Vashti nodded. “I suspected for a long time. You told me you were a hunter, but I’ve never met a hunter wearing that much metal. Scares the deer.”

Ariane sighed. “You said you were Morrigan’s friend. My duty was to reclaim our book, no matter what. So, I thought maybe I just shouldn’t mention it. You know.”

Vashti didn’t look like she took offense. “You didn’t know me,” she said easily. “Why tell me all your secrets? But,” and now she did frown, “why not later?”

Ariane stretched out on the bed and stared at the ceiling. “Finn. I know with the humans... their mages and their templars don’t get along. He’s already so nervous about everything. And it hadn’t much come up. You tend to put an arrow through the eye of every darkspawn emissary we meet before the battle even starts.”

Vashti grunted. “Fair enough. But I think Finn will understand the difference.” She laid back in her own bed. “Surprised Keeper Solan lets you out so much.”

“There are enough allan’isa around Ostagar,” Ariane waved it off. The warriors who specialized in protecting mages and slaying abominations were generally rarer than the mages themselves. Not every clan even had one, although it was considered unwise to perform a waking ritual without one in attendance. Passing Beyond while awake generally drew demons to the mages.

“Surprised you’re not bonded.”

Uh. Ariane blinked up at the darkened ceiling. It was a reasonable enough observation - she was an adult, and one with a prestigious calling. And it wasn’t as if Keeper Solan hadn’t suggested she bond with his First twice in the past year. “I... was,” she finally answered, unconsciously twisting the ring on her finger. “Garol died during the Blight.”

“Ir abelas,” Vashti said quietly.

“He joined our clan at the last decadal meeting and became the senior apprentice to our craftsmaster. We were not together long, but he was a good man. He didn’t deserve what happened to him... Darkspawn,” she said, recalling that there had been many kinds of violence that awful year.

“Nobody deserved that,” Vashti agreed. She paused and added, “It is to the credit of your clan that any survived, and are free of the taint. We came to many places where they had erupted out of the ground and just... destroyed. Everything.”

“I... know that,” Ariane said slowly. “But I am... still making peace with it. I know I was across camp when they came; there was no way - no way - I could have made it to his side before... before he died. I just... wish there had been.”

It was not as hard to speak of as she had feared, and that was a relief and a source of guilt both. She had been a widow now twice as long as she had been a bride; if she had not healed at all, something would be very wrong indeed. But at the same time, a small voice reproached her for forgetfulness. “It’s not forgetting, is it?” she asked aloud. “I remember him, of course I do, but I cannot water his grave with tears forever. That... doesn’t make me false. Right?”

She heard the Warden shift position, but got no answer. She turned her head to peer through the darkness and saw that Vashti had rolled up on her side and was staring at her. “You... you think it does?”

The Warden startled. “No!” she protested vehemently. “No. It is the business of the living to... live, lethallan.” She rolled back over and dropped her head to the bunk. “To live,” she repeated, wondering.

Ariane was no fool. Vashti had lost much herself, and - if Ariane was any judge at all - healed less. Had she been waiting for the same sort of permission Ariane had just asked for?

Ariane hoped for good things for her friend but, when Vashti didn’t say anything further, Ariane let it go as well. Garol’s spirit was summoned up, and the melancholy memories left her with little interest in counseling Vashti as well.

-----------------

The Keeper was sketching them a map to the temple of Sylaise when a scout jogged up breathlessly. He made his report in Orlesian, glancing anxiously back the way he came.

“That is no good news,” the Keeper frowned. “Six armed shemlen in the forest, heading this way. Too small a group to be a shemlen lord come to run us off, but they carry no trade goods.”

Ariane and Vashti shared a look. Vashti indicated the gilded griffon, now badly scuffed and somewhat patched, on her chest. “Did they wear this symbol?”

The Keeper asked the scout, who looked closely at the symbol and then nodded decisively. Ariane groaned. “That plaque Finn read! It must’ve told them enough to send them to ‘the shadow of Arl Dumat’ as well.”

“Who are they?” the Keeper asked patiently.

“Grey Wardens,” Vashti said. “But not friends.” She turned to Ariane. “We should lead them away from the camp.”

Ariane remembered the carriage accident and how Commander Thierry had insinuated they would have been treated had it not been for Vashti’s Warden commission, and nodded. “It’ll make approaching the temple more difficult.”

“Difficult is what we do,” Vashti grinned.

[Corker]

Wardens

Those Orlesian Grey Wardens weren’t about to give up Dumat’s Spine that easily! They followed our heroes to the Dalish camp in the Tirashan Forest of Orlais, poking their noses in where they really weren’t wanted. Now what?

It wasn’t their forest, the Brecilian. The Brecilian was melancholy on the outskirts and haunted by rage in its interior. The Dalish in Ferelden had stayed mostly in those outskirts, passing under boughs that drooped with the grief of centuries.

The Tirashan - or at least this part of it - was younger, sharper, and meaner. The fumes and ash from the volcano seemed to make the trees strong but bitter, and periodic eruptions eradicated swaths of greenery. Farther to the north, away from the mountains, the forest would be older - even ancient, whispered to have been a part of Arlathan’s great empire.

But it was still a forest, and one with Dalish trail signs scattered here and there. They might not know its every hill and stream, but they knew how to move, how to read the land, and where all the pit traps were dug.

Ariane had been, to her surprise, a little hesitant to hunt the shemlen. Despite everything, the Orlesian Warden Commander had consistently asked for their surrender rather than just attempt to slay them out of hand. It was a small civility she had not expected, and her first impulse was to return it.

Vashti had argued her down. Warden Commander Thierry might be satisfied with taking Dumat’s Spine and going home, but she had no intention of letting him have it. So there would be a fight, and not a regulated duel, either. And if that was what it was going to come to, why lose the initiative?

The Wardens moved cautiously, perhaps suspecting an ambush. They had surely heard from the local humans that there were Dalish in the forest, and it wouldn’t be unreasonable to suspect their Dalish quarry to enlist aid. Three warriors moved in formation with shields, guarding two archers and a robed mage. Still some distance from where they knew Vashti to be, they stepped off the game trail into the brush, and the mage began to wave her arms and staff in the patterns of a spell.

Ariane was not near Vashti - she was, in fact, only a score of yards from where the Wardens had stopped. Standing suddenly with both swords drawn, she called down the full fury of Elgar’nan on the mage. Unearthly light flared as the Veil to the Beyond parted, drawing out the mage’s power and leaving her reeling.

A flurry of arrows followed - but few hit their marks. Even at this range, Vashti was a better shot - Ariane suspected some sort of spell or ward. But to undo it would mean ignoring the angry humans with the swords, and she couldn’t rightly do that. But she did begin to retreat toward the archer, drawing the warriors after her.

They were well away from the ranged support when the dog dashed out from his hiding spot, ran the dizzied mage down and, with a savage toss of his head, tore out her throat. The archers wheeled, startled, arrows going wide. The mabari growled and leapt again, jaws closing on a bow as the desperate man thrust it between him and the dog. Wood splintered but did not break, and the dog let go to circle, making aiming more difficult for the remaining archer. He snapped again, connecting with thigh, and the man screamed. The other archer ran, not liking his odds of surviving a melee.

One of the warriors charging after Ariane cried out, victim of the hunting pit the Dalish had dug along this trail. The fall wouldn’t kill him, unless he were terribly unlucky, but it would keep him out of the battle for a few critical moments.

Ahead of her, Vashti was shouldering her bow in disgust and drawing her blades. Ariane took that as her sign to turn and fight.

Two men, behind the wall of their shields. The remaining archer was skittering closer, shouting in dismay as the dog limped away from the corpse of his cohort and started to lumber down the trail after him, bloody muzzle twisted in a snarl.

Equal numbers were not even odds. The Orlesian Wardens were well-trained, but they were only trained. The battle-hardened elves and the mabari made short work of them; a flurry of blows, a splash of blood, and it was over.

They hurried to the hunting pit as a hand and arm clawed up and over the edge. Another joined it, and Warden Commander Thierry pulled himself up onto the grass.

Vashti took one step forward and placed the edge of Dumat’s Spine at the side of his throat before he could even bring his legs out of the hole. He froze, staring straight ahead at her feet.

Ariane looked from her friend to the prone human in confusion. Vashti had been the one to argue for attacking first instead of talking. Why wasn’t his head off?

Thierry seemed to be of a similar mind. “So do it,” he rasped hoarsely, still not moving.

The blade twitched just slightly. The human flinched, barely, and Ariane thought she saw fresh blood drip from the blade. She turned to look at Vashti; the Warden was intent on her captive, eyes burning darkly in a masklike face. “What are you doing?” Ariane demanded.

A small motion on the ground drew her eye; Thierry had lifted his head enough to look up at them. He returned Vashti’s glare for the space of two heartbeats before declaring, with total disdain: “Savage.”

Vashti’s eyes widened in a sudden fury; the ancient blade swept up and back and --

-- stopped.

Everything stopped. Ariane tried to turn and couldn’t. She tried to move her hands, to perform the gestures that would dispel the magic, but couldn’t. The dog sat utterly still, tongue hanging out. Thierry’s sneer didn’t waver in the slightest, waiting for a blow that wasn’t coming.

There was a jubilant noise, behind her: humans speaking the Orlesian tongue. Quick footsteps came down the game trail, and a dozen humans in ragged and patched armor were suddenly all around them. She saw a club raise behind Vashti just before she lost consciousness herself.

Uh-oh!  Paralyzed and knocked unconscious?  Bad news for our heroes.  Return next week to discover what perilous situation they awaken to find themselves in!

[Corker]

Ruins

When last we saw Finn, some dragon cultists had mistaken him for one of their own.  He bid our fair elves adieu, with a warning that was really a sign to seek out the Dalish of the Tirashan.  Why would he say such a thing?  Because he knew that to the Tirashan, and the volcano Arl Dumat, was where the cultists would be taking him.  What has he found there?

“Brother Florian of Haven” wasn’t a name the cultists knew. Neither was “Father Kolgrim,” a name he’d heard from the Warden. That was, as far as Finn was concerned, perfect. He knew he couldn’t pass as some unknown magister of their own cult once he reached their headquarters, and a Ferelden identity would explain any hint of an accent in his Orlesian. He cemented his credentials by reeling off some tales of the Old Gods blended with draconic lore; it was more than good enough for the cultists to believe that he’d been studying for his final vows under the Haven cult before it was destroyed.

He questioned them in turn; they seemed to venerate their dragon as a new Toth, the Old God of fire. Since they were headed toward a volcano, Finn had to admit that made a certain amount of sense. It also explained their deference: the Silence of Dumat begat the Chaos that was Zazikel, and from Chaos was born Fire. His purported ‘god’ was higher up the celestial food chain than theirs.

He got side-tracked, that was what it was, caught up in trying to learn the strange details of their worship and theology, fascinated by the way Tevinter religious practice (as understood from their records) had degenerated into this. There was always another angle to examine, another reference to explore, and so, by the time they reached the eerie twisted ruins, he’d never gotten around to mundane things like, “So tell me about your Revered Father.” He would surely be another frothing, spitting lunatic like Kolgrim, yes?

No.

Well, frothing lunatic, yes, Finn thought as the High Dragonmother Tozatha finished formally welcoming him to their temple. But I somehow don’t think Father Kolgrim looked anything like that.

For example, he recalled being told that Kolgrim had been armored like his reavers. Chain mail, nothing fancy. Certainly not a... a... dragon costume. Yes, that was a good way to think of it. A silly costume. Very impractical and certainly difficult to get in and out of, the way the stamped and painted leather fitted so very closely, from neck to wrist and ankle...

“...this acolyte of Zazikel,” she was saying to her assembled followers, and he snapped to. “This is the sign we have been awaiting, my faithful ones - a sign of a new people come into the world, bringing with them a new order. We shall ride at the head of their horde, as the Children of Andoral wrap the world in their chains!”

Children of Andoral? What could that be? Andoral, fourth of the Old Gods, god of Chains, forged in the fire of Toth to harness the chaos of... oh Maker!

“We shall hunt down fine sacrifices, my children, and offer them to Toth in exchange for his holy blood. And so shall my mate and I sanctify our union, Chaos and Fire, together to bring forth Andoral!”

The cultists cheered, and Finn barely managed not to faint.

--------------------------

Finn had hoped his status as “Chosen Mate” might grant him enough liberty to escape the ruins he found himself in. Alas, no: it had just garnered him two ever-present servants and an honor guard. He kept his eyes open for opportunities, but suspected that he’d be stuck waiting for Ariane and Vashti to swoop in and save the day. Just as well - he was not at all sure he could talk his way into the Dalish camp without them, and they’d have to look for him there or here.

In the meanwhile, he decided to study the ruins he found himself in, both to assist in any late-night escape attempts and to indulge his curisoitty. He suspected they must be real elven ruins, perhaps from before the Tevinter had even arrived in Thedas. The stonework was twisted and strange, looking more like it had been poured and frozen instead of carved - and perhaps it had been. It certainly didn’t evoke the gentler aspect of Sylaise that Ariane and Vashti spoke of, that goddess of hearth, home and childbirth. Running a hand over the black and bent columns, he wondered if this was a house of worship for an older, darker aspect of the goddess...

(How did the ruins survive this long, anyway? They were at the very foot of the volcano - shouldn’t Arl Dumat have buried them in ash or molten rock by now? Was it a trick of the geology or could perhaps Fade spirits actually protect... Right. Later.)

The ground rumbled and growled under his feet; Arl Dumat stirred in its slumber. Tozatha (that was hardly an Orlesian name; she must have invented it to go with her costume) proclaimed it a good sign, that the Great Father of Gods was bestirring himself to bless the union. Finn didn’t like it; according to Dagna, back at the Circle Tower, it was a sign of underground pressures building up and seeking violent release at the surface. That sounded bad.

One of the servants coughed discreetly. It must be time for another fitting, he thought with annoyance. He allowed himself to be led off, wishing it could have been robes, or silly hats, or even ridiculous armor. But no. Not only did he have to pretend to be enthusiastic about marrying a crazy High Dragonmother who apparently wanted to breed a master race, he had to do it while wearing his very own dragon costume. The only good thing about it was that it was delaying the wedding. He’d managed to find all manner of fault with the fit over the past two weeks, and he even spilled lamp oil on a leg, requiring a whole new one to be cut and sewn in. Tozatha hadn’t seemed bothered by the delays, so he kept inventing new problems.

They walked to the small chamber reserved for the leather-worker. Plentiful small, high windows let light into the little room of black-green lumpen walls. Finn was hardly self-conscious about dressing and undressing in front of near-strangers, not after all his years in the Circle Tower, so he carefully shed his borrowed robes, folded them neatly, and stepped into the garment that was held out for him.

It wasn’t as bad as he’d thought it would be. Lacing concealed by small plackets at the wrists and ankles helped to get the thing over his hands and feet, and then it was similarly laced up the back. It wasn’t something you could really do yourself, but he supposed a High Dragonmother had people to help her with such things. He automatically brushed off his arms and chest, as if it was a robe that would need smoothing, and looked it over critically. It had been dyed since last time - a rosy shade in the front, fading into a darker reddish purple in the back. Once he gave his approval, the leather-worker would stamp it all over with a pattern of scales and paint on details and shading. That would itself be quite a project...

...which was good, because he was going to have a difficult time finding any faults this week. He moved experimentally around the room, checking to see what might bind or chafe. The seams that he could see looked good; nothing rubbed around his neck; the cuffs hit at just the right place on his wrists. The leather-worker kissed his own fingertips. “Like a glove,” he said, clearly pleased with his own work.

Finn nodded slowly. There wasn’t a single thing he could find to complain about, except for the entire premise. But the execution was, indeed, flawless. “So you will begin the decorations?” Finn asked, as the servants diligently set about undoing the laces.

“Yes,” the artisan nodded. “In a few days, all will be ready.”

“By tomorrow, Tomas,” announced a voice from the doorway. Tozatha stood there, flanked by her own servants and guards.

“Yes, Dragonmother,” the leather-worker bowed.

“T-Tomorrow?” Finn stuttered in surprise. No, no, tomorrow was not good. “Why... why the rush?” He had a pleasant thought. “Are we evacuating?”

Tozatha scoffed. “You worry too much, dear mate. Have faith: Toth protects us here. No, we are not leaving. But we have acquired the sacrifices. You must come and see; truly, it is another sign.”

I don’t like her signs. I don’t like this, Finn thought, turning around, as the servants helped him out of the dragon suit. He shrugged his cult robes back on, fastened them up and brushed them off. “Better,” he mumbled, turned for the door - and saw to his mild surprise that Tozatha was still there, waiting for him. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I did not meant to make the Dragonmother wait.”

“It was no bother,” she said, in a tone that managed to turn his ears red. “I have served the gods well, it seems. But come, come; you will not believe this.”

They, and their entourages, walked down the hall to the exit to the amphitheater, or so Finn thought of it. It was sort of bowl-shaped, and the cultists gathered there to hear the High Dragonmother exhort them, so he figured it qualified. It also offered a fine view of the volcano - he suspected its original purpose - and would certainly be accessible to a high dragon.

A dozen or so cultists were gathered there now. He’d been expecting a stag, or a boar, or (Maker help him) a halla, but there was no animal there. Then he saw what was there and froze.

“Pierre says they are the very two elves to whom you very foolishly showed mercy in the city!” Tozatha exclaimed. “Look, they have followed you so far to become your wedding sacrifice! Is this not the very poetry of fate?”

“I’m... speechless,” Finn managed. Ariane and Vashti glared right past him to Tozatha; the Warden Commander who’d nearly run him over was eyeing him cautiously, but was prudent enough not to say anything. The dog was nowhere to be seen; Finn wasn’t sure if that was really good news, or really bad news.

“Take them to the holding cells,” Tozatha commanded, and the cultists began to shove and hustle their three captives along.

“Wait!” Finn cried, and Tozatha looked at him askance. “I... that is...” The Black Fox and the Chevalier unfurled in his mind, right to where the repugnant chevalier had the Black Fox’s ladylove, Servana de Montfort, in his power. He pointed... at Ariane, who seemed slightly less likely to injure him for this. “ ‘Send her to my quarters, so that I may repay her for the trouble she has caused me,’ “ he quoted the ballad.

The cultists looked to their leader, naturally. Tozatha regarded him closely. “What repayment have you in mind, my mate? They should be kept whole and unspoiled for Toth.”

“Oh, of... of course.” There was the other thing dastardly fellows in ballads threatened to do to women, but from the look the High Dragonmother was giving him, he didn’t think she’d approve of that, either. “You are correct. I... let myself get carried away.”

Tozatha waved her hand, and the guards continued on their way.

--------------------------

Finn stared at the darkened ceiling. He was not supposed to be the ‘daring rescue plan’ person. He was the ‘read old books and put the pieces together’ person. He was not good at this. But yet, here he was.

He’d kept an eye out for the dog, but hadn’t caught a glimpse of the mabari. He was beginning to have a bad feeling about that; not much could be keeping the loyal creature away from its mistress for so long. He couldn’t count that the furbag would put in a timely appearance.

Well, it’ll work or it won’t. It’s not going to get any easier the longer I wait. He rolled out of bed, feet quiet on the rug. He wasn’t an invisible ghost of the shadows like the Warden, but again his time in the Tower put him in good stead. Slipping quietly past the sleeping servants was second nature to someone who’d spent so much time in dormitories and shared quarters.

The guards were another story entirely. Exiting his room, staff in hand, he nodded to them as they pulled themselves off the walls they were leaning on. “I want to see the prisoners,” he said.

“Brother Florian, that’s hardly wise,” one said.

“They killed all of the brethren of Haven,” he said quietly, looking at the floor. “Including my mentor. Before they die in the morning, I would know why.” He looked up at the guards. “Can you understand?”

They could. After a short conference, they led Finn down the glassy hallways toward the chamber that the cult used to hold its sacrificial victims. Four guards were posted there. They were still a score of feet away when Finn slowed and stopped, fiddlingly nervously. “I know they’re... very dangerous,” he said to his guards. “Could you... maybe... go ahead and check with the guards that everything is safe?”

The nervousness wasn’t feigned. This was it. If they went, the plan would work. If they didn’t...

His guards looked at each other and shrugged. Whatever disdain they may have felt at his evidence cowardice was tempered by the knowledge that protecting him was their job. Twenty feet was not very far; they sauntered ahead, hailing their fellows.

Finn let out a deep breath and, once all six guards were conversing, cast the glyph. The men saw the eldritch lines flash on the ground around them, and Finn shouted, “Dalish invaders!” and pointed behind them. They looked, and that was all the opportunity he needed to cast the other glyph.

There was a reason he hadn’t tried to paralyze the drake in the sewers, once it had breached the warding field. Each glyph was stable on its own, but the two, when incribed together, became explosively unstable. It was unpredictable and generally best avoided, but in this case, it was exactly what he needed.

The force wave rippled out, carrying with it the effects of the paralysis glyph. All six men were easily caught, freezing in the act of drawing their weapons to face the ‘Dalish invaders,’ but the wave dissipated with a sigh a few feet from Finn.

He hurried, searching all four guards for keys before finding them. Getting the key in the lock was harder than it ought to be, but his hands were shaking. Finally it opened, and he called up a spellwisp to shed some light on the scene.

All three were chained to the walls, but on their feet and ready to go. Vashti was closest, so he arrowed to her, fumbling for a different key. “The plan is that we leave,” he said promptly. “I know, we’re here for something, but the last time we faced these fellows without our gear it went badly. Please don’t argue.”

“Good plan,” Ariane agreed, as he got one of Vashti’s arms free. “Back to the Dalish and regroup.”

“And I?” asked the Orlesian Warden.

“I’m getting to you,” Finn snapped, as the other manacle popped open. Vashti stepped to the center of the room, chafing her wrists and looking darkly at the chained man.

“If you’re just going to kill me, I’d rather take my chances with the cultists,” he sniffed.

“I am not going to... Why would you even think...” The person who put the puzzle pieces together had several snap in place suddenly. “You’ve had an eventful trip following me, I take it?” he asked Ariane, as he moved on to her wrist. The Dalish warrior nodded as the key clicked. “Well, we’re not going to just leave him here, right? That would be -- ”

Everyone else gasped or shouted; noise from behind him hinted that crying “Dalish invaders!” might not have been the best distraction earlier. He turned, thinking to conjure another ward --

-- and kept turning, to his great surprise. And his staff came down as he did, catching the Dalish Warden hard in the side. She wasn’t expecting such a blow from behind and stumbled, then fell. What? The exclamation was automatic... or it should have been. He tried to speak and found he couldn’t.  His eyes should have gone wide with horror, but didn't. 

His body stopped, staff coming back up. Ariane was cursing a blue streak behind him, yanking and jerking her remaining manacled hand so that the chains clattered. Ahead, guards streamed past Tozatha to pile on Vashti; his betrothed removed a bloodied dragonbone dar’misu from her own arm.

“I am disappointed, Florian,” she said, just before the whole world went red.

[Corker]

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[Corker]

The Dragon's Claw

And now, we return from commercial break with the thrilling climax of... The Search for the Dragon's Claw!

Last was hungry. He hadn’t been really hungry in a long time - First always made sure there was food. Just one of the uncountable reasons she was First, leader of the pack.

Strangers - enemies - had come and taken First and Second away. They’d used magic on him - he knew about magic. Didn’t First always send him to hunt the mages? She certainly did, because he was the best at that. But this time, the mage got the jump on him. Very embarrassing, being hunted by the prey. He was a bad dog.

So as soon as the magic wore off, he’d torn off after the enemies. There were a lot of them, but so what? They had First! He was a bad dog, and they’d taken First, and he had to be a good dog and get her loose. It just wasn’t a question.

But First had whistled and shouted, ordering him off. He was confused, but he wanted to be a good dog and did what First said. Arrows chased him into the underbrush, and he hid.

When it was all quiet, he followed.

There were lots of ways to hide in the forest. When they got to the rocky plain, it was harder. He let the enemies get far ahead, til they were out of his sight and then another hour. Their eyes were better than his, he knew. But his nose was much better than theirs, and there wasn’t much else out here to smell. The group of them walking and pissing their way over the rocks left him great big scent cues to follow.

But there wasn’t much to eat out here. So he was hungry. Grumbling, he licked the last bits of water out of a shallow depression of stone, then settled himself back down behind a big rock to wait.

There were some buildings ahead, and the scent trail ended there. He’d scouted all the way around last night, just to be sure. There were enemies guarding it, and Last thought the better of trying to engage them. Buildings usually had doors inside them. Stupid doors.

He’d positioned himself on the slope above the buildings. There was something of a pit dug between him and them, and it made him feel more secure. The pit had a lot of smells, including a whiff of First, Second - and the real Last! Oh, Last was back, he could be Third again instead of Last. It was the best news in two days! He hoped his pack would return to the pit, and then surely First would tell him what to do.

The sun came up and, after a wait that had his ears back with worry, enemies finally started coming out of the building. They milled around, going between the pit and the buildings with mysterious stuff, the sort of human-made things whose purpose was unknown to Third. Except the table, set with a big cup. He knew tables and cups: that was for food! His stomach rumbled at the thought and he tried to ignore it. There would be lots of food once he had First back.

Finally, all the bustling around was done. More enemies came out. A lot more. Third whined quietly to himself, not liking the odds. Peeking around his rock, he saw that the enemies arranged themselves in curved rows in the pit, on the side away from him, where the slope was shallower. He crept to the side of his hiding place and hunkered down in its shadow, watching.

The pack was coming! First and Second were being carried bodily into the pit, where enemies roped them to some tall posts that stood upright in the rocky ground. There was a male human with them, not Last, who’d been in the last group of enemies. He wasn’t Third’s business.

Last followed... strangely. Third growled softly in his throat, because something wasn’t right. For one thing, he wasn’t trying to help First and Second. But more than that, his gait was off, in a way that made Third remember darkspawn mages from long ago, before he’d gotten so good that he could kill them before they could cast a spell. Members of the old pack reeling, stunned, and staggering... yes, it must be something like that.

And the female human with the big stick was probably responsible.

Third snuffled, wishing again that First’s nose worked properly. He couldn’t get her attention without getting everyone else’s attention. She was looking about, he could tell from his perch, looking for him - but he was behind her. The posts were just below him, near the edge of the pit that rose sharply up to his position. She must know that he wouldn’t leave her! ...but she also might not signal him until she knew he was there. Otherwise, the enemies would know that they hadn’t really driven him off.

But Third knew what to do. He’d do what First always told him to do, when there was an enemy mage around.

---------------------------

Finn had, in the past, wondered if maybe the Chantry’s total ban on blood magic was a little harsh. Obviously, human sacrifice and such were wrong, but in a pinch, might not using one’s own blood for power be, in a way, healthier than using addictive lyrium?

No. No no no, a hundred times no. If that led to this, the templars were right to burn it out of existence with holy fire. His body lurched along against his will; he could give no sign, by voice or gesture or expression, that he was still in here. He couldn’t turn away, or even close his eyes, as the cultists tied his friends to the sacrificial posts. We will avenge your losses another time, Tozatha had said. The ceremony will go forward, and you will cooperate, Florian. Destiny demands it.

He had tried, repeatedly, to not move. If he could not have his will, perhaps he could thwart Tozatha’s. He learned quickly that it was like touching a hot griddle - it caused a sudden, searing pain that everything in him recoiled from. He had an idea that, if the moment came when it might make a difference, he might will himself to press his hands to that griddle... But what difference could it possibly make? He might, at best, delay the proceedings slightly.

Maybe that would annoy the dragon?

He could hope.

His body, clad in that stupid dragon costume, walked to the altar with Tozatha, listing slightly under the unaccustomed weight of Dumat’s Spine. She carried Dumat’s Claw, and had thought that its mate was a fitting token of his status as her new mate. They both turned to face the assemblage, and she harangued her cult about the glorious new day that was coming. Finally, she signaled to the young man standing by the gong. He rang it loudly, the sound reverberating up the side of the smoking volcano.

Finn’s eyes stared fixedly ahead. If he could cast a spell... but he couldn’t. He couldn’t do anything. Except... well, that would be a little silly. He didn’t actually believe in miracles.

All the same, he found himself praying, with surprising sincerity. Maybe because he finally understood, in a deeply personal way, the sort of abuse of power Andraste had stood against. And then - hesitantly - he made so bold as to send out a silent call to Sylaise, to whom he was a stranger, to tell her that two of her children were in danger.

When the great shadow passed overhead, seemingly in response to his call, he jumped - or would have, if he’d been able. The cultists all gazed up in wonder at their incarnate god, murmuring their own prayers of praise and glory. Tozatha lifted her arms, began to loudly chant a hymn --

-- he almost didn’t hear the skittering sound of pebbles and rocks scattering. Out of the far corner of his eye, he saw the dog - the dog! - charge over the top edge of the amphitheater, fly out into the air, sail between the posts on his left, and land hard not ten feet from them. Most of the cultists did not see, fixed as they were on the dragon’s approach; Tozatha gasped in stunned surprise. She grabbed for Dumat’s Claw - but too late. The mabari bounded past Finn, bowling her over. He couldn’t see them on the ground, but he could hear the snarls and the screams.

And then -- !

---------------------------

Ariane’s jerked against the ropes, again, as the dog flew over their heads and charged down the cultist mage. It did no good - the sockets for the poles had to be several feet into the ground, and she could not shake or lift it loose. Beside her, Vashti shouted praise and encouragement to her hound.

Finn turned and dropped suddenly, and Ariane wondered if the blood mage was using him to try and pull the dog off of her. He straightened a moment later, holding the very dar’misu they’d come all this way to find, and ran to them, dog following on his heels. Ariane was closest, and he started sawing at the ropes.

The main body of cultists had, by this time, realized things were going horribly wrong. As a mob, they surged forward - only to stumble back as Toth Reborn landed with a great gust of wind on the very spot where the dog had been hiding. The great horned head swiveled back and forth, taking in the three would-be sacrifices, the assembled cult, and the dead Tozatha. The cultists collectively held their breath, waiting to see what their god would ordain.

Finn, on the other hand, finished laboring his way through one of the cords; Ariane pushed and they loosened, falling to her feet. “Take the sword,” the mage told her, jerking his head toward his back as he moved on to Vashti.

Ariane did, staggering as the dragon lifted its head and let out an ear-splitting roar. The cultists shouted in reply (and the dog barked madly) and drew their weapons. Finn dropped the dagger and wheeled, chanting; Ariane finished the work he’d started, freeing Vashti.

The Warden stooped to pick up Dumat’s Claw; Ariane sliced at Thierry’s ropes. “Don’t make me regret this,” she growled at him. Behind her, a deep rumbling noise started up. As the ropes parted, she reflexively turned to look.

The charging cultists were flat on the ground as the rest of the amphitheatre shuddered and shook in a magical earthquake. “Great!” Ariane cried over the racket. “Now what?” Earthquake ahead, dragon behind...

A strong hand closed on her wrist, and Dumat’s Spine was unceremoniously wrenched from her grasp. “Now the real Grey Warden saves the day,” Thierry sneered. “I don’t expect any of you can handle the dragon,” he said, leaping to the rugged cliff-face and starting to climb.

“I was using that!” Ariane shouted after him.

“This earthquake isn’t going to last forever,” Finn reminded them. “In fact, we’re going to have a lot of cultists to deal with very... oh dear.”

A great fissure had opened up in the amphitheater, jetting steam. Nearby cultists screamed.

The ground underneath their feet was starting to move as well. “Finn! What did you do?” Ariane asked.

“I... failed to adequately understand a cohort of mine, apparently!” he shouted back. “The Stone here is unstable!” This pronouncement was followed by another violent cracking sound; another rent in the ground appeared among the cultists, oozing red-orange lava. High above them, the volcano belched a new cloud of black ash into the air. “We need to get to the temple!”

“Are you cra- Wait. Where’s Vashti?” Their Warden had followed the Orlesian Warden Commander up the amphitheater wall; the dragon, wingtips swaying slightly as the ground continued to tremble, regarded them both. “Creators help me,” Ariane growled. “Or I’ll kill her.”

---------------------------

“I take it you’re here in case the dragon doesn’t finish the job?” Thierry asked as Vashti pulled herself up over the edge of the amphitheater.

“Here to keep the dragon busy,” Vashti grunted. “Figured you wouldn’t last long alone.”

The great serpentine head turned from the scene below to the pair of them as they advanced. Vashti knew enough about the ways of animals to suspect that the gong meant food to the dragon. If it was going to look for some, better to look up here than down there.

The long neck straightened, and Vashti called, “Down!”, throwing herself flat as a jet of flame erupted from the toothy maw. Thierry thudded next to her, squinting as the fire roared overhead. “As if you’ve actually fought a high dragon!”

Vashti shrugged, clambering to her feet as the fire cut off. “Haven’t, really. But the witch-dragon and the Archdemon were close enough.”

“Spare me.” They rushed in together, Thierry ducking a massive clawed swipe. Their dragonbone blades struck; Vashti’s dagger sank down almost to the hilt, and Thierry left a bloody slice that was inches deep. The dragon roared, shaking her head in anger, but didn’t slow down in the least.

Vashti rolled away as teeth as long as her dagger snapped in the air. “We are unarmored and underequipped!” she called. “We must keep this brief!” Never mind that the ground under her bare feet had started to shake. That was not a good sign.

“Ha! Says the savage raider who relies on ambush and surprise,” spat the other Warden, carving another line in the dragon’s hide. “I will see you hanged for the loss of my men.”

The agile neck turned unexpectedly, catching Thierry across the midsection and sending him flying. Vashti took the opportunity to drive her dagger home again, seeking ligaments in one of the meaty forelegs. “You shamed me!” She had meant it to be a shout, but it came out a scream. “Would your own honor require less?”

Then it was her turn to feel ribs crack as that foreleg jerked and thrashed, sending her sprawling with a solid kick. The dragon’s head was still tracking Thierry, who feinted at the eyes with his blade. “Of course not,” he called back, “but I have honor. The thought that an elven woman could claim as much -- ” The dragon’s sudden inhalation cut him off; he leapt to one side to avoid another spray of flame. Rolling to his feet, he finished, “-- well, it’s as ridiculous as the notion that one could slay the Archdemon! You’re a lying, thieving murderess and you will publicly confess to as much before you die!”

“I’ll feed the dragon, first!”

“Difficult to do, once I kill it!” Thierry ducked as the dragon snapped at him. “Those of us trained to fight the Archdemon know the unarmored places on the beasts, where the - ungh! - Nevarran hunters would strike to do the least damage to the hide and bones.”

“Are you having troubling finding it?”

There was a sudden sharp crack that came, not from the shuddering volcano or the disintegrating amphitheater behind them, but from the sky above. A wide beam of light, bright and pure as summer sun, shot down, dazzling the dragon.

The Fury of Elgar’nan! The holy fire was the greatest weapon of the allan’isa; Vashti turned to see Ariane at the top edge of the wall, dropping her hands from the summoning gesture. Finn was staring open-mouthed as he hastily removed a makeshift rope harness from the mabari - the pair must have hoisted the dog up. Ariane screamed something, pointed behind her -

Vashti whirled back around, Dumat’s Claw raised - but Ariane’s warning was for a different threat. The ash cloud that hung over the top of Arl Dumat was lit redly from below now, and the rumbling beneath her feet was growing stronger.

But another flash of movement caught her eye. Thierry, apparently seeking to take advantage of the dragon’s temporarily stunned state, had made a leap for its head; Vashti remembered the soft spot between and just below the eyes, where she’d slammed the Veshaille home into the Archdemon’s skull. That was his secret target, and no wonder he had not been able to hit it yet.

He landed, sword raised, as the dragon shook off the last of the divine assault. A snap of the great muscled neck and Thierry was flying high into the air; another snap, and the jaws closed down around him.

Crunch.

---------------------------

The great maw opened, closed, and shook. There wasn’t even time for a scream; bone crunched and blood spurted. The sword Dumat’s Spine flew from his grasp and slid over the black rocks, stopping not five feet from Ariane. She leapt to pick it up, fingers closing on the leather-wrapped hilt --

-- And then the volcano blew. Red-orange liquid rock streamed up into the sky, falling in thick rivulets on the slopes of Arl Dumat.

The dragon dropped Thierry’s body and took off, the downdraft from its wings knocking them all off their feet. A roiling mass of lava was streaming down towards them. Ariane looked back toward the ruins - the cultists were taking off at a run, across the black and burned plains. “Let’s go!” she shouted, gesturing that they should run after.

“No!” Finn insisted as Vashti jogged over. “The temple! It’s survived here at least a thousand years, probably more, but this whole plain will be covered in lava!”

Ariane blinked and nodded. “Temple it is! Now go, go!”

With the lava sliding downhill at them, they sprinted around the lip of the amphitheater for the ancient ruins. They tumbled through one askew archway, but Finn kept going. “Let’s not tempt fate,” he said. “I know where the storerooms are. If we’re to be trapped, let’s be trapped where the food and water are.”

They followed him to the storeroom; Ariane noted with pleasure that their gear had been stowed here, as well. Not that swords and armor would help against the lava, but it was still a comfort to have her father’s blade and Garol’s ring with her again.

They watched from a window as the lava rolled nearer. It dipped down into the amphitheater, already partly lava-filled from the leaking fissures, but soon exceeded its capacity. The wave came closer to the ancient temple --

-- and broke around it. They all gave a collective sigh of relief.

“How?” asked Ariane. “I mean, will we remain safe here?”

Finn shook his head. “I’m not completely sure. Perhaps the temple is on a rise we haven’t noticed, or perhaps it’s... ancient elven magics. But I think are chances are excellent. Better than those poor sods out there,” he nodded to the walls. “That eruption is throwing lava far and wide, and the flow will keep moving, without getting tired. I don’t like their odds.”

The mabari whined and pawed at a sack. “That,” said Ariane, “is an excellent idea.” Quite a lot had just happened, and she thought she’d deal with it all much better with something in her stomach.

We're not quite done yet, loyal listeners!  Join us next week for our final installment!

Modifié par Corker, 14 février 2011 - 01:03 .

[Corker]

Halamshiral

Halamshiral, the journey’s end. Arl Dumat pours out his fury for several days, but when he quiets again, the surface of the fresh lava cools quickly. Our heroes make their way across the blackened plain to the edge of the Tirashan, and from there rejoin the Dalish camp. They pause for the impromptu festival that is held to celebrate the rout of the dragon cultists from the ancient temple, although perhaps only the dog is in a celebratory mood.

As Vashti suspected, Finn comes to terms with Ariane’s calling as an allan’isa without too much trouble. The Circle mage has spent enough time among the Dalish to understand how these guardians differ from Chantry templars, even if their gifts are similar. But his brush with blood magic has left Finn shaken. The Dalish Keeper has some gentle and healing words for him, and his wounds will mend with time - even if they leave marks behind.

As if that were not enough, he has another thing weighing on his mind. In a small encampment along the Imperial Highway, he finally finds words for it...

Ariane woke to a light touch on her shoulder. “Uhn,” she grunted articulately. “My turn already?” Finn nodded and backed away, letting her sit up and then, rubbing at her eyes, stand. “All right, you turn in. I’m up.”

“Actually...” he began hesitantly, “can I... ask you something?”

“Of course,” Ariane said, frowning slightly. He looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Should I wake Vashti for this?”

“Maker’s breath, no!” the mage hissed quietly, shaking his head emphatically. “No, I want to ask you... what happened with the Orlesian Wardens?”

Ariane took a deep breath. “Oh,” she sighed. “That.” She had been feeling rather better about the entire thing since Vashti had explained that the offers of surrender would have simply led to a public farce of human justice. But she wasn’t sure if Finn would see it in quite the same way. “They were tracking us, to take back Dumat’s Spine, I suppose. There were a half-dozen of them, and two of us plus the dog. Since we weren’t going to give up the sword, and they certainly didn’t come all that way to go home without it, we just... skipped the preliminaries and attacked them. It would have come to that, anyway.”

Finn crossed his arms, contemplating the ground. “So you... stole the sword back?”

Ariane bristled. “That duel was ridiculous! He had no right to take it from her.”

“I don’t actually disagree,” Finn replied. He paused, then grimaced and asked, “And the First Warden?”

That brought Ariane up short. “What? I don’t understand... what’s the question?”

Finn, chin still tucked to his chest, raised his eyes to meet hers. “The First Warden. He’s the one who had the Spine sent to Ferelden in the first place, and who ordered it sent from Vigil’s Keep to Ostagar. So it didn’t occur to either of you to just ask that he make the Warden Commander return it?”

Ariane opened her mouth, then shut it with a click before anything stupid could fall out. She just shook her head wordlessly.

“Because... let me guess... there was no possible way one shemlen Warden would go against another shemlen Warden on behalf of an elven Warden.”

Ariane just stared for a long moment, shocked by his bitterly cold tone. She finally shook her head again. “No,” she said. “Not like that. We didn’t have the idea and then discard it. We just... didn’t think of it, at all.” They were too used to relying only on their own efforts to achieve anything... And maybe if the shemlen lords and magi were more forthcoming with their help, we’d think of them more readily!

“Or at least you didn’t,” Finn allowed, relenting somewhat. “I believe you, Ariane, but... this sort of thing can’t happen again. I don’t mind fighting darkspawn... well, I mind but I don’t have a moral problem with it... and I don’t have a problem with us defending ourselves, like when those dragon cultists attacked us at Drake’s Fall. But, no matter how old these relics are, no matter how much ancient wisdom might be within them... they are things, Ariane. And I’m not willing to kill people over things. Or...” He hugged himself a little tighter. “Or be party to it.”

She nodded, face solemn. “I understand,” she said. Gently, she tugged one of his hands free of his elbow and took it in both of hers. “And I agree. We won’t do something like that again.” She paused, then added with all seriousness, “Which is not to say that, if someone were to walk into the Great Hall and begin to take things from the Path of the Ancestors, that I would not try my utmost to stop them.”

Finn nodded. “Yes, I see your point. Conversely, if you were planning to raid the Circle Tower for books, I would not go along, even if deadly force were not intended. And... I would most likely not continue in your company.”

“I understand,” Ariane replied seriously. She paused deliberately, then released his hand to lightly punch him in the arm. “I’ll just tell Vashti the raid is canceled, then.”

Finn smiled - wanly, but he smiled. “Oh, good.” The smile faded and he nodded, once. “”Thank you for your honesty, Ariane.”

“Hey, I figure I owe you some, after the whole allan’isa thing.”

“Thank you anyway. Now I... I guess I should get to sleep. More walking in the morning.”

“I don’t regret his death. At all.” Vashti’s voice came, quiet but firm, from her bedroll as Finn started to turn toward his. “‘Two hounds for two horses,’” she quoted Thierry’s words to Finn just after the accident, suggesting that the mage give him the two elves in exchange for his dead steeds, her disgust evident.

Finn and Ariane shared a guilty glance as the Warden sat up, as if they’d been caught at something. “Light sleeper, eh?” Finn asked rhetorically. “He was an unpleasant man, I’ll grant you that, but I don’t know if he deserved to die for it.”

“He was going to beat you. You were going to let him. Doesn’t that bother you?”

“I... well... yes, of course,” Finn answered, a little flustered at the sudden change in direction. “But spilling his guts in front of the Grand Cathedral would bother me more. Especially once the templars got wind of it,” he added dryly. “Just from a purely pragmatic perspective.”

Vashti grunted noncommittally. “Way of the bow is to bend. Not saying we got to fight every fight. But he picked it. When we got Dumat’s Spine back, I could have put an arrow in his throat; I didn’t. Dropped a tapestry on him instead, and we ran. He was warned. But he followed, all the way to the Tirashan.”

“That’s true,” Ariane said, suddenly feeling better about the whole thing. “We did get the Spine back without bloodshed.”

“Oh.” Finn paused to process this new information, then pinched the bridge of his nose, frowning. “So... why did you spare him in the one instance but attempt to kill him in the other?”

“He contrived to take the sword unfairly, agreed?” Ariane asked. Finn nodded. The veiled threat against Ariane if the duel were refused had been coercion; there had not been a way to avoid the duel, and then Thierry had deprived Vashti of her customary offhand weapon. By Ferelden standards, that was outright cheating, although the Orlesian templars hadn’t had a problem with it. “So we had to right to reclaim it. But - ”

“He didn’t kill to take it. We didn’t kill to take it back,” Vashti interrupted.

“And if he had killed,” Finn mused, “I think that getting the sword back would have become a secondary concern, yes?” The elves blinked in surprise but nodded. “What?” Finn asked crossly. “We are friends, aren’t we? I’m a scholar, not a lizard; I can get angry. But you still could have tried asking.”

“Because that worked so well in the past,” Vashti said with dark amusement. But she held up two hands peaceably. “I did not think of it,” she said seriously. “I do not regret his death, but there may be consequences that I will regret. Your way, if it would have worked, would have been better. But.”

She picked up the two scabbards that lay next to her bedroll and stood. She drew both weapons slowly and carefully, letting the sheaths fall. Purple shadows of dragonbone rippled down the matched set, seeming to twist and move in the flickering firelight. “We bend but we do not break. ‘Never again shall we submit.’” She lifted the blades to a combat stance; a demonstration without threat. “There are injustices I will not bear, a measure of dignity I will not cede.”

Finn shivered and crossed his arms defensively. Vashti twirled each blade in a slow arc; she watched the Spine intently, lips pressed together. “Some things are... more than things,” she said at length. “Symbols. I trust a mage will not argue that symbols are not as real as rocks.”

Finn nodded. Words were symbols, after all, and he a linguist. “If asking had not worked, you would have retrieved the sword by other means,” he surmised.

“Yes. Not because I desire the sword, but because I will not allow it to be stolen from me. Does this make sense to you?”

Finn considered it. “It’s a sort of stubbornness that has, historically, often caused feuds between nations... but it is not unjustified in the case of the Dalish, I think. You have had much taken from you, and have little confidence that the pattern will not continue.”

“Yes. They will not believe that we are strong unless we show that we are strong.”

“So are we of a mind?” Ariane asked. “No wanton killing, no boneless surrender?”

“It seems so,” Finn said, clearly relieved. Vashti grunted and stooped to put the blades away.

“Great,” Ariane said. “I’m glad we got that straightened out. I like working with you two. Three,” she amended, with an apologetic glance at the dog. Two smiles, one small and private and the other one big and a bit lopsided, conveyed her companions’ agreement. “Now, it’s my watch, so you two get to sleep. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover before we’re home.”

Home! Was there ever a sweeter word? And so we leave our heroes by their fire, en route to the white walls of Ostagar and home.

Will they linger there long before adventure summons them forth once more? Doubtful, my friends, doubtful! Tune in next season for our next hair-raising archaeological adventure in the far-off lands of Thedas!

________________________________________________________

A/N:  It's been fun, folks!  Thanks for reading along.

I am planning a sequel, possibly with elements from DA2, so I want to wait until that's out and I've played it before starting.  After all, this one was inspired by the darn difficulty of obtaining Dumat's Claw in Awakening.  So who knows what random detail will inspire?

[Corker]

Two reasons to bump this long-dormant thread:

Look, art!


by forumite Halae Dral, as a prize for me from the ZevThread weekly competition. Yaaay, art!

Also, the promised sequel The Demon Queen of Kirkwall has gone live and is in progress. The trio (and the dog!) travel to Sundermount to see if they can bring the Sabrae home to the Hinterlands, and are drawn into a descending spiral of horror. There's a lot more pain and loss in 'Demon Queen,' but expect similar amounts of action and a similar length. Some DA2 spoilers before it goes off-the-rails AU.