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[SheilaD67]

Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed: Kira Tamarion (who kindly sent me a PM), celtic-twinkie, tgail73, Nithu, Shakespira, Arsinoe de Blassenville, Biff McLaughlin (both for 43 & 44!), CCBug

Okay, because I’ve been so lax in this: I own nothing of the DA universe. I wish I did, I really, really do. Bioware rocks…David Gaider rocks…and I am just a hack trying to put out there my vision.

This chapter is relatively short. Although there are brief glances at Adela and her companions, I wanted mostly to answer what happened to Loghain and Nelaros after their battle with the demon. To me, adding more to this chapter seemed, ah, wrong.

The Halla Reborn
Chapter 45

Pushing himself to his knees, he groaned, shaking his blond head. Gradually, he opened his eyes, blinking painfully against the bright, flickering light that enveloped the room he found himself in. He glanced to the side, taking note of the cot he had just rolled from, the fall to the hard, wooden floor having jolted him to consciousness.

Cursing slightly, Nelaros planted a foot to the floor, and forcefully pushed himself to his feet. Standing rather shakily, he glanced around, spying Loghain lying upon the large bed that stood on the opposite side of the room. With a glance to the closed door, the elf rushed to the human’s side.

He breathed. That was good. Sighing with relief, Nelaros grasped the older man’s shoulders, giving him a firm shake. Loghain sputtered slightly, almost as though he was coming up for air from under water. Frowning, the elf gave him a firmer shake, whispering his name, trying to keep the panic he felt rise within him at bay.

Pale blue eyes opened, blinking and tearing against the unfamiliar brightness of the light cast by the fire. The elf allowed himself a smile as Loghain rubbed a hand to his eyes as he pushed himself to a seated position, swinging his long legs over the side of the bed.

The two men stared at each other for a moment before Nelaros spoke. “It would seem that we are free of the demon’s prison.” There was no missing the near joy that tinged the elf’s voice, laced slightly with hysteria, and Loghain’s response was a grunt and nod of his head. Grasping the Teyrn’s upper arm, Nelaros pulled the man from the bed, and helped to steady him as he regained his footing.

Both men were dressed as they had been when Arawn had placed them in that Fade prison: Loghain in comfortable and well made trousers and shirt, Nelaros in tattered breeches and tunic. Both had socks but were shoeless, and there were no weapons to be seen anywhere in the room. Loghain scowled as he glared around the room that had come to represent his prison even when awake.

“We need to get out of here,” the elf had said, moving quickly to the door. He had lost weight, they both had. Maker knew how long they had been imprisoned in that hell. But, he would not lose, not yet. He still drew breath, could move, and wanted to be free! He knelt down, studying the locking mechanism to the door, a thoughtful frown upon his face. He took note of Loghain stepping behind him, but was grateful the other man remained silent as he studied the lock.

He was not a rogue. He had very little talents in stealth and intrigue beyond the natural affinity the elven race had. However, as a blacksmith, the elf had made more than his fair share of locks. He was hoping that his experience and knowledge would help him decipher just how to unlock the door, short of bashing at it. That would only draw unwanted attention.

Because the elf was more than certain that armed men roamed the halls beyond the room that so resembled the refuge that he and Loghain had found while in the Fade. And these armed men would be alive and well, and skilled.

“What are the chances our host is still oblivious to our being awake?” the elf asked the human as he turned, rising to search out an object he could use as a pick. Loghain frowned, glaring at the lock, before shaking his dark head in answer. Nelaros stood, staring at the book shelves, taking in the rows of books, allowing the slightly jealous twinge that rose in his chest to fade as he continued his inventory. An ink well and quill stood at the end of one shelf, and the elf stepped over, taking note that the quill was bone rather than feather. As he turned, he took note of another object that lay not far. A confused frown furrowed his brow as he picked up the pen knife that lay thereon.

A blond brow rose as he showed his latest find to Loghain. A black brow rose in answer as Nelaros pocketed the tiny knife, a small nod condoning the action.

Picking up the quill, the elf turned back to the lock. Pressing a long, slender ear to the hard wood, the elf raised a hand, demanding silence from an already silent Loghain. The human raised an amused brow at that, smirking at the younger man. With the slightest of shrugs, the elf began working the slender, pointed tipped end of the quill into the lock, wishing yet again he had some training in such things.

DA:O

Damn! The elven woman thought as she glared down at the body of the genlock she just killed, pulling her dagger free and wiping the ironbark blade upon the creature’s torn tunic.

Adela glanced up, taking stock of each of her companions, making certain that they all stood or that those injured were being tended to. This group of darkspawn had been small, and under armed. Still, she should have made certain to have had Zevran and Leliana scout ahead further. The nearer to Ostagar and the Wilds they got, the more frequent the darkspawn encounters had become.

She glanced toward the west, frowning slightly. Early spring, and still snow remained upon the ground. In some way, she was glad of that, for it covered much of the Blight tainted grown, and would cover so much more the closer to Ostagar they got.

She and Alistair had decided that, once their business with Flemeth had been taken care of, they would make a detour into Ostagar as far as they could before heading to Orzammar. Their hope was to locate Duncan’s records as well as the letters Cailan had told her of. Alistair had expressed a desire to search out Duncan’s body as well, and Adela admitted to her husband a need to search out Cailan. Both of them needed closure. The not knowing the fates of the two people who had meant so very much to each of them had become a constant worry for them both.

In many ways, not knowing the ultimate fate of either man represented their fear for each other. They both knew that death may well await them both. And if that was to be so, they hoped that they would be together should something of that sort happen. It would offer a sense of closure, a means for an ending to pick up from and create a new beginning. Taking on the role of Commander had been difficult for Adela because she did not know for fact that Duncan was, indeed, dead. She knew that Alistair, who had been so much closer to the older man, felt an almost desperate need for a funeral for the man. Adela admitted that knowing of her mother’s friendship with the man had softened her heart to the possibility of offering the former Commander a resting place as well.

However, it was understood that they could not risk their mission overly much for this. It was agreed that if they met with too much resistance during the trek into Ostagar, they would turn around, immediately, and wait for after the Blight to seek out remains.

She looked up, noting that Alistair was watching her closely. She offered her husband a tight smile, giving her blade a quick shake before sheathing it, oblivious to the fact that Roland hovered nearby, an anxious expression upon his face. Such thoughts would wait for later, she scolded herself slightly as she turned and walked toward her companions. The witch’s hut was a mere day or two ahead of them, and they needed to find a safe shelter for Morrigan before they traversed any closer.

DA:O

Arawn led the way, his long legs eating up the distance with a near hurried stride. Along the way, the mage had picked up two guards, ordering them to follow without preamble, Rendon striding by his side. Elissa scurried after the men, her hands holding the silken fabric of her gown slightly from the floor.

How could they have escaped? The blood mage raged within the confines of his own mind. The connection between him and the demon had been severed - violently - so he knew that they had, somehow, managed to kill a powerful desire demon in her own domain. He scowled at that, unable to convince himself fully of what the facts were telling him: Loghain and that elf had managed to escape from the most powerful Fade prison he had been able to erect.

It would seem other means of imprisonment must be utilized now. And that he would be forced to, once again, use the vials of blood he had collected from the Teyrn.

He could hear Rendon breathing harshly beside him, and he smirked, his own breathing still coming in easy breaths. Many thought mages weak physically, but the blood mage knew full well it was only those mages confined to the towers that were so. By the Chantry’s own design, they were not allowed any physical training whatsoever.

However, Arawn had not always been so confined, and had taken every opportunity, during his incarceration in that damnable tower, to see to it that he remained in good physical form. He scoffed at the Chantry, thinking it ironic that had they not interfered with his mother’s plans to formally introduce him to his father, he would never have turned to blood magic nor now seek to control the throne.

He stopped at the door that opened to Loghain’s chambers, pushing those thoughts aside as he contemplated his next moves, pulling a vial of blood free from his breast pocket, gathering forth his power as he focused on the door.

DA:O

Alistair stepped nearer his wife as they continued their trek closer to the Wilds. He could feel a heady anticipation for the battle ahead. Not that he actually was looking forward to the fight itself, but the idea of defeating a great evil as the Witch of the Wilds…well, even to a would-be templar that was a dream come true.

He glanced back to where Morrigan walked, silently, beside Leliana. The young man was glad that the witch had found someone who could handle her moods. Despite that the two were hardly close, he and Morrigan could still call themselves friends. Keeping her safe from the evil mechanisms of Flemeth had become very important to him as well.

His gaze slipped from the pair of women and further back, to where Roland walked, alone. Alistair could hardly miss that every now and again, Roland’s green eyes would settle upon Adela’s small figure, and the expression of longing therein was difficult for the young man to ignore. The warden found himself scowling, and as it deepened, the tighter his face felt. With a startled realization, he firmly relaxed his face, turning his attention back to his wife, smiling down upon her as she continued to lead their group closer to their destination.

DA:O

Footsteps resounded outside the door, and Nelaros rose, motioning Loghain to the side. The Teyrn had heard the noises as well, and now positioned himself by the door, so that he could tackle the first through. Nelaros’ hand strayed to the pocket where the tiny pen knife lay, but the door burst open in a shower of splinters and metal, throwing both men to the floor. Tiny shards of wood embedded themselves in the flesh of both men, and they struggled to regain their footing as the guards surged into the room.

Loghain was manhandled back against a wall, Rendon Howe rushing forth, a wickedly curved dagger in hand, gleaming with poison, pressed against the bare flesh of the Teyrn’s throat. Nelaros jumped quickly to his feet, his face awash in fury, dodging past the guard who sought to restrain him, leaping over the debris on the floor at the blond mage who stood in the doorway.

The blood mage turned a calm eye to the approaching ire of the elf, and, with a flick of his hand, encompassed Nelaros in a glaring field of lightning. A slight smirk crossed the face that was so like King Maric’s as the elf convulsed within the field of light and he stepped into the room.

Arawn then turned to where Loghain struggled against the smaller Howe. Brandishing the vial, he chanted the alien words of Arcanum, and watched, satisfied, as the Teyrn’s body went rigid, and his struggles ceased. He nodded to Howe to keep a firm hand - and blade - upon the man. Rendon nodded his agreement, turning to smirk evilly at the Teyrn that had been Maric’s closest friend and advisor.

DA:O

“Adela, if you’ve a moment, please,” Morrigan had left Leliana’s side, and, with quick strides, caught up to the warden pair. She offered Alistair a slight, apologetic smile before turning her full attention to the elf.

“Yes, Morrigan?” Adela turned to her friend, a hand reaching over to grasp the witch’s hand. A slight moment of satisfaction crossed the elf’s mind; mere months ago, Morrigan would have flinched away, a scathing retort upon her lips at such familiarity.

How much change can occur in the matter of months, she thought, her eyes seeking upwards to her husband’s face, smiling when she saw the love in his eyes as he returned her gaze.

Morrigan cleared her throat, her eyes going to the surrounding woods. “Mother’s hut is but a day or so away. I felt it necessary that we find a campsite now before we travel much further into the Wilds.”

There was no missing the hesitant urgency in Morrigan’s voice, something so out of character that both wardens paused in their walk to turn fully to the witch. Her dark head lowered slightly as she sought to hide the anxiety she knew was clear in her eyes.

After a moment’s thoughts, Adela turned to the rest of their group, who had also stopped when the wardens had. “We should locate a secure campsite here,” she instructed, motioning for the Sten and Roland to seek out the spot. Zevran had immediately melted into the shadows, while Leliana stepped nearer the trio at the front.

“Thank you,” Morrigan whispered, gripping Adela’s hand tightly before releasing it. “’Tis an unnatural feeling for me, this fear…”

“It’s only natural, Morrigan,” Adela assured the witch with a small, soft smile. “Fear is what keeps many people alive. It was your fear - your concern - that drove you to first speak with Alistair about your discovery.” The elf took a slight step forward, wanting to embrace the human woman, but not quite certain Morrigan was ready for that. “And it is our fear for your safety that determines our next step.”

Yellow eyes widened slightly at that, and she glanced down as Leliana took Morrigan’s hand in her own. “’Tis a strange feeling…” the witch murmured, still gazing down at where Leliana’s tanned hand grasped her own paler one.

“What’s that?” Alistair asked, confusion marring his handsome face as the witch let the silence drag on for several moments.

Looking up, Morrigan’s eyes traveled from Alistair’s face to Adela’s, finally resting upon Leliana’s. “This friendship notion…’tis most confusing and yet…comforting as well.”

Laughing slightly, Adela did give into her impulse and hugged the taller human woman. “Good.” She smirked into the witch’s face before releasing her. “It’s supposed to feel that way.”

DA:O

Arawn studied the young elf carefully, his face expressionless as the young man convulsed in his crushing prison. “I believe our Tevinter friends may find a use for this one,” he finally said, glancing over to where Rendon and Elissa stood by the doorway, Howe holding his blade securely against Loghain’s neck. “His will is exceedingly strong.”

A brow rose in question to that. “Won’t that make him more…difficult for them to control?” the nobleman asked, his blade pressing tighter to Loghain‘s neck, ignoring the glare Loghain shot him from beneath his brows.

Smirking now, Arawn said with a knowing glance to where the Teyrn stood captive. “As odd as it may seem, a blood slave’s value is in how strong their will is rather than how docile and weak minded. The stronger the will, the more useful the slave. This one,” he waved a near negligent hand toward Nelaros, “has proven his will time and again. His strength both of character and physique. And, given the elf’s obvious beauty,” he smirked. “Trust me. He will fetch us a price that could purchase many arms and armaments for the army.”

Loghain spat out a curse for his companion, who now found himself yet again captive. Arawn merely scowled slightly at the Teyrn.

Arawn took note of the sour look that crossed Elissa’s face. He turned his glare to the noblewoman. “Come now, Lady Cousland,” his tone, while mimicking a gentle tease, held a steel honed warning as well. “You may well look down your noble nose upon a mere maleficar such as I. However,” he took a step nearer the woman, causing her to take a cautious step back. “even you cannot deny that without my power, you could never hope to elevate your station as your dreams and desires demand.”

His eyes were hard, intense, and the noblewoman, who certainly was no fool, noticed that the bloodshot quality was disappearing, being replaced by the blood red that marked his power. The power of blood that the Chantry so feared. That anyone with half the sense would fear. She found herself quaking in the face of the man’s power, his intense stare, but found herself frozen in those eyes, unable to move.

Arawn stood, glaring down at the woman, who finally, wisely, lowered her glare with a slight nod. Howe, who had been holding a breath while holding the blade steady at Loghain’s jugular, released the tension he had been feeling.

With a jerk, the blood mage indicated the guards to take hold of the elf. Then, he stepped over to where Loghain stood, his eyes, still blood red and angry looking, scanned over his thinner form. With the smallest of smiles, the maleficar glared at the older man who had been a close friend to the man who had sired him. “I believe, Teyrn Loghain, that a family reunion may well be in order.” Loghain frowned at the man as he felt his power wash over him yet again. “I believe that you are familiar with a young elven woman by the name of Adela Tabris?”

Frozen as he was, Nelaros could not let out the gasp of surprise he felt at the mention of Adela’s name. Arawn turned his attention to the elf, his red eyes narrowing slightly in thought. A knowing grin came into being, and he motioned for the guards to take the elf down to the dungeons as he released the crushing aspect of his spell, keeping the elf confined and immobile, to await transport to the Tevinter headquarters.

　

[SheilaD67]

Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed: celtic-twinkie, Nithu, CCBug, Shakespira, Arsinoe de Blassenville, tgail73, Superstar Kid

As always, thanks so much for reading and reviewing! They make my day!

Whew! I’m a little worn out by this chapter. I hope that it meets expectations. I’m not sure if it’s exciting enough, but I hope some questions are answered…or maybe more questions will be posed… *cheeky grin*

　
The Halla Reborn
Chapter 46

　
“You must be wary of her magic,” Morrigan again reprimanded Adela and her companions as they prepared to trek the day’s distance from their campsite to Flemeth’s hut. “She is a very powerful shape changer,” the witch reached over and tugged on the elven woman’s arm, causing her to cease her preparations and turn to look fully into the human’s anxious eyes.

“Yes, we’ve seen that,” Alistair put in as he tugged on his cloak, pulling his pack upon his back. “That huge bird she changed into was quite impressive.”

A thoughtful expression in her eye, Adela asked, “Can she change into something more…ominous?”

The dark haired witch turned away, her yellow eyes scanning the woods about them. “Like myself, she can change into avian creatures. Once she joked about assuming the form of a griffon, but I think she but teased a small child. I have seen her change into a bereskarn. However,” she looked from man to woman, “she has power that not even I have had occasion to witness. Please be very careful of any tricks. Both of the tongue and arcane.”

Nodding her blond head, Adela reached over and gave what she hoped was a reassuring pat upon the other woman’s arm. With a final look, offering a nod to Roland’s anxious expression, the elven warden called together those who would be accompanying them, and quietly led them from the campsite.

DA:O

A shadow fell across his desk, and the mage looked up to see the concerned features of his beloved. Cauthrien stalked across the room, removing her gauntlets and then setting them down upon the bar. Turning her back to the mage, she carefully poured herself a snifter of brandy. Arawn raised an amused brow, yet remained silent as his lover - and one time loyal lieutenant of Loghain’s - settled herself upon the settee across the way.

“Something amiss, my love?” the blood mage asked, careful to keep his amusement from his voice.

Cauthrien scowled at the man, taking a sip of the warming liquor before responding. “The Bannorn continues to stir up trouble,” she finally said, frowning into her glass. “They fail to see that the civil war they insist upon only drains all of Fereldan’s resources.”

“They are short minded,” Arawn shrugged, rising from his chair to walk across the room. “Short minded people rarely see beyond their own borders. As such, the Banns can only see what is right in front of them.”

“Yet they will persist, until we have nothing left with which to battle the darkspawn.”

With a sigh, Arawn settled himself beside the woman. She remained stiff and unwelcoming for many minutes as they sat in silence. Finally, with a great sigh, she drained her glass, setting it upon the floor before resting her head upon Arawn’s broad shoulder.

“They are fools, are they not?” the woman asked, her voice quiet as Arawn threaded his fingers into hers. She could feel him nod.

“Indeed they are, my love,” the blood mage turned slightly to gaze down upon the profile of her face. “It was your own foresight that allowed you to see that Loghain, and those like him, were not what this country needed to progress forward.”

“Maybe I was just mesmerized by your charms?” the woman joked, tugging slightly upon his hand.

Arawn smiled, lightly kissing her on the forehead. “Whatever the reason, glad I am that you are by my side, my love.” His arm wrapped around her broad shoulders, never relinquishing the hold he had on her hand.

Cauthrien smirked up, pushing herself slightly up. “When Howe first approached me…I admit to some reluctance.” She turned her brown eyes to gaze into Arawn’s blues. “The thought of betraying my oath to Loghain seemed…unconscionable. However,” the look in her eyes intensified. “He would have gone along with Cailan’s decision to allow the Orlesians back into our borders!” she almost spat this, and Arawn tugged her back down, patting her head back to his shoulder. “Everything that had been sacrificed for Fereldan’s freedom would have been for naught! King Maric would have rolled over in his grave had he even heard the words from Loghain’s mouth.”

Smiling, Arawn again kissed the woman in his arms. “Have no fear, my love,” he purred, patting her shoulder, feeling the tension leave her body. “The Orlesians shall not threaten Fereldan again. We,” He pulled her up, gazing into her eyes. “are what is best for Fereldan.”

“But, what if this is a Blight?” she asked, finally voicing her fears. “Are not the Grey Wardens needed for such a thing?”

Frowning, Arawn shrugged. “The Grey Wardens surround themselves in mystery and subterfuge, stating that only they can defeat a Blight. I am uncertain why they believe such, but I cannot imagine it is so. Wardens are recruited, not born. So there is no innate ability that allows them to do so. Take Ostagar for example: they died, just as every other soldier did. I think it is merely propaganda, a means to ensure that they have footholds in the countries across Thedas.” He rubbed his chin against her head. “A means to ensuring power.”

Cauthrien nodded her dark head, sighing as she allowed her body to relax further. “Loghain felt the same way,” she admitted in a mutter.

Chuckling, Arawn pulled his love closer, hugging her tightly. “Well, there, my dear, is the only thing in which the dear Teyrn and I agree.”

DA:O

When Adela and her group had left the campsite, Morrigan and those who remained behind began their tasks. Artemis had remained behind, despite Morrigan protestations that Adela would need every mage available. Adela’s argument that Artemis’ abilities with hexes and glyphs near rivaled Morrigan’s own had settled the argument down to a steady…disagreement. Until Artemis pointed out that between both mages they could lay upon the ground several glyphs and magical traps surrounding the campsite. Morrigan had settled down then, allowing her anxiety for Adela and the others to ease as she and the Circle mage went about their work.

Zevran had melted into the shadows, setting his own traps, both upon the ground, mid way up trees and to the tree tops themselves. The reasoning: Flemeth could fly. Hopefully, if she managed to escape from the others, she would find injury - or worse - when she encountered Zevran’s lethal traps.

As the mages and rogue set their traps, Roland had settled by the campfire, his weapons - his sword and shield, crossbow and great sword - laid out, waiting tending.

The young knight had not been happy with the decision that he remain behind to protect Morrigan in the event Flemeth managed to escape Adela and her group. He had truly felt that the Sten the more logical choice, if she truly felt it necessary to leave a warrior behind. However, Adela had been adamant about the decision: As loyal and trustworthy as the Sten was, his pragmatism made him ill suited to protect Morrigan if he felt that so doing would harm their quest. Damning her, knowing that Alistair would never allow anything to happen to her, Roland began the task of checking each weapon for nicks, and began honing his blades, checking his shield for weak spots and checking his inventory of bolts.

All while praying that the Maker watch over Adela, and that they be successful.

DA:O

He stalked, glaring at the locked door, hoping that someone - anyone - would enter so that he could vent his ire. He had heard Arawn’s plans for him, but it was not for that matter that he found his anger rise.

Adela lived! She had managed to escape from Vaughn and had, somehow, escaped Denerim.

And that filthy blood mage planned to use her! How, he was uncertain. But use her, he had no doubts of.

Not the way he had taunted Loghain with the phrase of a family reunion.

Not with the smirk he had seen the maleficar cast in his direction before the guards had dragged him away, helpless in that confounding imprisonment spell the coward had cast upon him.

Give him a blade, and see how condescending he was.

Nelaros rounded upon the door, slamming his fist into the iron bound wood. He felt the pain as the flesh tore at the impact, and he saw the blood that marred the wood as he pulled his hand away. The pain was good. It helped to remind him that he still yet lived.

His only hope was the he continue to so that he could find escape from whatever new hell the human mage planned to send him into.

DA:O

It was with Morrigan’s many warnings regarding her mother ringing in her ear that she approached the barely familiar site that had heralded her and Alistair’s start as the only two surviving Wardens in all of Fereldan. The once lush swamp ground was now blackened and sooty, the trees - from the cedar to pines - had all dropped their leaves and nettles and stood, stark, black and ruined against a sky that had taken on a gray pallor. The once vegetation strangled waters of the swamp were now black and brackish, the odor of decay and death rising from the glossy surface in a toxic fog.

Adela glanced back to Alistair, and found him surveying the area with much the same interest as she had. He turned his warm, amber eyes to her, and she saw the worry that resided in their depths. With a glance to those who accompanied them - the Sten, Leliana, Wynne, Niall - she reached down and patted Hafter between his ears. The warhound gave a slight growling rumble as he stood, vigilant, studying the area surrounding them.

The two wardens looked at each other and, with a nod, led the others into the sanctum of the Witch of the Wilds.

DA:O

The crackling of the magical energies that now surrounded the camp tingled along her senses, causing the hair along her arms to stand slightly. She risked a glance over to Artemis, who was utilizing the time by preparing healing poultices, potions and other such necessities. She knew he was doing it to keep himself occupied, not like her, who merely sat by the fire, waiting.

Zevran had managed to catch several conies in the surrounding wood, and they now sizzled upon spits over the fire. Morrigan glanced, again, to the surrounding woods, knowing full well that none of their departed friends could have possibly returned so quickly, but still finding herself anxious and waiting.

The log she sat up shifted slightly as Roland took a seat next to her, and she lifted her dark head to stare at the red headed young man.

Roland sat, silent, his gaze fixed to the flickering flames of their campfire. Morrigan found within herself the capacity to pity the young man. Truthfully, she had thought the young man beside her a better match for Adela than Alistair. Roland had the steadfastedness that complimented Adela’s almost impulsive personality. Alistair’s own naiveté and child like behavior could only lead them into disaster.

However, it had not been her prerogative to choose Adela’s mate. She did like Alistair, although she would never willingly admit to that. She just liked Roland more.

A sigh escaped her lips, and she lightly patted the young man’s leg as she continued her surveillance of the woods. She noticed, from the corner of her eye, that Roland had turned his attention to her, glancing down at the hand that had patted him. The slightest of smirks crossed her features, and the pair continued to sit and wait.

DA:O

“So, lovely Morrigan has finally found someone to heed her call,” Flemeth crooned as the companions approached. “Such lovely music she plays, doesn’t she?”

Adela stepped in front of the others, raising her hand for them to halt. Eyeing the old woman, the elf frowned. Flemeth seemed perfectly at ease, with the hint of amusement shining in eyes so much like Morrigan’s. Yet, unlike Morrigan’s, these eyes were cold, hard as stone, bereft of true life.

The eyes of an abomination, of evil. The eyes of the woman whose existence would, ultimately, lead to the death of one of her dearest friends.

“We’ve learned of your little secret, Flemeth,” Adela replied evenly, her arms crossed before her chest. She kept herself still as the old witch laughed.

“Of course!” she chortled, “But what secret, I wonder?”

“The means with which you use to extend your unnatural life,” Adela replied calmly, taking note of Leliana’s shifting behind the group.

Flemeth’s amusement played itself out, and she regarded the young elf before her. “Such changes you have seen since last you were here, young Warden,” the witch remarked, her eyes fixed upon Adela’s face, as though she could see beneath the younger woman’s skin. “So many changes,” she nearly muttered. Suddenly she brightened, grinning up as she remarked, “Ah! The Warden who is not a Warden! How…poetic. I wonder what consequences will ensue from that?”

Alistair cast a confused look at Adela, who remained steady and still, watching the ancient mage. “Whatever word games you are about now, Flemeth, will not work.” The elf scowled. “If your death is the only way to ensure Morrigan’s continued living…”

Flemeth raised an impatient hand, scoffing at the elf. “Bah!” She bent neared, ignoring completely the mages and warriors of Adela’s group, focusing solely upon the elven woman herself. “I have answers…answers to so many of your questions.” She straightened, smirking at the slight question within Adela’s eyes. “I know many of the Grey Warden secrets.” She paced slowly before the group, pausing as she turned to see what effect her words had on Adela before continuing. “The joining…why Grey Wardens are needed to end Blights…so many, many more secrets that your Order thought so very well hidden and secure.”

Adela could not hide her surprise at Flemeth’s words. The old woman knew how to perform a joining, how to defeat an Archdemon. She took note of the witch’s amusement at her curiosity, and found herself shaking her head.

“We end your evil here, witch,” she persisted, pulling her bow free from her shoulder.

Scowling angrily, the witch said, “Very well! Morrigan, however, must earn what she intends to take! I am not fool enough to want to kill the last two Wardens within Fereldan, young one,” the witch bit out as she gathered her power around her. “However, I can kill one of you before sending the rest of your merry miscreants scurrying away!”

Leliana and Adela had bows in hand and arrows notched and flying as the witch finished her words. Alistair, his templar training alerting him to the magic Flemeth pulled within her, raced forward, using his templar ability to pull within his own stores of willpower, releasing a cleansing aura that sapped the elderly witch of her spell. Scowling heavily, Flemeth barked out a word of power, blasting the ex-templar and the Sten, who had raced to Alistair’s side, tossing them to their backs upon the ground. One of Adela’s arrows whizzed by her head, and the witch angrily barked another word, holding her hand aloft as a bolt of lightening sprang to life, erupting from her fingers to strike the elf squarely in the chest. With a shock, the elf gasped, dropping to her knees as she fought against the powerful spell.

Wynne immediately sent a healing spell into the stricken woman, followed closely by a rejuvenating spell. As the elder mage did so, Niall raised his staff, sending forth a powerful arcane bolt, hitting the ancient mage in the chest.

Hafter leaped to his mistress’s side, whining slightly. She nodded her head as she regained her feet, sending the great warhound to the side of her husband and the Qunari.

Alistair had regained his own footing, gathering his willpower yet again. The Sten rose with a great roar in his native tongue, launching himself with a fury at the witch. Flemeth smirked at the great warrior, but that smirk was short lived as Alistair’s smite hit her fully, flinging her away from the Sten, stumbling over the rise leading to the swamp.

Hafter bolted past the Warden and Qunari, his growl echoing amidst the stricken trees. Adela and Leliana raced to the rise, arrows notched and ready for flight. What they found rising there was not what they had expected, and, terror filling their chests, they let their arrows loose, quickly grasping another, setting them to fly as well.

For below them, Flemeth stood, power radiating from her shriveled form, growing, elongating. Her body grew, continuing to do so as Alistair and the Sten raced to the women’s side. Wings burst through the flesh of her back, and she growled as her body grew, becoming serpentine and thrashing, a long tail jutting outwards. Without a word, the men rushed forward, their blades raised as the elf and bard continued their assault of arrows, Wynne and Niall adding their spells to the continued assault.

Alistair staggered as his blade his upon the hard dragon skin of the almost fully transformed Witch of the Wilds. He glared at the witch turned beast, but had not the willpower to cast forth any of his templar abilities. The Sten had waded around to the other side of the thrashing beast, and together they pounded at her with their blades, Alistair hitting his shield solidly against the unyielding flesh.

“At least it’s smaller than the dragon at Haven,” Adela muttered as she notched yet another arrow from her dwindling supply, glancing at the quickly tiring mages and Leliana’s own dwindling supply of missiles. They had been more prepared for a battle of sword versus spell, and perhaps her transforming into something less…majestic and lethal - less terrifying. She watched as the dragon dipped her head down, sending forth a gout of fire that singed Hafter along his flank, the back draft causing the Sten to stumble back and Alistair to dodge quickly from her approaching maw.

With barely a moment’s thought, Adela dropped her bow, shrugging off her quiver, placing it to the ground by Leliana. Ignoring the questioning looks from the bard and the mages, she instructed them to continue assaulting the dragon. With a deep breath, the elf raced away, pulling her ironbark daggers free of their sheaths, and sped toward the dragon and the warriors.

DA:O

Alistair frowned at the great beast, stumbling backwards, his shield held up as the beast’s great head swept around, nearly knocking him from his feet. A dragon! He could not risk a glance from his foe, but he found himself worrying greatly for his wife, and prayed fervently that she remain at a distance, using her bow to its greatest effect.

He sought out the reservoir of willpower that all templars used when battling magic. His stores were depleted, so great was the magical power of the mage he now battled. Shape shifters were not mages that templars were trained to battle against, as shape shifting was not a recognized magic taught to those mages within the circle towers. How shortsighted, he groused as he dodged back, stepping heavily to his heel as he swung his blade out, rasping it along the side of the dragon’s face, opening the armor-like scales along the side of the creature’s maw. Seeing the opportunity, he drew his blade back, jamming it viscously into the fissure that had opened in the great beast’s face, driving into the creature‘s mouth, lodging firmly between the bone and cartilage.

Flemeth the dragon roared out in agony and irritation, her great head swinging back and forth, the human clinging tenaciously to the blade that was lodged tightly into her visage.

Alistair kicked out, trying to catch his foot over the dragon’s shoulder. Instead, the motion merely caused the stuck blade to cut deeper into the bone of the dragon’s mouth, and the great beast roared its anguish. Grinning, Alistair lifted both feet from the ground, tugging viciously upon the blade, the enchanted blade sawing deeper into the bone, wedging itself tighter, the man’s not inconsiderable weight pulling the hilted end down as the blade’s point - still in the beast’s mouth - drove upwards, cutting and slicing into the more tender roof of the great wyrm’s mouth. He could feel the healing spell that enveloped over him, followed closely by a rejuvenating spell. He did not know which mage cast them spells, but he was more than grateful as he continued to hold on and drive the blade deeper into bone and flesh.

Blood seeped from Flemeth’s mouth, and she raised a claw, seeking to tear the young man free of his blade before more damage could be done.

DA:O

Like lightening the elven warden darted away from her companions, her blades held tightly in each hand, her head low, shoulders hunched slightly forward to give herself better speed and momentum. She barely registered that the Sten still stood, albeit bloody and battered, his greatsword taking great swings - and chunks of dragon flesh - with each swipe. Her heart clenched as she saw her husband clinging tenaciously to his blade, wedged deeply into the dragon’s mouth, a great clawed talon swinging in to capture him. See it, see it, see it…please, please, please, she kept chanting as she turned her eyes fully to the lowered head of the dragon, knowing she had to move faster if she hoped to pull off the stupidly daring stunt she was about to perform.

Alistair had swung his body, pulling down on the blade, and then raised his legs to avoid the dragon’s swipe just as a lightening bolt shot from Niall‘s fingertips. Flemeth’s head bowed even further down, in an effort to drop the human man to the ground, thereby lessening the tension upon the blade.

Grinning, Adela launched herself from the ground, a cry upon her lips, as she drove her blades forward, digging them deeply into the dragon’s neck, each blade slipping easily between the scales and into the soft flesh beneath.

Flemeth roared, her head rearing upwards, causing Alistair to loosen his grip upon his sword, dropping him unceremoniously to the ground. With the upswing, Adela swung herself up and around, temporarily pulling her blades free as she rose with the dragon, landing astride the great beast’s neck. With a defiant cry, the elven warden drove her blades once more into the neck beneath her, again finding purchase, driving and twisting the blades mercilessly.

DA:O

The ancient mage in dragon’s form bucked, seeking to unseat the elf upon its neck. The Sten’s swings grew in strength and rhythm. Alistair frowned as he pulled his second sword from its sheath, lamenting the loss of his heavily enchanted blade as he picked his shield from the ground, and prepared for his own onslaught.

And tried very hard to keep from obsessing over the fact that his wife now sat astride the neck of a high dragon.

　
DA:O

Leliana took careful aim, sighting her arrow down her arm, to the malevolent, crazed red eye of the great dragon before them. She pushed aside all thought that the creature before them was truly the ancient and powerful witch of the legends. She pushed aside all thought that in the form of a high dragon she was immensely strong. The dragon blinked, and she let the missile loose, quickly and easily notching another to sight down. As the eye lid blinked upwards, opening the eye, the arrow found the soft tissue of the eyeball, digging deeply into the sensitive organ. She saw that Adela clung to her daggers as the dragon bucked up again, and watched as Alistair slammed his shield into the creature’s foreleg while the Sten drew his great blade up and slashed deeply into the broken scales along the dragon’s right shoulder. Grinning, she let loose another missile as the beast slouched downward to try and capture Alistair in its great maw.

As the missile fired, driving into the corner of its eye, Leliana saw that Adela had pulled one and then the other dagger free, rising slightly from her seat. The bard felt her throat go tight and dry as she grasped an arrow from Adela’s quiver - one enchanted with ice - and notched it carefully as the elf sprang forward, over the dragon’s head, swinging her arms inward to drive both blades deeply into Flemeth’s eye sockets.

Nodding her approval, the bard let loose another steady stream of arrows.

DA:O

Shaking her white head, Wynne sent a rejuvenating spell over the impudent little elven woman as she watched Adela drive her blades into the dragon’s eyes. She then pulled her magic inward, releasing it into the form of a great, rock-like fist, watching with satisfaction as it slammed into the dragon’s side, loosening many of the scales beneath its force.

Alistair stumbled, and the spirit healer quickly sent healing throughout his body, followed by several buffering spells and rejuvenating. She watched as the young warrior straightened, his shield held steadier now as the dragon’s head swooped downward in an attempt to unseat the agile and tenacious elf. The young warrior took advantage of the dragon’s close proximity, and grabbed hold of his stuck blade, dropping his shield and rising upwards as her head rose.

Again, she shook her head at the foolishness of youth, sending more spells out to the warriors and elven rogue as they continued their close up battle with the quickly weakening witch in dragon form.

DA:O

Adela gave her blades a good twist, enjoying the shriek that burst forth from the great dragon’s lungs. With a brutal yank, she pulled the blades free, settling back to lock her feet beneath the dragon’s chin. Taking a deep breath, gathering her strength, the elven warden brought her blades before her, twisting them around so that the blades pointed outwards. Then, gathering all of her strength, she drove them forward, burying them hilt deep into the gap between the dragon’s skull and spine, digging deeply into the dragon’s brain.

Convulsions took over the dragon’s bucking, and Adela released her blades, her legs still locked tightly beneath the great maw, bringing her arms around to grasp the blood and fluid wet bones surrounding the dragon’s ruined eyes.

Below her, she could barely hear as Alistair cursed as the dragon’s convulsions increased and became more violent. She could not see him well, but heard a slight thump as he released himself and fell to the ground below.

Flemeth’s thrashing increased as her dying brain continued to try and fight off her assailants. Adela’s arms and legs ached from the effort of holding on, but she knew that if she released her hold now, she would plummet helplessly to the ground beneath her and the dragon.

And even while dying, she was certain Flemeth would take any opportunity to end her life if at all possible.

And so she clung, hoped, and gritted her teeth against the pain and weariness that overtook her body. Her arms began to quake with the effort and exhaustion, and her legs began to slip their hold, causing her to rely more upon her hand holds. Desperate, she leant her body against the bloody skull of the dragon, holding on for dear life as the dragon violently bucked and convulsed beneath her, undulating and quivering as death began to take hold.

And it was a violent fall with which Flemeth fell to the ground, the earth beneath her shuddering and echoing the fall beneath the feet of those mages, warriors and rogues that had ended her life. A great sigh expelled from greater lungs, and Adela forced herself to release her precious grip, her fingers cramped, legs aching as she relaxed. With a deep breath, the elf slid from the great, stilled neck, her knees buckling as her feet hit the ground.

Weary himself, Alistair forced himself to his feet, stumbling to where his wife knelt, covered in blood. He surveyed her carefully, and, once he was convinced that none of the blood was her own, pulled her in for a tight hug, murmuring over and over again that she was never to do anything so stupid ever again. She nodded her agreement against his neck, her arms far too tired to wrap around his great form, despite how much she wanted to pull him even closer and tighter against her body.

DA:O

A great wave of magic washed over the Wilds, and both mages lurched to their feet, staves held ready, spells quickly called to mind. The power they felt was immense, ancient, and malevolent, and both mages - human and elf - watched each other, a question in both sets of eyes. They did not notice as the warrior and rogue rose from their perches, the rogue disappearing into the shadows as the warrior pulled shield and sword up, green eyes wary, searching for their foe.

Then it passed, leaving behind in its wake a feeling of finality. No, not finality, but as close to it as possible. Morrigan let out a deep breath. Her mother, in her current incarnation, was dead. Truly dead, she was unsure. But, dead enough so as not to cause her any further grievances for some time. And, hopefully, should she ever find herself yet again facing the might that is - was - Flemeth, Witch of the Wilds, ancient mage, abomination, Asha 'belannar…her mother…she would be better prepared, more powerful, and capable of ending the threat she posed once and for all.

For now, she was safe, free…and had much else to do.

DA:O

“Don’t ever do that again,” Alistair whispered into Adela’s delicate ear, his breath hot against her flesh. She could feel him trembling against her, and she realized just how much she had frightened him with her rather impromptu dragon ride.

She had to admit, she was still terrified by what she had done.

Nodding, she whispered her agreement, planting a kiss to his cheek before gathering the will and the energy to pull herself from his strong embrace. She looked around carefully, taking note of the Sten limping toward them, bloody, battered, his armor bashed and in need of repair. Hafter braced his bulk against the giant’s legs. Wynne, Niall and Leliana raced toward them, relief plainly etched upon their dirty, weary faces.

Her gaze finally rested upon the form that Flemeth had perished in: that of a high dragon. She frowned, standing there for many moments, wondering why the dragon form did not shift back into human. A question for Morrigan, the elf decided as she pushed herself to her feet, lending a hand down to her husband. Alistair grinned at the tiny hand, and placed his own large and warm paw over it before pushing himself up. Flushing slightly at the absurdity of her gesture, she turned, leading the group to the witch’s hut.

It took her a moment, maybe less than, to pick the lock and open the hut to her searches. Morrigan had explained she needed Flemeth’s true grimoire, and it would look similar to the one they had found back at the Circle tower. There were many books, several scrolls and other papers, and the elf was loathe to leave them behind for the darkspawn to destroy. So, she plundered the hut of all of its reading materials, finding the one that Morrigan wanted, tucking the tomes and parchments into her pack, determining to look them over later when they were at camp and far from the Wilds.

There were other items of interest found within the hut, and she let Alistair and the mages determine what was safe to take, and what would be best left behind. It did not take long to plunder the tiny hut of any valuables - and Adela had to wonder how Morrigan had managed to share such a tiny living space with someone as wicked and crazed as Flemeth - and soon the group, limping, worn and weary, but anxious to put as much distance between them and the hut, was heading back to their campsite.

Behind them, the great dragon’s form shifted, air releasing from its great lungs, finally to dissipate into a great roiling column of dust, flesh and bone, a harsh, female voice chuckling into the distance.

[SheilaD67]

Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed: Nithu, Shakespira, mutive, Arsinoe de Blassenville, tgail73, CCBug, celtic-twinkie, Eriana10

The Halla Reborn
Chapter 47

After dismantling their campsite, the group of stalwart adventurers continued on their path towards Ostagar. They continued to encounter small groups of darkspawn, but they were not as numerous as they had otherwise been prepared for.

Two days after their battle with Flemeth the party found themselves at the barricaded gates of Ostagar. Adela glanced around, recalling that this was the way she and Duncan had entered the ruins, knowing that the Tower of Ishal stood nearby. The Sten marched over to the barricade, Roland and Alistair in tow, and the trio of men studied the sturdy structure. After discussing the situation briefly, the three returned to the rest of the group.

“They have fortified the barricade with rubble and stone,” the Sten remarked with a nod of approval. “I would suggest we seek out another avenue to enter the ruins.”

Adela and Alistair frowned at each other as they turned their gaze about the ruins. Alistair advised that if they turned their course westerly, they should be able to enter the ruins by way of where the Grey Wardens had set up their main camp.

“We wanted to find any records Duncan may have left therein anyway,” Adela replied, worrying slightly as the Warden camp had been closest to the battlefield.

“Then it’s settled,” Roland put in, hefting his pack to his shoulder as he bent to retrieve Adela’s pack. He missed the slight glare Alistair shot his way as he straightened and handed it to the small elven woman. Adela accepted it with a smile, and then turned to pull her husband along. Startled, Alistair glanced down at her, offering her a small smile as he shifted his own pack and followed the group to the west.

An hour later found the group staring at another barricade, yet one not as heavily fortified as that by the Tower. Between the Sten, Alistair and Roland, an opening was created to allow for the group to pass through.

As they past beneath a ruined archway, the group spread out, alert and wary for any darkspawn that may have noticed their entry. Adela started to venture forward when Alistair stopped her with a well placed hand upon her arm. She raised a questioning brow to him as she paused.

“Don’t you feel that?” he whispered, frowning at the ruined camp they were in.

A frown of her own upon her face, the elf turned about, staring at the area they found themselves in. There was a quick intake of breath as she recognized the site of the Grey Warden camp. So very close to the battlefield…but…

“I don’t feel anything,” she whispered back, confusion marring her features as she turned her face back to the human Warden.

Nodding, Alistair released her. “That’s just it,” he replied, straightening and leading the way toward the center of the campsite. “There should be something…but, I only sense a tingle of darkspawn.” He stopped, staring around at the now alien landscape of what had once been so familiar to him. “There are darkspawn in Ostagar,” he clarified as the others returned to their side. “Just not in the abundance we had expected.”

Adela let out a sigh, pushing out with her senses, trying to sense what Alistair did. Her sense of the darkspawn had never been as acute as Alistair’s, but now she could sense only the slightest of a tingling in the back of her mind. “So what does that mean?” she asked.

The shrug her husband gave her was answer enough. Six months longer as a Grey Warden had not given the young man any more insight to darkspawn behavior than her.

“Well,” Adela remarked as she glanced at her companions, “let’s see if we can find Duncan’s tent. Perhaps he left behind something to help us with our mission.”

“He had a chest in his tent,” Alistair said as he led the way through the confusing mess of the ruined camp. “Let’s hope that the darkspawn didn’t find it…”

Less than thirty minutes later and they had found the remains of Duncan’s tent. It had been centermost to the Grey Warden campsite. The canvas of the once sturdy construct lay in tatters, and the wooden framing of the near pavilion like structure was broken and twisted. Yet, within the interior of the tent still stood the cot the former Commander of the Grey as well as a trunk. Pawing through the debris, Alistair gave out a triumphant shout as he pulled a heavy chest made of red steel from the debris.

The chest was tightly locked with an intricate locking mechanism that none of the rogues had ever encountered. Zevran, admitting that he had far less talent with such things, stepped back as Leliana and Adela carefully examined the mechanism. Alistair and Roland stood beside the elf, keeping watch over the women as the other companions scoured the campsite for any supplies, equipment or saleable goods.

The two women conferred, with Adela peering into the lock, her sharp elven eyes searching out any clues as to how the thing worked. Bending near, she whispered her thoughts to the bard, who took a turn at the lock. With a nod, Leliana moved back, allowing Adela room and light with which to work. The Orlesian stood, advising the three men at their backs that it may take a while, but that Adela felt she had figured out the system.

Alistair nodded, glancing slightly to the smaller men at his side. Zevran’s eyes were carefully scanning the area surrounding them, occasionally seeking out Niall’s frumpy form amongst the debris. Roland, too, scanned the area, but his eyes always fell back to Adela’s bent frame. The young warden knew that Roland would need a little time to get over the disappointment of Adela having married him, and Alistair knew that the former knight would never do anything to compromise his and Adela’s relationship. However, there was that tiny niggle of…anger?…jealousy?…he found he could not quite identify how he felt toward the other man. A man who was perhaps his closest friend other than Adela herself. He shook himself from those thoughts as Roland’s hand slapped down on his shoulder, and he informed the Grey Warden that he would scout around a bit. With a nod, he gave the recruit permission to leave, and then turned his attention back to surveying the surrounding area and watching as his wife worked Duncan’s complex lock.

Pick in hand, another set carefully in the lock, Adela sat back on her haunches, glaring at the offending latch. As she bent back to her work, the others began to filter back to the spot, having managed to recover some supplies from the decimated camp.

Finally, Adela gave a slight crow of triumph as the mechanism clicked, releasing its hold upon the chest. Grinning at her, Alistair slipped down to his knees beside her, carefully pushing the lid upwards with a creak.

There, in the chest, were several items of personal value…a suit of black leather armor that Alistair had never seen Duncan wear…a strange, black bladed dagger…several books…Adela kept pawing through the items, handing them off to Alistair. Finally, she exposed the metal and wooden bottom to the chest. Grinning up at her other warden, she lightly rapped on the bottom, revealing a secret compartment skillfully hidden within the chest.

Carefully, her sensitive fingers brushed along the bottom, finally pausing as she felt the slightest of indentation that revealed a trapdoor. Reaching into her hair, she pulled out a flat piece of metal, then carefully began to pry at the indent she had found. Soon, the trapdoor became obvious to Alistair’s eyes, and the girl pulled the metal and wood free, exposing bundles of papers, vellum and parchment there under.

“There we are,” Adela whispered as she pulled the papers free of the confines of the chest, carefully tucking them into a waterproofed pouch. “We’ll examine these later,” she advised as she rose, securing fastening the pouch to her belt. “As much as I’d love to sit down now and look them over, we still have a few things to do here.”

“Like find Duncan’s body,” Alistair agreed as he turned to walk from the tent.

“And Cailan’s,” Adela added as she followed the large human. “I’d also like to find his tent and locate his chest.” Alistair turned, his brow raised. “There are…letters therein that I’d like to take. Plus, I recall his having Maric’s blade with him.”

“Maric’s blade,” Alistair whispered as he and Adela led their group from the Grey Warden campsite and towards where the Royal enclave had been set.

Adela glanced up at her husband…a son of Maric….and nodded. “The blade he found when he went into the Deep Roads with Rowan, Loghain and my mother.” She sighed as she paused, gazing up at the walkway that led into the heart of the Ostagar. “I remember Maric showing it to me and telling me the story behind how he had found it as they sought a way to Gwaren.”

Smiling down at his wife, Alistair found that the usual pang of regret and envy that normally assaulted him whenever Adela spoke of his father was not there. He now found it soothing whenever she gave him bits of information regarding his father. Although he would never know the man as anything other than a legend, having someone who had known him so close, to share bits and pieces of his history with him, had somewhat soothed any ill feelings he had toward the man.

With a smile to her husband, Adela turned the group towards where the battle had been lost.

DA:O

She kept her eyes ahead, studiously avoiding looking at the bodies of the deceased they passed by. Not that there were many. Just…body parts, scattered across the ground, in various states of decay. Beneath the snow that remained upon the ground, Adela could clearly see that the earth was blackened, both with Blight disease and old blood.

She made herself stop, rubbing a hand across her eyes, over her forehead and down her face. A glance up told her that Alistair was having much the same reaction as she. She could hear Wynne’s whispered prayers behind them.

The nearer to the center of the battlefield, the more bodies they encountered. Most were little more than skeletons, few having been frozen in various positions of death. Thankfully, none could see their faces, as they were either rotted away or, blessedly, lying face down in the snow and dirt.

It was with an audible gasp that both Adela and Alistair stopped cold, eyes ahead, fixed upon the fully preserved body of an ogre.

The ogre both were certain had crushed the life from Cailan’s body as he fought valiantly alongside Duncan against the darkspawn.

A heavy weight rested upon her shoulder, and she looked over to see Alistair’s hand firmly placed there, squeezing her flesh beneath the tough leathern armor she wore. Her eyes roamed upwards, fixing up his pale face. She followed the trajectory of his eyes, wondering what he saw. They were fixed upon the ogre’s body, to the weapons that jutted from its chest. A sword and dagger.

Alistair started forward at a lope, quickly increasing to a run. Cursing slightly, the elf shot off after him, remembering how often he would scold her for such a rash action.

The others followed at a ragged jog, eyes ever watchful, as they followed the pair of wardens.

He had stopped, staring bleakly at the weapons. When she pulled up beside him, she knew why he had taken off as he had.

The sword and dagger were well known to her. She had seen those weapons both at rest and in action.

Duncan’s sword; Duncan’s dagger.

A single, ragged sob escaped Alistair’s lips, and she moved closer, wrapping her arm around his waist. An arm wrapped about her shoulders, pulling her close as he fought against the onslaught of sobs that threatened to escape.

Her eyes looked over the desolate, forbidding field, searching for the two men they had both hoped to find. As she pulled herself from his embrace, as the others neared them, she could feel an energy course through the air. As she opened her mouth to bring Alistair to the alert, the dead surrounding them let out a unified dry, anguished moan as they struggled to their feet.

Weapons out, Alistair fully alert as he searched the area for the spellcaster. His eyes settled upon the squat form of a genlock emissary, standing, grinning, beneath the battlements of the ruins. With a shout, the ex-templar sprinted off after the darkspawn mage as Adela and the others turned to deal with the undead that clawed from the ground, rusted, battered weapons in hand as they surged forward.

Alistair released his mana draining abilities upon the emissary, startled slightly that the creature, while drained of a great deal of its mana, managed to toss lightening at the former templar initiate before succumbing fully to the cleanse. With a roar, the young warden shook the spell off, his sword and shield raised as he stormed after the darkspawn mage.

She was in too close of quarters, and could not draw her bow. Pulling her daggers free, the elf ducked down, bending at the knees, spinning slightly with blades outstretched, slicing across the throats and chests of the undead the surrounded her. She heard Roland’s war cry resound and took note of one of the skeletal undead fly past her. Still crouching, she side stepped, moving away from the blade of one corpse, slashing out with one dagger as she continued past. The thing’s head flew off of it’s bony neck, and the body crumbled down in a rattling pile of bone.

Spells crackled through the air as the four mages cast about them, entropy, primal and spirit spells felling their foes and rallying their allies. Morrigan transformed into the form of a great bear, the massive bear crushing several skeletons under her great mass.

The Sten’s blade cut through those skeletons that surged upon him, trying to weigh the great giant down by their numbers. Roland smashed his foes down with shield and sword, and Adela spun about, searching out her husband, watching as the emissary tried, vainly, to avoid the punishment of the Templar turned Warden’s blade and shield.

Leliana stood back from the group, just in front of the mages, her bow twanging out arrows, a foe felling to each missile. Zevran melted into and out of the surrounding shadows, slipping beneath the sweeping claws of the undead, cutting them down at the knees, beheading them easily.

The skeletons themselves offered no true skill from the companions. But they did threaten them with their numbers.

Numbers that would cease to grow once Alistair managed to incapacitate his opponent.

Adela’s blade felled another skeleton, her breath coming to her in gasps as she straightened from her crouch. Her heart all but faltered as a groan escaped from the body of the ogre not far from where she had just felled the undead that had rose against her. As she turned, she watched, in dawning horror, as the thing stumbled to its feet, a great roar erupting from its wide mouth.

DA:O

Gathering his will, Alistair let loose with a smite, knocking the genlock mage off its feet and to its back upon the Blight-muddied ground. As his blade swept down to severe its grotesque head from its neck, the young Warden was knocked forward, a powerful electrical shock coursing through his body. Gasping, staggering slightly almost to one knee, he pushed himself up, and turned, to face another darkspawn mage.

This one appeared to be a genlock, but was larger, wielding a staff of dragon bone and silverite. A wide smile crossed its death mask of a face, and the former templar could feel the influx of magic as the strange darkspawn mage pulled into itself magical energies.

His will drained from the smite he had so recently cast, the warden pushed himself up, brandishing his sword and shield as he loped toward the mage, hoping to catch it with his sword before it could loose its spell. As his pace increased, he could feel the spell as it swept past him and beyond. He scowled, hoping whatever ill spell it had cast ran awry as he raised his blade.

DA:O

Smashing down the skeleton, the red haired warrior spun around, blade held ready, shield gripped tightly, as he surveyed the battlefield.

More undead continued to rise, groaning, from the fouled earth. A grimace crossed his handsome face as he smashed one frozen solid by one of Morrigan’s spells, grim satisfaction as it shattered. These were once brave men and women of the Fereldan army and Grey Wardens. He grimaced as he recognized the griffon emblazoned upon one rusted breastplate, sweeping its barely attached head from its rotted neck.

He turned at the sound of the great roar, easily spotting Adela as she turned to face the rising corpse of the nearly preserved body of the ogre. With a curse, he sprinted ahead, arms pumping, as he raced to the elf’s side.

DA:O

Gripping her daggers, the nimble elf ducked under the clumsy sweep of the ogre’s arms. Its massive, horned head bent down, it gave out a great snort before suddenly rushing in a controlled forward bolt. Adela made certain she was not there for the brunt of the ram, stepping and twisting away, her arms tucked to her chest to avoid any contact with the rushing beast.

There was the sound of metal slamming against muscle and flesh, and Adela glanced over to see that Roland had engaged the risen ogre. The warden recruit’s shield was raised, deflecting powerful blows from the ogre as his sword slashed and jabbed at the creature. The elven warden ducked in, her blades shooting out, seeking to hamstring the massive darkspawn. Tough skin and tendon deflected her blows, and she staggered back, scowling at the back of the creature’s knees. She dodged forward, again, leading with both blades, seeking to slice into the tough flesh of the creature. A large foot kicked backwards, catching the small woman soundly in the shoulder, sending her spinning backward and to the ground, a cry escaping her as she landed upon her arm and shoulder, a loud snapping sound echoing in her ears. Intense pain shot through her arm, shoulder and traveled down her side. Fighting against the nausea that suddenly rose in her gut, she struggled to her side, grateful that Roland was managing to keep the creature at bay and busy with his blade and shield.

DA:O

The magical power of the darkspawn was immense, something Alistair had never experienced before nor heard of in darkspawn. When Duncan had recruited him into the wardens, he had insisted that his templar abilities would be put to good use against the darkspawn mages. And yet, he was finding putting this one down using those same abilities - which he had continued to use and hone despite no longer being a templar in the chantry’s service - impossible.

The thing shrugged off a smite, and continued to cast spells through his cleansing aura. As he swept his blade out, the thing raised its staff, easily deflecting and redirecting his blow.

Growling in frustration the young man slammed his shield into its grinning face, smashing it backwards, yet it still managed to retain its footing.

He brought his shield back and slammed forward again, this time managing to knock the creature from its footing, slamming it to its back upon the ground. He raised his blade to sweep downward, but the darkspawn twisted away, rolling to its side and the leaping to its feet. As it raised its staff, arrows flew in, cracking against the magical shielding the darkspawn mage erected around itself.

Digging his feet in, Alistair launched himself forward, blade out, shield braced, to take down the creature. His shield connected with the magical shielding, and at that moment, he released his cleansing aura, catching the mage off balance. The shielding fell, and the emissary staggered back, a snarl upon its grotesque features. It thrust one hand forward, sending lightening arcing into the young man’s body. Alistair stumbled back, struggling against the electricity that flowed and coursed over his body. Calling upon his templar training, he fought, and won, against the magic. As he straightened and prepared to again assault the darkspawn, Zevran appeared at his side, dashing forward, his blades dancing and weaving before the creature, nipping and slashing at the beast, keeping its attention fully upon the weaving elf and arrows that continued to speed to it.

Alistair risked a look over his shoulder, fully expecting to see Adela behind him. He was momentarily surprised that it was Leliana, and allowed his vision to travel slightly beyond the human bard. His heart nearly stopped as he watched his wife be kicked back by the massive foot of the risen ogre, Roland rushing forward to slam his shield into the giant creature’s chest.

Grinding his teeth, the warden turned his attention back to the magic wielding darkspawn as more undead rose to accost his companions.

DA:O

Greatsword swept in deadly arcs. Skeletons and rotted corpses fell to each tremendous blow. With barely harried breath, the Sten stood amidst the fallen corpses, his lavender eyes scanning the battlefield.

Zevran and Leliana had joined the male warden’s side, battling against the magic wielding darkspawn. He twisted his massive head, taking note of how easily the mages were decimating the waves of undead that crept along, sweeping into their midst.

He heard Adela’s cry of pain, and turned to watch as the tiny elven woman was thrown to the ground, slamming hard upon her arm and shoulder. Cursing the woman her place, the giant warrior turned, his long legs carrying him quickly to Roland’s side, as the human warrior battled against the ogre.

Roland turned his head slightly, giving the giant a slight nod of his head as he turned back to the ogre. The great beast rushed the pair, and the two warriors split, each flanking the beast as it swept past them in a rush. With his battle cry upon his lips, Roland’s blade jabbed forward, and then slashed across the bare flesh of the ogre’s side, cutting deeply, opening the wound wide. He was aghast to take note that no blood flowed the horrendous wound, a tribute, he was certain, to the creature’s current undead state.

The Sten roared out to his homeland, taking his greatsword into both hands, twirling the blade momentarily over his head before sweeping it downward in a viciously powerful decent. The Qunari’s height gave him an advantage against the ogre, and his blade bit deeply into the creature’s shoulder, cutting down, nearly severing its arm from its shoulder. Snarling, the giant darkspawn turned its attention fully to its larger opponent. The Sten took his position, bracing his feet firmly to the ground, almost rooting himself to the spot. He held his blade vertical in both hands, awaiting the ogre’s charge.

He saw this chance, and took it. Gathering his strength, Roland charged, leading with his shield, bashing it solidly in the back, forcing it forward with a greater, uncontrolled momentum. The Sten saw his chance, and charged forward himself, his blade raised as he launched himself from the ground, driving his blade downward, driving it into the creature’s neck, down into its chest, and further still. Roland’s sword found itself buried deeply into the undead darkspawn’s back as the Sten’s weight bore the thing back to the earth.

Roland dodged away, twisting to avoid the heavy body of the descending ogre. The Sten pulled his blade viscously to the side, opening the ogre’s chest cavity, spewing forth the composed organs of the undead thing.

Gasping for breath, Roland trudged to the Sten’s side, patting the giant upon the arm in congratulations. The Qunari warrior merely bowed his head slightly as the human then continued past him to see to Adela.

DA:O

A shudder passed through the emissary, visible to those who battled it, as the ogre fell. Its concentration faltered, and the magical shielding fell. The onslaught of Leliana’s arrows pierced through the creature’s armor, sticking from its chest. With a raucous grin, the genlock turned its attention to the bard, sending a streak of lightening upon her.

Crying out as the energy hit her, Leliana dropped her bow, falling to her knees as she gasped and struggled against the magic. Alistair sent a cleansing aura over the stricken woman, and she managed a weak smile as she struggled back to her feet.

Zevran slipped behind the emissary, his blades dancing and twirling, striking against the hardened leather of the darkspawn’s armor, piercing and cutting through to the diseased flesh beneath. Snarling aloud, it turned to face the elf, oblivious to the descending warden sword that took its head from its scrawny neck.

As the body of the emissary fell to the ground, the undead that assailed the mages shuddered to a stop and then, with a unified groan, fell to the earth in heaps.

DA:O

“How is she?” Alistair asked anxiously, trying very hard to remain out of Wynne’s way, but unable to let himself be too far from Adela’s side. The elderly mage glanced up, shaking her white head at the young man.

“She’s dislocated her shoulder,” the mage replied as she sent another flush of magic through the elf’s shoulder and arm. ‘Niall managed to put it back into its place, and this should help alleviate any residual pain and discomfort.”

“Adela?” Alistair asked as his wife sat, calm and quiet, as the elder mage worked her magic. Biting her lip against the pain, the elven woman merely nodded, watching Wynne’s hands as they roamed over her shoulder and down her arm.

Very soon, the pain had ebbed and the elf was able to regain her feet. Her eyes turned to the body of the ogre and, without a word, she paced to the body, her eyes fixed upon the sword and dagger that had remained embedded in its chest.

“Those are Duncan’s,” Alistair breathed as he came up to her side. With a nod, the elf scrambled up the body, and pulled the weapons free. She struggled with the sword, holding the dagger in one hand as she grappled with the sword‘s hilt with the other. Scrambling back down, she held the blades to Alistair, watching as he hesitantly took the weapons that had belonged to the man who had been the closest thing to a father the young man had.

“You should keep them,” Adela said after a few moments silence, her eyes fixed upon the weapons in her husband’s hands.

But Alistair shook his head, holding the blades to her. “You are the Commander, Adela,” he smiled softly at her. “These should be yours.”

sniggering, she took the dagger, but shook her head at the sword. “I shall proudly use the dagger, but that sword…it’s far too large for me to wield.” She chuckled. “I could barely carry it. You should use it, Alistair. I know…” her voice broke slightly here, burning tears at the back of her eyes. “I know Duncan would have wanted you to have it.”

Eyes reverently fixed to the blade, Alistair reached over his shoulder, pulling free the blade he had used since Ostagar, dropping it to the ground. Carefully, he sheathed Duncan’s sword. Taking his hand, Adela turned her attention from her husband and the ogre, her sharp elven eyes searching the debris field surrounding them. There…there was a flash of silver in the sunshine. She tugged Alistair’s hand, then released it, as she set off at a jog to where she had seen the flash. Confused, Alistair took off after her, his long legs allowing him to catch up to her easy pace.

They both stopped at the site of the gleaming silver light. A ragged sob escaped Alistair’s lips, and Adela reached over, gently placing her hand to his arm as she stared down at the tarnished armor that lay before them.

Not just armor, but the decimated body that the armor still lay clad to. Of the body itself, very little remained. Time, weather, Blight disease, crows and wolves had left little behind. However the dark hair that thinly covered the skull that yet remained, as well as the distinctive silverite armor and robes beneath clearly told who lay upon the Blighted ground before them.

“Duncan,” Alistair whispered, going to his knees beside the body, a hand reaching out to lightly touch the dirty and tarnished shoulder guard of the armor. Adela remained, standing, by Alistair’s side, a small hand reaching down to settle upon his shoulder. His head bowed, and the young man allowed the sob that raged in his throat a release. Tears running down her face, the elven woman knelt beside the man she loved, and wrapped her arm across his shoulder, allowing him to mourn the man.

The others remained silent and back, allowing the two wardens their grief. Wynne, who had known Duncan longer than any of them, brushed a wizened hand across her eyes, smiling as Niall placed an arm across her shoulders and gave her a squeeze. The Sten bowed his massive head as Leliana whispered a prayer to the dead from the Chant of Light. The others stood, silent, watching and listening.

After many minutes, Alistair raised his head, turning to look at his wife. “We must give him a proper funeral,” he insisted. Adela had no intention of denying that to Duncan, and nodded, rising and turning, ordering that wood be brought forward to build a pyre for the former Commander of the Grey. Without a word, the others turned to do so as Adela knelt back beside Alistair.

DA:O

An hour later, and the group had built a pyre, now burning, with the remains of Duncan set upon them. Although his armor was still in good condition, both wardens had insisted that it go to the pyre with the man. Neither could bare the thought of using it or, worse yet, selling it to further fund their quest. What few sovereigns it would garner them was not worth the dishonor they felt would be perpetrated upon the man.

As the flames licked at the decimated body, Adela stood, staring, watching. Alistair stood, stock still, beside her, his tears already spent. When finally the body was nothing but ash, Wynne handed the young Commander of the Grey a vial. Nodding, the elf pushed Duncan’s ashes into the vial, carefully and tightly capping it. Bowing her head, she said a silent prayer over the rest of Duncan’s ashes, then turned away.

Now they would venture further into the ruins of Ostagar. They still had further business therein.

DA:O

They began to encounter darkspawn, mostly hurlocks, and a few emissaries as they encroached upon the ruin’s center. They were made quick work of and they proceeded onwards, past the infirmary, past where the prisoners had been kept…

Adela’s head swiveled slightly as she took in the quartermaster’s stall. It was twisted, and the portable forge the quartermaster had brought with him had been altered into an obscene altar, decorated heinously with the head of a halla and several bones from humans and animals. Nearby, laying flat on his back, was the merchant whom had accosted the young elf upon her arrival at the ruins. Frowning, she left the group, walking past the frozen corpse, to the chest that stood by the altar. She lifted the lid, and pushed the contents around somewhat, finally finding the objects she sought. Lifting up the pieces of leather, she stared at them for a moment, before pocketing them into her pack. She ignored the stares of the others as she rejoined the group.

Blight wolves and other darkspawn fought them as they continued their trek deeper into Ostagar’s heart. One overly large hurlock proved difficult in felling, but between Alistair and Roland it soon joined the other monsters in death. Adela walked over to the men as they stared down at the bloody corpse before them. Glancing down, she gave a gasp, seeing what the two had spied. Gingerly, she knelt down, prying from the creatures hands golden gauntlets. Rising, she stared, holding the pair in her hands. In a tremulous whisper, she said, “These were Cailan’s…”

Both Warden and Recruit looked at each other, Alistair placing a hand to Adela’s shoulder. Turning, she pushed the gauntlets into Alistair’s chest. “Keep these,” she instructed, scowling down at the hurlock corpse, giving it a kick. “Maybe we can find the rest…”

Frowning, staring down at the gauntlets he held in numb hands, Alistair nodded, then placed them into his pack. He raised his head, glancing around. Spying where Duncan’s bonfire (as he and Adela had taken to calling it during their time at Ostagar) had been, knowing that the Royal Enclave stood not far, Alistair reached over and took Adela’s hand, pulling her along. The others, taking note of the direction the wardens headed, followed.

They found Cailan’s chest in the open, the king’s pavilion having long since been torn and ripped away. It took Adela mere minutes to unlock the secrets contained therein.

Adela’s eyes widened slightly as she pulled a carefully wrapped bundle from the dark interior of the sturdy chest. Straightening, she carefully unwrapped the long package, finally revealing a blade of dragon bone, the runes along the blade’s length glowing with a faint bluish tinge at the touch of her hand. For several moments she stared at the blade, recalling the times she had spent at Maric’s knee as he polished it, telling her the story behind its recovery. It was as much a connection to her past - her mother’s history with Maric, Rowan and Loghain - as it was Alistair’s. Smiling, she turned, presenting the blade to her husband.

Alistair stared at the magnificent longsword, reaching out slightly to touch it before recoiling back. What right had he to the blade? He wondered. But, Adela was offering it to him, ignoring Zevran’s remark about how sexy the blade was, asking for it instead. The others chuckled slightly at the assassin’s quip, but Alistair and Adela stood, silent, staring down at the blade.

“Take it,” Adela whispered to her husband. But, he backed away, shaking his head, denying the gift.

“I can’t,” he replied, staring at the blade still. He raised his eyes to his wife’s. “It was never meant for me.” He gripped the sword - Duncan’s sword - he currently held in his hand. “This one feels more like it belongs with me than that one ever would.”

Adela blinked, frowning slightly at her stubborn husband. However, she would not argue with him, not now, not when they still had else they wished to do. With a nod, she handed the blade to Roland, asking him to hold it for now. Reverently, the knight took the blade, strapping it carefully to his pack.

Knowing that she and Alistair would need to have a talk later on, the elf turned and delved deeply into the chest. A feeling of triumph came over her as she pulled the bundle of letters Cailan had told her of. Without explanation, she placed these in the pouch with Duncan’s papers, straightening as she surveyed the ruins.

The track of her eyes took her to the bridge…the one that led to the Tower of Ishal. She could see the further damage done it during the battle, when fiery pitch and massive boulders had been launched at the structure. Her eyes narrowed as her keen sight settled upon a figure, propped up against the back rail. Without a word, she stepped nearer the bridge’s entry, pushing aside her first memories of Ostagar. The figure was human, of that she was certain. Ordering the others to follow, she set off in a sprint, her steps quickening as the figure ahead of her came into focus and recognizable.

With a sharp intake of breath, she stumbled to a halt, staring up at the face that had been so familiar to her as a child, the face of a trusted and beloved friend. As the others rushed to her, a sharp scolding word upon Alistair’s lips, a single name escaped her lips.

“Cailan…”

DA:O

More darkspawn rose against them, and these were defeated, retrieving the rest of Cailan‘s armor. The victories had been numerous, but not without cost. Each of the companions bore wounds from each battle, and were bone weary by the time they managed to battle their way to where the king’s corpse was strung up, naked, his flesh pierced by arrows and blades. Powerful magic had been used to preserve his body, and, were it not for the unnatural pallor of his skin, the obvious wounds, and the uncharacteristic expression of fear and loss so permanently etched into his features, Adela may have thought the man alive but unconscious. With a sob, she ordered the Sten and Roland to pull his body from where it was, crucified, upon the makeshift easel the darkspawn had strung him upon.

A pyre had been built, and his body laid to rest. The young elf fought against her memories of her friendship with the young king, tears rushing down her face as Alistair’s arm pressed along her shoulders, pulling her against him to share her grief. Her grief…his…theirs. This day saw the rest of two people who had been important to them, in their own way. As with Duncan, Adela gathered some of Cailan’s ashes into a vial, promising to present them to Anora when they defeated the Blight.

With a final look to the pyre, Adela led her companions from Ostagar, seeking their way through the Wilds, heading easterly to Orzammar.

[SheilaD67]

Thanks to everyone who has read, alerted and most especially reviewed!: Nithu, tgail73, Arsinoe de Blassenville, Biff McLaughlin, Shakespira, celtic-twinkie

Short chapter to get them out of the Wilds and on their way to Orzammar.

The Halla Reborn
Chapter 48

　
They are all bone weary, emotionally drained, and still they walked, trekking through the Wilds, unable to bring themselves to camp for the eve, to replenish their strength and garner the rest they desperately need.

The more distance between them and Ostagar the better.

Adela felt it, too keenly, as she trudged alongside Alistair. They had put to rest their king, Cailan Rendorn Theirin, a man far too young, far too idealistic to have met his end by the hands of the darkspawn. He was a king who fought for his people, who challenged the general mindset of the nobility. One of Adela’s oldest and dearest friends.

So, too, had they put to rest Duncan, Commander of the Grey Wardens of Fereldan. The tiny elf wished she had had the opportunity to have gotten to know him better. He had been a friend, of sorts, to her mother. Yet, she had never heard mention of him by her or her father. Only when conscripted had she learned, from the man’s own lips, that he had known her mother.

Two vials, both filled with ashes…so little of both men, great in their own way, left. So small and weightless, and yet they seemed to overburden the young elf’s pack, giving it greater weight than it truly had. For, although they had managed to find, for themselves, closure in discovering their bodies, and ensuring that no longer would either man endure further abuse at the hands of their sworn enemies, there was still so much to be done, in both their names.

Not for the first time since Ostagar did the elf feel as though it was far too much, that she could not handle the responsibility. It was all too large a scope for the small elf, whose sole desire in life not a year before had been to continue on with her art, to create, to bring joy and appreciation to those who saw her works.

To marry.

To have children.

To grow old within the confines of her Alienage, and die, her family around her.

Simple dreams. Dreams that now would never come true.

She was tired. She could tell. Self-pity seemed almost overwhelming, and she looked up, looking at the ragged face of her husband.

A smile crossed her lips then.

She had married.

Certainly, she and Alistair may never have children of their bodies, but, given how large a heart her husband had, they could adopt children who were orphaned by the Blight and war…pestilence and poverty.

She may not grow old. But she would grow older, and with Alistair beside her.

A small hand reached up, gently tracing over the worry lines and weariness etched too plainly in the handsome features of the man she loved. Amber eyes blinked, and then turned downward, brightening at the sight of the small elven woman, from whose eyes shown clearly the love she had for him. Alistair gave her a smile, the lines easing upon his face, as he reached down and pulled her into his side, planting a kiss upon the top of her head.

The duties may seem endless; weariness may overwhelm. But, Adela knew that they all had a mission - a quest - that was far too important, far larger than she, and that with these fine companions, with this wonderful man beside her, she knew that they would succeed.

For all of Fereldan, all of Thedas, may well depend upon them.

With a sigh, she pulled back from Alistair’s comforting warmth, and reached to the pocket that held the vials containing what earthly remains of Cailan and Duncan remained, and pressed her hand upon it. The work of these two fine men would see completion.

DA:O

They had walked throughout the rest of the day, and well into the night. A great deal of distance had been placed between them and Ostagar and, given Wynne’s request to rest for the rest of the night, the wardens called a halt to their march, ordering that camp be set. No one seemed overly eager at camping, still in the midst of the Wilds. Even Morrigan had voiced displeasure at the prospect. However, they could no longer continue onward, and needed at least a few hours respite. With a nod, the witch turned, pulling Artemis along with her, to set wards around the campsite.

Too weary to hunt, Adela pulled rations from their stores and sat upon a log the Sten had pulled up before the fire that he had blazing in the camp’s center. Tents were posted, and everyone sat down to enjoy the dried meat, hardtack and sharp cheese that would be that evening’s meal.

Alistair sat heavily beside his wife, watching as she dug into her pouch, pulling free some of the papers they had found in Duncan’s chest. Her eyes squinted slightly as she examined one sheet of vellum.

“It’s encrypted,” she muttered, rubbing at her eyes. “And I am far too tired to try and decipher it.”

Snickering at her, the young man pulled the paper from her fingers, staring at the encryption. The figures swam before his vision and he, too, had to admit easy defeat. Handing it back, he prompted her to replace it to her pouch. They would have time once they left the Wilds, once they had been properly rested, to examine Duncan and Cailan‘s papers.

There was a sound not far off into the bushes. Even as weary as they all were, everyone was on his or her feet, spells called forward, blades naked in hand, bows shouldered and notched. Sharp elven eyes alert, peering into the darkness, and yet she could discern nothing.

“Jumpy,” Zevran muttered as he forced himself to relax his stance, sheathing both blades as he turned a circle. Tensely, everyone replaced their weapons.

Today had been difficult for them all.

“We should find our rest,” Adela said as she placed her bow down upon the log, forcing her voice to sound easy. “We’ll take shifts in threes. Leliana,” She faced the bard. “you, the Sten and Artemis should take the first watch. Alistair, Niall and I shall take second, Roland, Zev and Morrigan third.”

With a nod, Leliana, the Sten and Artemis set their watch sites as the others slipped into their tents.

“Second watch, eh?” Alistair quipped as he pulled himself into their tent, slipping his boots from his feet before rolling to their bedrolls.

“Sorry, love,” Adela gave him a weary smile. “Second watch is difficult, and I felt we should take that one.” She slipped her own boots free, tugging at her belt to slip her trousers from her legs.

Alistair watched with great appreciation the expanse of white leg his wife now showed. With a grin, he crawled over to her, hovering above her, smiling into her face.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Adela asked as she smiled up into his face, her tone teasing.

“What? Can’t I give my wife a kiss good night?” he asked innocently, pressing her back onto the bedroll as he settled himself around and beside her, wrapping his strong arms around her slight body, pulling her closer as he wrapped a leg about her hips.

Smirking at him, she turned slightly to face him fully. A small, tender hand traced over his features, her eyes following the path of her hand, taking in each line, each new scar, finally to settle at his lips. “Hmmm…that would be rather nice, my husband,” she purred slightly.

Smiling into her face, Alistair settled closer, covering her lips with his own as his hand wandered over her body, to run lightly along her naked legs.

DA:O

The next day dawned bright, yet the sky remained gray. Even the few hours of rest the party had managed to garner was enough to help pick up their collective mood and pace. They had passed through the heart of the Wilds, and that knowledge helped to ease their scattered thoughts.

It was nearing the middle of the day when they found themselves surrounded by a party of Chasind warriors.

Dark skinned, wearing leather armor adorned with feathers, pieces of animal hide, and bark, the warriors appeared as barbaric as legends made them to be. Their leader, a large man with long black hair and keen black eyes, stepped forward, bidding them to follow. A look to Morrigan, who nodded, and Adela ordered their group to follow.

The hunting group led the companions through the outer edge of the Wilds, and to a small, temporary encampment just at the Wilds’ borders. The leader, who had identified himself as Apumayta, led the group to where a large bonfire roared in the encampment’s center. An elderly woman dressed in a simple dress of browns and greens, rose, her white head bobbing as she greeted the younger man. She then turned kind, brown eyes upon the group, those eyes settling upon Adela’s weary and wary face.

“Welcome to our home, Grey Wardens,” she intoned in a pleasantly soft voice. “I am Elder Tula. You are welcome within the Tribe of Hache hi.”

Bowing at the waist, Adela replied. “We are honored to be welcome within your home, Elder.”

Chuckling, the elderly woman moved with grace and swiftness that belied her obvious age. Clucking at Apumayta in their native language, she turned back to the elf as the young hunter barked orders to his hunters and led them away. “We did not bring you here without a purpose, young Warden,” Tula remarked as she grasped Adela’s arm, pulling her toward the fire.

“Why have we been made guests, Ancient One?” Morrigan asked as she moved forward, nearer to the Wardens.

Smiling, Tula replied, “Ah, young Witch, we are leaving the Wilds.” She turned back to Adela. “The darkspawn threat has become too great for us, and so we must leave, heading further southward, away from the heart of the hoard.”

“Away?” Adela asked, glancing around at the bustle as the tribesmen renewed their efforts at breaking down their camp. “Why not join our armies to battle the Blight?” The young Commander turned back to the elder, her face set and serious.

Tula watched the young elf, her dark eyes carrying within them a hint of calm understanding. Then a smile crossed her heavily lined face and she nodded. “Truth be told, young one, our warriors have been clambering to fight beside the Grey Wardens against the Blight. I have given permission for Apumayta and his hunters to offer their blades and bows to your cause. However,” she turned Adela about, facing her toward the sole permanent structure in the encampment: a squat hut of brush and sticks, its doorway covered by a heavy blanket. “it was not for the purpose of offering our skills in battle that we brought you here for.”

“Why then?” Adela asked as her companions were offered food and drink. She looked over at Alistair and gave him a nod of permission before turning back to their hostess.

“While our warriors will head northward toward the center of your people,” Tula remarked, “the rest of our tribe shall continue southward. There is one, however, who is not of the People, and wishes to be reunited with his countrymen.”

Her ears perked up, and Alistair stepped nearer. “Who is this man?” Adela asked quietly, wondering if any of the Grey Wardens had survived the disaster that had been Ostagar.

Clucking, Tula smirked, waving her hand to a young girl. After instructing her to bring their guest forward, she turned back. “He is one who had been out scouting with many of his men. Unfortunately, he had been the only one to survive. His wounds were egregious, and it has taken him many moons and much heart to regain his health and strength.” The curtain to the hut opened and out stepped a tall man dressed in leathers similar to those worn by Apumayta. After scanning the area quickly with sharp, brown eyes, the man spied Tula and stepped toward the elder.

Dark hair was pulled back in a tight braid that hung below his shoulders. Sharp, angular features and a regal nose marked him as being from among the nobility. He appeared to be around Cailan’s age, although it was difficult to tell by the number of scars that now lined his still handsome features. Adela noted a slight limp as he approached, but also took note of the hard muscles beneath the leather. Despite having been seriously injured, the man had obviously taken the time during his convalescence to regain not only his strength but fighting form.

The young man paused before the elf and Alistair, then turned toward the tribe’s elder, bowing deeply before her.

“Elder Tula,” he said, his voice calm and cultured, obviously educated.

“Lord Fergus?”

The man lifted his head, staring ahead as Roland walked toward the group, his pace quickening as he rushed to the young man’s side.

“Ser Gilmore?” the man responded, his face lighting up with a wide smile as he straightened, clasping the younger man’s forearm in a strong hand.

Tula chuckled. “I see you have a friend among them already, young Fergus,” she clucked her approval.

“Indeed, indeed,” Fergus remarked, turning back to Roland. “What brings you here?” The young man asked. “Why are you no longer at Highever?”

“Lord Fergus,” Roland said, stepping nearer as his voice lowered. “These are Grey Wardens,” he raised a hand to indicate Adela and Alistair. “This,” he motioned toward the elf, “is the Warden Commander Adela, and this her second, Warden Alistair.” He allowed small smile to cross his face. “I’ve been recruited into their ranks.”

“Ah, so Father let you go, did he?” The young lord questioned. He did not miss the dark shadow that passed by Roland’s green eyes. “What has happened?” he asked, fear constricting his chest.

With an utter look of hopelessness, Roland looked to Adela, who reached over and placed a gentle hand upon his arm.

“There is much to tell you, Fergus,” the young warden recruit replied, raising his eyes to look directly into Fergus.

“Come, then,” he said, nodding toward the hut from which he had recently emerged.

Roland turned pleading eyes to Adela. “Please, Adela, would you come, too?”

She opened her mouth to protest, certain he should speak with the other man alone. But, Roland shook his head. “I need you there.”

With a look to Alistair, she nodded and followed the two to the hut.

DA:O

Alistair watched as Adela followed Roland and Fergus into the hut, fighting against the surge of jealousy that rose in his breast. Roland was about to tell this young man that his entire family - parents, wife, son - were dead, and here he was, standing there upset because Roland needed the support of his friend - Adela - in order to do so. Completely upset and disgusted with himself, the young warden turned to the others, trying to enjoy the food and drink that the Chasind of the Hache hi tribe provided.

About an hour later, Adela emerged from the hut, alone, her face sad and weary. Alistair pushed himself to his feet, frowning as the elf made her way to where their companions sat and rested. He could see unshed tears in her eyes, and as she wrapped her arms about his waist, he pulled her closer, enveloping her in his embrace, his head bent down to her head.

“He lost everything…everyone he ever knew and loved,” Adela whispered into Alistair’s armored chest, a slight sob shaking her small body. The large man went down to his knees, allowing his wife to wrap her arms about his neck and bury her face into the crook of his neck and shoulder. Brushing his hand down her hair and back, Alistair made comforting shushing sounds as he held her.

“I don’t know what I would ever do,” she cried, tightening her hold about him. “I know that what we do is dangerous, and either of us could die at any time. But,” she pulled away, tears running down her face, Alistair’s thumb brushing them away. “I could not bare it if I lost you.”

A soft smile crossed his face, and Alistair pulled her close again. “Shush, love. If it’s ever in my power, I promise you will never be alone.”

“Ha,” she said mirthlessly. “You aren’t all powerful, you know, my big strong warden.”

Shaking his head, he replied. “Maybe not. But I would never willingly leave your side.” He pushed her away so that he could look her directly in the eye. “If ever we are parted, know that I love you, will always love you, and that it was not a separation by choice.”

Tears still streaming down her face, Adela nodded, brushing a shaking hand across her eyes. “I’m being foolish, aren’t I?” she said in a querulous voice.

Chuckling slightly, her husband shook his head. “No, love. With everything we’ve gone through, with everything we’re still facing…no. Not foolish at all.”

Nodding, laughing slightly with embarrassment and pained relief, she pulled away, rubbing her hands across her eyes and face. “He wishes to accompany us,” she said after a few moments, her eyes straying to the hut wherein Fergus and Roland remained, talking. “He understands our mission, and that our next destination is Orzammar.” She shrugged, turning her attention back to Alistair. “He wants to help, and he is skilled. So…”

“So, we’ve another warrior to add to our group,” Alistair finished, appreciating the extra sword, pleased with the decision.

“We’ll need to find him armor and a sword,” Adela remarked. “He fights with a greatsword.” Her eyes wandered to where they had piled their supplies, going to the packs that contained their extra armaments.

“We need to restock,” Alistair remarked with a frown.

Adela nodded her head. “I know. We’re very low on extra armaments. Do we even have a greatsword he can use?”

He did a quick mental inventory and then nodded. “Yes. I believe it’s one we had acquired from Castle Cousland. And, we have an extra set of plate mail that should fit the man as well.”

Nodding, she frowned, thoughtful. “The Sten will need another set, too. But, he is too large for any that we have.”

“There are no better smiths than the dwarves at Orzammar,” Alistair remarked, turning back to his wife.

“Well, let’s hope his armor holds together until we can get there,” she answered, straightening. “It’s going to be difficult for Fergus,” she said. “He is technically the Teyrn of Highever. However, Maker knows what Howe has done or said in the interim. We should try and keep his survival a secret for as long as possible.”

“Right,” Alistair said, frowning. “Now we’ve a royal bastard and a noble to keep quiet about.” He grinned at Adela’s unamused expression. “Add to that all of the Grey Warden secrets, and we are a group awash in mystery.”

Snorting, with a shake of her head, Adela turned to get something to eat and drink.
 

[SheilaD67]

Thanks to everyone who continues to alert and favorite this story! And, to those who read and review, my most humblest of thanks!: Nithu, mutive, Arsinoe de Blassenville, Biff McLaughlin, Eriana10, tgail73, Superstar Kid, CCBug, celtic-twinkie, Zeeji, Shakespira

The Halla Reborn
Chapter 49

The weather held, and they managed to find their way through the Wilds with little obstacles, making good time and even traveling as far into the night as they could, eager as they were to put distance between them and the Blighted wilder lands. Once beyond the borders of the Wilds and well on their way into the Frostback Mountains, they still encountered their share of bandits and bounty hunters, yet surprisingly few darkspawn.

At night, Adela and Alistair would devote much of their time to deciphering the encrypted papers found in Duncan’s chest. Fortunately, Duncan had the foresight to have begun tutoring Alistair in the Wardens’ encryption codes, and it was a simply matter for the young man to teach the same to his very literate wife. Many of the papers were letters, exchanges between Duncan and the First Warden at Weisshaupt, and some of the more personal kind. Many were to and from a woman stationed at Weisshaupt by the name of Fiona. These letters, personal in nature that they were, were set aside. Both young wardens felt it an unnecessary intrusion upon their former commander’s privacy.

Fergus Cousland had settled into the routine of the group easily enough. Several days journey from the Wilds found the group reunited with Bodahn Feddic and his rather eccentric son, Sandal and they had managed to outfit the young noble from his stores. After Roland made introductions of the dwarven merchant with Adela and Alistair, it was decided that the merchant, who just so happened was heading to Orzammar himself, would travel along with the group. Elated at having such skilled warriors help to defend his wagon, the dwarf offered his goods at a greatly reduced discount, even offering to carry the larger, heavier supplies that the Sten, Roland and Alistair always seemed stuck with carrying. The two humans breathed a sigh of relief as they packed the tents and spare equipment into the roomy confines of the wagon. Whether the Sten was relieved it was difficult to say.

It was the night prior to their arrival to Orzammar’s front gates that the piece of information that both wardens had been desperate to find finally lay in Adela’s hands. Her eyes wide, she read and re-read the heavily encrypted vellum, then, without a word, handed it off to Alistair for him to read.

His eyes widened as hers had, and then a wide grin split his face.

“The joining,” he very nearly shouted as he waved the paper. Roland, who was nearby sparring with Fergus, lifted his head, his eyes turning to search out where Artemis stood, helping Morrigan with poultices and potions.

Both Warden Recruits knew the significance of the find. And, with a nod to each other and a silent word to the ones they were currently engaged with, the two stepped to where their senior wardens now stood, re-reading the vellum.

“We will be able to perform a joining ceremony?” Roland asked as he stepped to Adela’s side. The elf’s eyes were, yet again, skimming over the information. This was something - the most important thing - that she and Alistair had been hoping to recover since the fall at Ostagar. To be able to put recruits through the joining…to rebuild the warden numbers to fight against this Blight. Now, they could. If they could find the ingredients necessary.

“This may be difficult to come across,” she said as she pointed out the list of ingredients required for the joining. Roland and Artemis bent their heads to the paper, but were unable to read the encryption. Alistair’s face scrunched up in a frown. The lyrium and darkspawn blood would be easy to acquire. The Archdemon blood?

“Where will we find Archdemon blood?” Alistair quietly asked, aware that the others in their camp were watching the four wardens.

Adela stepped away, her eyes fixed upon the paper, biting at her lower lip in thought. “Maybe we missed something at the warehouse,” she said as she turned toward the three men. “Or maybe we need to find a way into the Denerim compound.”

“Easier said than done,” Alistair quipped, frowning.

All Adela could do was shrug her shoulders as she stepped back to the three men. “At least now we know how to perform the joining. And Wynne had created the concoction before, so we have the advantage of an experienced mage.”

With a sigh, she rolled the vellum up, putting it into her side pouch. “At least we now know how to perform the ritual,” she stated as she lifted her head, forcing a smile upon her face. “That is one step closer than we were this morning.”

Nodding, the others agreed as they turned back to the tasks they were engaged in prior to the revelation. Adela looked up into Alistair’s face, noting that it was wrinkled in thought. A slight frown formed between her brows, and she stepped nearer.

“What is it, Alistair?” she asked as she set a small hand upon his arm.

Shrugging, Alistair replied, “I’m just trying to remember something Duncan had told me when I first joined.” He turned around, facing westerly, the direction of Orzammar. “I may be mistaken, but I think that the Wardens have a compound in Orzammar.”

“You’re just remembering this now?” a blond brow twitched, not with irritation but amusement.

Chuckling in his usual self-deprecating way, Alistair shrugged. “Yeah, well, had a lot of things on my mind. And, Duncan didn’t so much as tell me as mentioned it to another warden, and I just so happened to be in the vicinity.”

“You were eavesdropping,” the elf countered with a chuckle.

“What can I say?” The human warden asked as he tugged his wife against his chest, smiling into her hair. “I wanted to learn as much about the wardens as I could, and Duncan was being rather close lipped about it.”

With a sigh, she snuggled deeper against him, enjoying the warmth that always seemed to emanate from him. “Well, with luck, there is a compound, a fully stocked compound.”

“And then we’ll have doubled our ranks,” Alistair finished, the kissed the top of her blond head.

DA:O

Adela was surprised to note that, camped outside the vast stone doors that allowed entry into the fabled dwarven city, were several dwarven merchants, all hawking their wares or, in the case of many, simply sitting, balefully glaring at those impressive great doors.

Bodahn and Sandal went off to find their spot outside the door, carefully weaving their wagon through the throng. The others separated for a time, each seeking out the goods the various vendors offered.

Her eyes swept over the scene, settling upon the lone human merchant. Her eyes settled upon what appeared to be Qunari made weapons and arms and, recalling the Sten’s description of his first encounter with darkspawn, just at Lake Calenhad, the elf stepped to the stall, curious as to how he had found these items.

It did not take long or very much coercion for the merchant to relate how he had come upon a battle site and the corpses of several bronze skinned giants. Adela questioned him about a large, two handed sword and the merchant blithely admitted to selling it in Redcliffe.

To the dwarven merchant Dwyn.

Certain that she was on the track to recovering the Sten’s sword, she handed the merchant a sovereign, thanking him for his time, and then turned to rejoin her group.

Together once more, having made their purchases ( Adela noticed that the Sten was happily munching cookies), the group made their way to the heavily guarded double doors that led into the grand dwarven city.

The Captain of the Guard stood there, glaring at the human who stood before him, berating, scowling and threatening the dwarven man to allow him entry. With exaggerated patience, the guard advised the man that none were allowed within Orzammar.

Adela paused, her eyes shifting to the doors and back to the guard. The dwarf, obviously irritated and no longer wishing to give the man before him any more of his time, turned to the elven woman.

“Atrast vala, stranger,” he greeted, his tone even as he fought against his irritation with the human. “Orzammar’s gates are closed off to all but her own.”

Adela nodded, pulling free from her pouch the treaty for the dwarves. Handing this over, she said, “I am Warden Commander Adela Tabris. These treaties,” she waved a hand to the ancient vellum the guard now held and was reading with interest. “Obligate the dwarves to assist the Wardens during a Blight.”

“A Blight?” the guard asked as he continued to ignore the man, who was now glaring at Adela and her group. The dwarf raised his eyes to stare into Adela’s, who merely nodded as he handed the paperwork back.

“These are traitors to the throne and Fereldan!” the man beside them seethed, his hand twitching over the hilt of his still sheathed sword. “I demand that you execute this…this stain upon the earth!”

Mouth twitching, the dwarf turned back to the human. “You dare speak so to a Grey Warden?” he took a step closer, and the two guards at his back pulled their blades half way from their sheathes in a show of force and support for the Wardens.

Taken aback by the dwarves enmity, the man stumbled back, bumping into the mage who stood behind him. “I am the personal messenger of King Loghain!” he screeched. “I shall not be treated in such a manner!”

“I’ll treat ye to the bottom of me boot, ye lickspittle,” the Captain growled at the human. “Be gone from the front of the gates. Else I’ll set upon ye the guards.”

Glowering at the dwarves, and then at Adela and her crew, the ‘personal messenger’ had little choice but to obey.

A wide grin upon his face, the Captain turned back to Adela. “Been awaiting an excuse to do that for some time now. Be welcome, Grey Wardens, into the halls of Orzammar. I am uncertain what aid will be for ye, but you and yours are always welcome.”

With a bow of her head, Adela thanked the guard and led the group through the huge doors and into the entry level of Orzammar.

DA:O

The first thing about entering deeper into Orzammar that struck Adela was the oppressive atmosphere of the place. The deeper under ground they went, the more she felt the very weight of the earth and stone around them.

The second thing she noticed was how very well lit the entirety of the place was. Rune encrusted torch sconces lined the great stone walls; tall lampposts stood at each avenue; each doorway was lit brightly by the magical lamps.

Apparently, the dwarva did not like the darkness better than any surface race.

There was a confrontation almost as soon as the group stepped into the commons of Orzammar: two dwarven nobles. The companions glanced uneasily at one another as they watched one of the commons’ guards get struck down by one of the nobles’ bodyguards.

“It would seem that the dwarves are lawless,” the Sten intoned as they watched the blood pool under the body of the guard.

“So it would seem,” MOrrigan replied coolly, her yellow eyes scanning over the area.

One guard, after ordering the body’s removal, turned, spotting the group of strangers in their midst. Scowling fiercely at the companions, he stalked over, anger heavy in each step.

“Veata,” he narrowed his small eyes at the group, coming up to stand directly in front of Adela. “I had heard that Grey Wardens had been allowed beyond the borders. While I do not approve of allowing strangers to witness our disarray, I cannot prevent your entry.”

“What is happening?” Adela asked quietly and with great respect in her voice.

The guard seemed somewhat appeased by her graciousness. “King Endrin returned to the stone not three weeks ago. Distraught over the death of his elder son, and betrayal of his daughter.” The guard stepped nearer. “You can find more news at the local taverns, inns and on any street corner.”

Nodding, her eyes skimmed over the area. “Could you perhaps give us directions?” The dwarf studied her a moment as her eyes settled back upon his craggy face, and he nodded for her to continue. “I understand we have a compound within your city…”

The dwarf chuckled, nodding his head. “Indeed, Warden, you do. You shall find it located in the Diamond Quarter, the nobles’ district.” He swept a heavily muscled arm to the westerly end of the commons, where a great door stood, well guarded. “You would also do well to introduce yourselves at the Assembly Hall, again, in the Diamond Quarters, before your presence become too widely known.”

Thanking him, Adela led the others in search of the Assembly Hall and then, later, their compound.

DA:O

Adela could not believe her ears. Not only would the Assembly not hear her, but the two nobles within Orzammar who may be able to offer her assistance were adamant that she prove her loyalties before they would even deign to speak with her! It was outrageous, and the elf found herself more than a little insulted.

She now stood before Dulin Forender, Lord Pyral Harrowmont’s proclaimed second, astonished when he had suggested that she enter the dwarven Provings in order to, well, prove her loyalty to Lord Harrowmont.

Adela glared at the dwarven warrior who stood before her. “I am a Grey Warden,” she said between clenched teeth. “We have no loyalties to offer. We fight the darkspawn, wherever they may crop up.”

She took a step closer to Harrowmont’s second, and he took that step back, glaring straight into the elf’s eyes. “In the Deep Roads, upon the surface. Our sole purpose is to battle the darkspawn and either prevent or end Blights.”

A finger raised, pointing into his face, and then the surrounding area. By this time, a respectable crowd had formed, and the elf was fully aware that the second of Bhelan had stepped from the Assembly chambers and was now watching. She turned to include him in her glare. “You are a race dying. Yet you kill each other in the streets, and cannot even gather the courage to meet each other face to face in your own Assembly to select a king! These treaties,” she pulled them free from their pouch, raising them above her head. She now circled, taking the crowd in, addressing her words for all to hear. “These treaties obligate the dwarven race - not just your king - to aid the Grey Wardens in their continued battle against Blights! Once a Blight decimates the surface, its poison will come to you!” She pointed to a pair of women standing off to the side, and they visibly flinched. “Your kingdom is sandwiched between the ever present darkspawn and their taint from the Deep Roads and a Blight riddled surface.” her blue eyes settled upon Dulin Forender and then Vartag Gavorn, Prince Bhelan Aeducan‘s second - an unsavory man she had the displeasure of speaking with earlier in the Hall - who both flinched at their intensity. “Just how long do you think your race has once a Blight has fully erupted upon the surface? I would think that the threat of death of your entire race would be worthy to overlook the petty bickering of who gets to set his ass upon your throne for a mere few months while all the world crumbles under a Blight!”

The two dwarven men were now sheepishly glaring at the Warden Commander, astounded at her audacity. The crowd that surrounded them slowly and carefully erupted into cheers and clapping, shouts for the Assembly to finally end their foolish filibustering and get to the business of leading them. Behind her, Alistair stared at his wife in open amazement, while the others nodded their approval, some grinning, others watching the crowd carefully. Fergus settled back on his heels, his arms crossed, a hand to his chin, as he studied the tiny elven woman in their center.

A dwarven warrior stepped forward, his green eyes glaring at the surrounding nobles who had now exited the assembly to witness the spectacle of a tiny elven woman rallying their people to end the Blight.

A grin of utter approval split his craggy face, and he offered up a rude gesture to the man who was Harrowmont’s second.

Steward Bandelor stepped to Adela’s side, and she could see he was trying hard to keep the smirk that threatened from his features. With a glance to the assembled nobles, who, after a mere moments pause, nodded to the Steward, he turned back to the main candidates’ seconds.

“Tell your masters,” he said in his deep, calm voice, “That the Assembly calls for a vote. There is a Blight that must be stopped, and we can no longer afford this political wrangling.” His hard gaze swept from one face to another. The seconds glared at each other for a moment, and then offered the Steward a quick, curt nod before stomping off to collect their Lords.

Turning to Adela, Bandelor quietly said, “I appreciate your assistance in this, Commander,” he said respectfully with a bow. The nobles had turned and re-entered the Assembly. “I do have a proposal for you, however.”

Quirking an eyebrow, Adela waved her hand for the man to continue. Clearing his throat, he started, “While your words and the truth of a Blight have moved many to action, I have no doubt that we will still be days, if not weeks, away from any form of settlement.” He noted Adela’s frustrated sigh, and hurried on. “Bhelan is the logical, hereditary choice, however, it is well accepted that King Endrin had wanted Harrowmont upon the throne. It all falls down to whomever the Assembly votes for. We need someone of higher position, perhaps on par to a King, to make the final decision.”

Oghren, the red haired warrior, made no effort to hide the face he was eavesdropping and so choose to butt in. “You need a Paragon, Warden. And I just happen to know where there is one.”

Bandelor sighed, but nodded his gray and white head. “Oghren has the truth of it.” He looked Adela straight in the eye. “Many believe that Branka yet lives, even after all of this time in the Deep Roads. If you could find her, bring her back, and offer to back one of our candidates…”

A great sigh escaped Adela. She truly had no desire to go into the Deep Roads, despite her earlier words. The very idea of going deeper into the earth terrified her. She had found Orzammar, even the higher tiered nobles’ quarters, stressful. She longed for the sunlight and fresh air, to get away from the oppressive stone of the underground city. However, as much as she wanted to just tell the dwarves they and their unnatural city could crumble and burn, she knew the Steward was correct. And who better to fight against a Blight than the dwarves, whose very existence depended upon keeping the darkspawn at bay?

“Very well, Steward,” she conceded. “Oghren here says he knows where she is. I’ll need a map of the Deep Roads…”

“I believe I can assist you there, Commander,” a cultured, quiet male voice rumbled behind her. She turned to spy a dwarven male of elder years, his white hair pulled back in a tight braid, his clothing marking him as a noble. He had a kind, wise face, and piercing blue eyes. She noted the Dulin Forender stood behind the man, and she correctly guessed that this was Lord Harrowmont.

Bowing respectfully, she said, “Lord Harrowmont. It is an honor. Now, how can you assist us?”

“First,” he stepped forward, offering his hand. “I must apologize for even the thought that you would not be trustworthy. Every dwarf worth his stone knows that a Grey Warden’s first and ultimate duty is to end Blights. We,” he waved his hand to include himself, his second and the city itself. “momentarily forgot that Grey Wardens, of all who dwell upon the surface, understand all too well the dangers of the darkspawn.”

A blond brow quirked every so slightly. She could hear the sincerity in his words, but was certain this was merely more political wrangling. Regardless, the man had said he could help. “This assistance you have offered?” she prompted.

With a small smile, the dwarf reached into his surcoat, pulling forth a rolled parchment. “This,” he said as he unrolled it, holding it between his hands and moving to show the elf the map. “is a map to Caridin’s Cross. This is where we believe Branka may have started her search.”

“Search?” the elf asked, glancing back at Oghren, whose eyes were fixed upon the map.

“Caridin’s Cross! By my Ancestors‘ ******! I never thought I’d live to see the day!”

“Oghren…”

“Yeah, yeah. Keep yer britches on, girlie.” He grinned at Adela, showing he meant no offense. “Branka went off in search of the Anvil of the Void.”

“And while a worthy quest, one that cost our city it’s sole living Paragon,” Harrowmont gently admonished. Oghren snorted his agreement.

Glancing down at the proffered map, Adela then looked back at Oghren. “Okay, then. I guess that we’re off to the Deep Roads to find ourselves a missing Paragon.”

Bandelor and Harrowmont exchanged looks, and then the Steward stepped forward. “May the stone guide you, Commander. It seems as though as much as you need our help, we need your assistance even more.”

DA:O

Adela had asked that Oghren report to them the next morning at the gates to the Grey Warden compound. They had searched through the storerooms at the compound, and, much to the relief of the Wardens, found all of the required ingredients for a joining.

That evening they would see to the joining of Roland and Artemis.

Nervousness assailed her as Adela recalled her own joining. Wynne was off, preparing the concoction that Roland and Artemis would ingest, and that left her and Alistair to wait in the great, circular chamber that served as the joining room. Everyone else had been assigned rooms and were enjoying the comforts afforded therein, included personal baths and comfortable beds.

Niall stepped into the room, his dark eyes searching Adela out. The elf felt her heart nearly stop as the mage calmly walked toward her.

“I wish to join,” the mage said quietly, a small smile upon his wide mouth.

Alistair stopped his pacing, staring at the mage. Niall’s magic was potent, and he had mastered many spells in various schools. His quick mind had proven an asset to their group time and again, and his easy, shy manner made him friends with everyone. He would be an asset to the Grey Wardens, but Adela had a moment of doubt regarding his survival.

However, he had asked, and they had an obligation to rebuild the Warden ranks. She hated the pragmatic part of being the Commander of the Grey in Fereldan, but knew it was necessary at times.

“Does Zev know?” the elven woman asked, watching as Niall nodded his dark head, that smile still in place.

“He may not be…exceptionally happy about the prospect. But, he knows and he supports my decision.”

Taking a deep breath, Adela glanced over at her husband. Alistair stood, staring at the mage for many moments, then turned his attention to his wife. Giving her a nod, he let her know he supported the idea.

“Very well, Niall,” Adela rubbed a hand along his upper arm. “Alistair will advise Wynne…”

“Wynne already knows,” the mage said sheepishly, trying to appear contrite at the widening of Adela’s eyes.

Shaking her head slowly at the mage, she smiled. “Remember the chain of command, Niall,” she gently scolded the mage. Smirking, the former Circle Mage nodded, and then left the chamber.

[SheilaD67]

My thanks continue to go out to those who alert, favorite, or simply lurk. But, my most heartfelt thanks go to those who take the time to review! Each review a writer receives helps to encourage the story along and discourage those nasty little writer blockades!

Shakespira, Nithu, mutive, CCBug, Arsinoe de Blassenville, Biff McLaughlin (you really should read these authors’ stories - they are awesome!), tgail73 (as faithful reviewer as ever there was one!)...as always, my thanks!

Ah, now the Deep Roads. I skipped over the insignificant parts as I am not going canon (as you may have figured out by now). And, even doing so, Orzammar is going to be at least another chapter.

I hate the Deep Roads. And, Adela does, too…

The Halla Reborn
Chapter 50

“We bear a sacred burden. For an age, we have protected the lands of men. Now, a Blight is upon us and we dare not falter. Regardless of race, station in life, mage or warrior. The best must take up our banner to save us all from annihilation.”

Adela clenched her hands, trying to steady them, trying to keep them from trembling as the words Duncan had spoken at her own joining came forward.

“We Grey Wardens were founded during the first Blight, when humanity stood on the verge of annihilation. And so it was that the first Grey Wardens drank of darkspawn blood and mastered it‘s taint."

She took the chalice from Wynne and, with a nod, dismissed the elderly mage from the chamber. Staring down into the black, vile contents of the chalice, she turned, walking over to Roland.

“This is the source of our power, and our victory.”

DA:O

Alistair watched as Adela accepted the chalice from Wynne, noticed how she tried to keep her hands from shaking as she turned with it clenched in her tiny hands, her knuckles white with the strain of maintaining a calm air.

“Join us, brothers and sisters.”

When he had intoned those words at Adela’s joining, it had been easier. Although he had immediately liked the pretty elven woman from the first time they met, she had still been little more than a stranger to him. Now…he turned to watch his companions. Men he had fought beside; men who had placed their own lives in jeopardy to defend him and the others that traveled with them. He glanced over at Roland, who was watching Adela with complete faith, loyalty and adoration shining in his green eyes. Alistair should have felt a pang of jealousy or annoyance, as he had during their travel here. However, now, all he felt was concern for one he saw as a brother…one of his closest friends.

“Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant.”

He turned and watched Niall, his intelligent brown eyes fixed upon Adela’s tiny form. The mage had become an important part to their little group, his knowledge and skill saving them time and again, helping them to understand Adela’s strange communion with the Fade.

“Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be foresworn.”

Finally, he turned to Artemis, the tiny, beautiful elf who watched Adela with open admiration in his soft blue eyes. Alistair almost snorted with amusement as the flirtatious little elf noticed the ex-templar’s attention and turned, batting his long eyelashes at the handsome human, a flirty, mischievous smirk upon his full lips before turning his attention back to the other elf.

Green, brown and blue eyes were fixed upon the Commander of the Grey’s tiny form as she handed the chalice off to Roland.

“And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten, and that one day we shall join you.”

Before, the words were just words, accepting and acknowledging the sacrifice those about to partake of the joining would make. Now, however, they meant so much more. For these men were already his brothers, if not by blood, then by spirit. He then noticed his own hands trembled as Roland glanced down into the chalice, a look of mortification crossing his handsome features. Alistair winced as his hand, almost of its own accord, strayed near the hilt of his sword.

“And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten, and that one day we shall join you.”

If any of them balked, could he take their lives, to secure the secrets of the Grey Wardens and the joining?

“And should you perish...”

Could he cut down a man who was his friend, a man who had placed himself before him during battle, stood over his prone form as he struggled back to his feet?…

His hand relaxed, moving from his weapon as Roland gave Adela a small smile, and brought he chalice to his lips.

“…perish…”

DA:O

It was with heavy hearts and a somber mood that the companions met up with Oghren the following morning. A shadow had fallen upon the group, and the wardens found it difficult to shake.

One of their own had perished during the joining ritual, and they could not speak of it with those companions who were not Wardens, other than to acknowledge the loss.

Distraught, Adela had spent the night in Alistair’s arms, sobbing at the loss of their friend. Artemis Surana, former elven mage of the Circle of Fereldan, had fallen during the joining, choking on the vile ichor that had rendered the other two men unconscious. Both of them knew that anyone could die during the joining. Although he mourned the loss of the young, energetic and talented mage, Alistair could not squelch the relief that came upon him that Roland and Niall had survived. As much as they liked Artemis, he had been through so much more with the other two men, and the thought of loosing either of them was too weighty for the young warden to comprehend or emotionally deal with.

They had placed the small elven man’s body into a chamber of the compound, Niall and Wynne casting powerful preservation spells upon the corpse. They could not perform a funeral in the tradition of the dwarves - casting it into the lava. No. They would bring him back to the surface, back to the sunlight and fresh air the young mage had only recently discovered, and found great joy in. There, they would perform a combination of Fereldan and Dalish funeral rites: set him upon a pyre and burn the tainted body, then bury the purified ashes within the soil, planting a tree over his remains. To the two senior wardens, nothing could be more appropriate.

The senior warden - Second - glanced over to where Niall stood, shoulder to shoulder with Roland, somber expressions upon each of their faces. As the former knight lifted his head, Alistair turned his attention back to his wife, who was now speaking with the red-haired and bearded dwarf.

DA:O

Roland frowned, feeling the tainted blood course through his system, and he could not help but glance over at Adela. The thought that the tiny elven woman had endured her own joining was hurtful to the young former knight, that the small, almost pure seeming young woman had taken the taint of the vile darkspawn into her. He found himself glaring over at Alistair, as though it had somehow been his fault that Adela had suffered through such an ordeal. He knew that the young warden had nothing to do with Adela’s joining, and he was also aware that had she not joined the wardens she would be dead - or worse, confined to Fort Drakon. But, in the absence of Duncan, Roland settled for glaring over at Alistair.

DA:O

Because of how tainted the Deep Roads were, Adela insisted that most of their non-Warden companions remain behind. She feared their becoming tainted just by being present in the Deep Roads. Alistair and Roland both agreed with her.

Fergus remained behind in Orzammar, attending the Assembly as a representative of the Wardens and the Fereldan nobility. His own training as a Teyrn would make him the best logical choice for keeping track of how the assembly moved toward resolution of their king.

Wynne had protested being left behind, but finally acquiesced in the face of Adela’s strong insistence. After all, Niall was now a warden, and nearly as proficient at healing as she was. The elder mage appeased her own dissatisfaction by making certain that they had plenty of healing poultices, potions and such stashed away in their packs, offering the young Commander a tight hug and pat upon her back before pulling away.

Leliana and Zevran were both extremely unhappy at the prospect of being left behind, especially where Morrigan was accompanying the group. The Wardens had, at first, argued against her inclusion with the group, but the witch insisted that one of the many tokens she wore around her neck had been specially crafted by her mother to prevent her becoming tainted. She felt that the magic was strong enough to protect her in the Deep Roads.

The Sten, too, was accompanying them, believing that his stronger constitution would help preserve him against becoming ill. Adela knew better than to argue with the taciturn giant, and so ordered him to the back of the line. With a nod, the stoic giant took his position, greatsword naked in hand.

And so, with a truncated group once again, Adela and crew met up with Oghren just at the Warden compound gates, and set out to the Deep Roads, in search of Orzammar’s sole living Paragon.

DA:O

The Deep Roads were, well, deep. Far beneath the lower levels of the great dwarven city, and Adela could feel each and every foot, every layer of heavy stone, granite and dirt that lay overhead, ready to crush those unfortunate to traverse the intricate and ruined dwarven highway. She shook herself, turning her gaze ahead.

They had been in the Deep Roads for near a week now, had battled many groups of darkspawn - including one tough ogre - and Oghren had seen signs that denoted the passage of his wife, Branka. During their travel, Adela had engaged the conversational if not lascivious dwarf, finding out about his wife, his house, and why she was obsessed with finding this Anvil of the Void. For the most part, Oghren answered her questions, advising her that Branka had become a paragon for the invention of a smokeless fuel which cut down cases and deaths from the infamous Black Lung. So being declared a paragon, the former smith caste woman was granted her own house, a standing of noble, and a voice in the Assembly.

According to Oghren, Branka had hated it, however, and became more and more obsessed with the destruction of the darkspawn. In her obsession, she had gathered her house and took them all into the Deep Roads two years prior, leaving only Oghren and the youngest ones behind.

While curious, the young elf did not ask the dwarf, who took several swigs of a foul smelling liquor with each part of the tale he told, why his wife would leave him behind without a word.

Nor would Oghren offer. He would indulge in the drink, cast poorly veiled innuendo at Morrigan, and offer critique for Alistair’s bedroom antics with the ‘little woman‘. Truly, he was far worse than Zevran could be on his best days.

Following the map that Harrowmont had given them, after only a few wrong turns down more recently dug tunnels, they found Caridin’s Cross. Oghren’s green eyes widened as he moved to examine the stone walls, grinning widely as he rejoined the group, words that Branka and her crew had passed this way. He left the group briefly to follow the markings the Paragon had left, motioning them to follow along as he led them through and to Ortan Thaig.

“Ew! Spider guts!” Adela exclaimed as, her face wrinkled in deep grimace of disgust, she wiped the ichor from her blades upon the bloated corpse of one of the deep dwelling spiders - creatures the size of a large mabari - that the elf managed to kill. She looked around, noting that her companions had all managed to slay the onslaught of spiders and, although scraped, scratched and, as in the case of Oghren, slightly poisoned, they all stood, returning to where the elven warden stood.

They found themselves in what had once been Ortan Thaig’s main square. Dwellings carved from the stone stood as silent reminders of the life that once reigned here.

Or still did, if the blighted form of the little dwarven man - little more than a boy - was any indication.

So they had followed the young dwarf, to his dwelling - a cave at the back of the Thaig, a fire pit, shelter and debris laying scattered across the floor. Glowing lichen dotted the walls, revealing several areas where fire pits had been dug. Oghren gave a curse, scowling at the carvings that littered the area. Branka and her house had definitely made use of the cave at one point.

The young dwarf, Ruck, was put out, at first, by the intrusion to his dwelling. However, the tainted youth could sense the taint within the wardens that stood before him, and he found himself pleasantly diverted by Adela, answering her questions with almost childlike glee. He was dying, of that they were certain, having ingested the flesh of the darkspawn to keep alive. The young elf found it disturbingly ironic that the thing that kept the young dwarf alive these past years would, ultimately, be the death of him. That he had not become a ghoul astounded the young warden, but he was dying, far quicker and in far more pain than he would truly let on.

She found she could not simply walk away and leave the poor young man here. This was no true existence - that in between place of life and death, of times when mostly his mind wandered, unaware fully of what was happening around him. Taking a breath, she carefully unsheathed a dagger, driving it home into his heart. Behind her, she could hear the startled gasps of her companions, however, as he slid from her blade, Ruck grabbed her hand, and she gently lowered him to the stone. As his eyes settled closed, a great breath left his body.

“Thank you…”

With a bow of her head, the elf turned, unable to meet the eyes of her friends as she led them from the cave.

DA:O

Three days later found them at the Dead Trenches, having found a cache left behind by Branka at the outer edges of the Ortan Thaig, advising any that found it they continued on to the City of the Dead. Oghren advised that would be Bownammar, the Dead Trenches, where the Legion of the Dead would more than likely be stationed.

Now they stood, upon the decayed ruins of a great spanning bridge, once a major part of the highway that had been the Deep Roads. Below, a great river of lava flowed, the heat rising, bringing sweat and moisture to the skin of the companions, the heat causing the companions‘ hair to dance and float along the currents. Along the banks of the fiery river stood a hoard of darkspawn - hurlocks, genlocks, ogres, shrieks - but none paid any attention to the intruders just overhead. Their focus was upon a great figure, slithering along the bank parallel, it’s great, serpentine form soaking in the heat from the river of lava.

Alistair and Adela took a great breath as they realized what the figure below was.

The others stumbled back, fearfully clinging to the stone as the junior wardens fought against the flight urge that threatened to take over. Forcing themselves to their feet, the four wardens stood, watching as the Archdemon gave court to its followers, its worshipers. Thousands upon thousands, stretching beyond where the eye could see. The count was staggering.

The two senior wardens looked at each other, words unnecessary.

For they had found where the Archdemon was keeping itself.

The great train of darkspawn spread out far beyond their sight, and Adela suddenly understood why they had encountered so few of them upon the surface.

The Archdemon was leading them beneath the surface, gathering its forces as it went.

Tugging on Alistair’s arm, the elf led the others away. As tempting as it would be to engage the Archdemon now, it would be a battle they could not win. Too many of the darkspawn were by its side. And they were still too few.

As much as it pained the wardens to do so, they turned and left behind the Archdemon as it continued to gather its own army, as they continued to gather theirs.

DA:O

It was at the Dead Trenches when they first encountered the Legion of the Dead. The Legion, a group of unhoused dwarves, those who had lost their honor, those born amongst the casteless, served all of the dwarven nations, battling against the darkspawn as a means to regain their honor. They were already dead in the eyes of their kith and kin; their lives redeemed by their deaths.

The Legion was battling their own hoard of darkspawn, a mixture of genlock, hurlock and shriek. A true representation of the vast hoard the companions had seen at the lava river. With their warriors each shouting out their own war cries, Adela led the companions to the aid of the Legion.

The shear number of the darkspawn was overwhelming, but none of the companions nor of the Legion fell to the blade, axe or spell of the vile creatures. One dwarf, his face a mass of bold tattoos, led the charge over the bridge connecting the Trenches to Bownammar, the Grey Wardens and their group racing alongside, finally overtaking the dwarves as they barged their way through the line of genlock archers and hurlock warriors, the dwarves engaging the lone ogre as the surfacers brought down the other darkspawn.

Hours later, ragged and tired, the Legion led their surprising allies back to their camp. After a brief discussion, Adela learned from Commander Kardol, the Legion’s leader, that what they had suspected was true: despite a Blight coming to the surface, the numbers of darkspawn below the earth had not diminished. While there were areas along the Deep Roads that were empty of the twisted creatures, others had more than previously encountered. Kardol’s supposition: that the blighted monsters were making a pilgrimage, converging to where a known exit to the surface existed: somewhere in Gwaren.

That brought Adela up, recalling the tale that Maric had told her as a child of his own journey, with Rowan, Loghain and Adaia at his side, led by a bard, into the Deep Roads. The exit had been in Gwaren.

After they had talked, eaten and rested, Adela and her crew were ready to venture further into the Deep Roads. Kardol thought they were foolish, seeking out a Paragon who obviously perished years before. But, Adela was insistent, stating that they had to at least try. After a moment’s thought, the dwarven leader took careful study of the resolute young elf standing before him.

“Wait here,” he said in his surprisingly quiet tones. Shouldering his way through the Legionnaires who sat and stood nearby, he disappeared into one of the shelters surrounding their campsite. A few minutes later, he emerged, followed closely behind by a beautiful dwarven woman, dressed in a suit of impressive dwarven dragon bone plate. An unmarked shield hung upon her back, a sword and dagger sheathed at her hips. Sharp, intelligent hazel eyes scanned over the surfacers, and she raised a hand to quickly brush away a stray lock of red-blond hair. As her eyes settled upon Adela, she gave a slight smile and nod, quickly following after the Legion’s commander.

As the pretty dwarven lady steps into their circle, Kardol moved to introduce her to the others. It was Oghren, however, that beat the commander to the punch.

“Lady Aeducan?” The fiery red head quipped incredulously, rising quickly to his feet, sketching a hasty bow as he approached the younger dwarf.

Lady Aeducan watched as Oghren neared, allowing the tiniest of smiles to cross her full lips. “Well, well, well,” she said in a quiet, cultured, well educated voice, her eyes twinkling with amusement and recognition. “Oghren. What, may I ask, are you doing here in the Deep Roads?”

“Same’s could be asked of yerself, Lady,” he said, smirking at her before his tone of voice and posture turned more serious. “I thought ye were dead.”

The smile vanished from Lady Aeducan’s face, and she nodded, sadly. “And I would have perished, were it not for Kardol and these fine men who serve the Legion.”

“Always dutiful and loyal to the throne, my lady,” Kardol said as he bowed deeply.

Lady Aeducan merely rolled her large eyes. “Harrowmont sent me into the Roads, but had a cache of weapons, armor and supplies hidden for me just beyond the great doors.” She smiled. “Had it not been for him, initially, I would have died long before meeting up with the Legion.”

“Always knew the old man was a soft touch,” Oghren muttered.

Adela and the others listened, following along with the conversation. At a pause, Adela spoke. “Pardon me,” all eyes turned to her and she flushed slightly. “Aeducan. Are you, perhaps, related to Bhelan?”

Those hazel eyes, before twinkling, merry and friendly, hardened as agates at the sound of Bhelan’s name. “Aye.” Lady Aeducan replied, her smile gone, her face hard as stone. “He is my younger brother. It was by his hand that my elder brother, Trian, died, I framed for his murder. That is how I ended up here and not on the throne.”

“You were in contention for the throne?” the elf asked, confused.

“After Trian, yes,” the dwarven woman nodded. “Not that I truly wanted it. I was happy leading my father’s armies, and would have continued to do so for my brother. Bhelan, however, craved the throne. And he knew that Trian and I both stood in his way.”

“So he went and killed Trian and framed Lady Aeducan here,” Oghren put in, a gnarled hand to his chin. “Then he manages to kill yer da, and now fights Harrowmont over the throne.”

The Aeducan noblewoman frowned, but nodded. “I wish I could have had a final farewell to my father.” There was such a note of sadness and regret in her voice that Oghren took a step closer, awkwardly patting the noble upon her shoulder.

Kardol nodded, turning back to Adela. “The Dead Trenches are no place for the Lady Aeducan.” He said with a sidelong glance to said lady, who was frowning slightly at the man. Obviously, the pair had had arguments regarding this previously. “I would ask, Grey Warden, that you take the Lady with you, and when you leave the Deep Roads, take her to the surface. We have contacts thereupon, and she should manage to find allies there.”

“You just want me alive to later try and retake the throne,” Lady Aeducan accused the Legionnaire, but there was no heat or anger in her voice. The dwarven Commander merely chuckled, shaking his head in denial.

Adela watched the dwarven woman closely. She was obviously comfortable in the heavy armor she wore, and the blades at her hips hung with ease. There was a commanding presence about her, and the elf wondered - briefly - how well the dwarven noble would take orders coming from an elf. After a few moments consideration, the elf nodded her head, adding another to their party.

“We are heading deeper in the Roads at this time,” she advised, giving the dwarf an opportunity to back out. But instead, the noble’s eyes narrowed slightly, and her jaw clenched with determination.

“I understand you seek out Branka,” the noble replied. “A worthy goal. I think she is dead, but that is only common sense that allows such thoughts. Knowing Branka, common sense has little to do with anything,” she gave Oghren a sidelong glance, and the male dwarf snorted out a laugh. “If anyone can live for two years without an army at her back in the Deep Rpads, it could well be that taciturn ogre of a wife of yours.”

“Yer’ve the right of it, Serena!” Oghren chortled, almost - almost - slapping the dwarven royal upon her shoulder, pulling up short just before he could completely offend the woman. But Serena merely chuckled, shaking her head.

“I will gather my things,” she advised as she slipped from the group, smirking at the red haired dwarf.

DA:O

Exhausted, bloody, frustrated and frightened, Adela leaned heavily against the uneven stone wall, glaring balefully at the seemingly endless twisting tunnel system that had been the dwarven highway.

They have fought countless darkspawn, picked each other from the ground more times than she could count, and still they trudged along, Oghren’s rusty voice every now and again proclaiming evidence of Branka’s passing.

Had it not been for these signs, Adela would have turned her not-so-merry gang back to Orzammar a week before.

Two weeks. Two solid, unending weeks in the ever darkening, more oppressive Deep Roads. The elf hoped that their return journey would not take so long.

The thought of a hot bath ran through her head, and she had to suppress a near hysterical giggle as she recalled another time, bloody, exhausted, covered head to foot with filth, when a bath had been the most important thing in the world to her.

It just seemed too, too long ago.

Alistair slipped to the ground beside her, leaning his head slightly against her side. Letting out a slow, deliberate breath, she slid down the wall, seated now, as she leaned her weight against that of her husband.

“This is taking far too long,” she quipped, the exhaustion in her voice too difficult to disguise. Alistair nodded, lifting his head to gaze around at their companions. Even the dwarves seemed exhausted beyond words and ready to just leave.

The had fought through darkspawn warriors, rogues and emissaries. The undead, unsurprisingly, walked the bowels of the under earthen tunnels. Angry spirits and thundering ogres blocked their paths at each turn.

Surely, the Deep Roads were as haunted by its past as it was by the corruption of the darkspawn.

Alistair reached into his pack, pulling forth his water canteen, offering it to Adela. Gratefully, she accepted it, tilting it to spill its contents down her throat. At least they had found plenty of fresh water springs, bubbling up from deeper into the earth, and the little monsters Oghren identified as deepstalkers were surprisingly tasty. That thought did nothing to ease the elf’s nerves as she handed the canteen back.

It was then that she heard it. Unmistakable if faint and uneven. Frowning, Adela stood, garnering a look of confusion from each of her fellows. There, she was certain. Without a word, she stepped through the center of their makeshift campsite, stepping several yards away, her blond head tilted as she continued to listen.

There, again.

A woman’s voice.

She frowned at the sound of it. But was unable to make out what she was chanting.

“There’s someone else down here,” she whispered to her companions, who had, by now, rose to their feet, picking up their packs and supplies, readying to traverse further into the dark reaches of the tunnel system.

“Are you certain of that?” Roland asked, shouldering his pack, as he watched her with concern on his face.

She shrugged. “As certain as I can be now that we’ve wasted two weeks in these blasted tunnels.” A small, dirty hand waved down the corridor. “We’re heading in that direction anyhow.”

With those words, she turned, and began to pace down the corridor.

With barely a look to each other, her companions gave a collective shrug, and followed.

DA:O

"First day, they come and catch everyone.”

Adela paused, staring around the tunnel, glancing up at the ceiling that is very close. Turning, she saw that her companions were as surprised by the clarity of the words as was she and then they continued on.

“Second day, they beat us and eat some for meat.”

Around another corner, and large fleshy sacks appear along the walls and at the corners. With a grimace, the elf continued to lead her companions on, determined to find the source of the mysterious voice.

“Third day, the men are all gnawed on again.”

The voice, tired, anguished sounding, got louder, fading with the final word.

“Fourth day, we wait and fear for our fate.”

This time the voice had a monotone quality, almost resigned, bored. A shiver shot up Adela’s spine, yet they continued.

“Fifth day, they return and it's another girl's turn.”

This time an almost breathless quality came over the voice.

“Sixth day, her screams we hear in our dreams.
“Seventh day, she grew as in her mouth they spew.
“Eighth day, we hated as she is violated.”

Now the voice, quickening each stanza, sounded almost as though the owner was sobbing. Adela glanced back at Oghren and Serena, curious if either recognized the voice. A shake of each head tells her they do not.

“Ninth day, she grins and devours her kin.
Now she does feast, as she's become the beast."

There was a pause, and a door stood open before them. Taking a deep breath, Adela led her group into the vast chamber. Spying a dwarven woman, hunched over one of the fleshy sacks, appearing as though eating.

“Now you lay and wait, for their screams will haunt you in your dreams.”

The dwarven woman completed her poem, then turned to face the newcomers.

It was obvious the woman was tainted. Adela crept nearer, Alistair by her side. The dwarf stood, impassive, watching the approach of the elf and human. She seemed almost…amused by the concept of an elf in the Deep Roads, but allowed Adela to examine her.

Her answers to their questions were incoherent. But, they managed to obtain enough information. Branka was, indeed, nearby. The darkspawn had taken the women, killed the men. Of the entire house, only she - Hespith - another woman, Laryn, and Branka remained. Where they were, no one could get a coherent answer from Hespith.

As Adela tried to push for answers, Hespith gave a cry, turning and running from the chamber.

“Nuttier than a fruit cake,” Oghren muttered, scowling at the retreating back of the woman who admitted to being Branka’s lover. “That thrice be-damned, moss licking…”

“Oghren,” Serena gave the dwarven male a scalding look, and he, surprisingly, quieted down.

Glancing around the chamber, finding nothing but body parts and fleshy sacks, Adela led the group, hoping to follow Hespith’s trail.

DA:O

"She became obsessed, that is the word but it is not strong enough. Blessed Stone, there was nothing left in her but the Anvil. We tried to escape, but they found us. They took us all, turned us. The men, they kill... they're merciful. But the women, they want. They want to touch, to mold, to change until you are filled with them. They took Laryn. They made her eat the others, our friends. She tore off her husband's face and drank his blood. And while she ate, she grew. She swelled and turned gray and she smelled like them. They remade her in their image. Then she made more of them.”

There was a pause as the group rounded the corner, stunned by the sight that lay within.

“Broodmother."

DA:O

The thing that stood against the far wall was…more than disgusting, far more than disturbing. In so many ways, what was worse about it to the elven warden was how familiar it was.

The monster towered over the Sten, dwarfing his huge frame. Rolls of fat bulged along its formless shape, layers of breasts undulating in a most obscene manner with each movement the creature made. Tentacles wavered and undulated in the air, and Adela could see where they originated from the thing’s body, could see where they had burrowed into the hard stone, anchoring the heavy body in place. The rear of the creature disappeared into the stone behind it. The shape of the creature, the way it anchored itself into the wall and floor, the pulsating of its hind quarters reminded Adela very much of a queen bee her mother had taken her to study as a child.

It’s face - feminine, grotesque, dwarven - scowled at the newcomers, a ragged hissing roar issuing from its fleshy lips.

And suddenly, Hespith’s insane litany made sense; it came together quickly, viscously in the elf’s sharp mind, and she staggered, gagging as the realization of what they faced became more grotesque to her than the form it took.

Broodmother.

The thing was once a woman - a dwarven woman - this Laryn Hespith had spoken of.

The litany made perfect sense; Hespith had described how the darkspawn changed a woman to create more of them.

She glanced to where Morrigan stood, momentarily transfixed by the obscene bulk just ahead of them. As the witch collected her wits, she began to cast about her buffing spells and hexes.

Adela was more than pleased that she had left Wynne and Leliana behind. A feeling of intense guilt settled upon her as she realized that she should have left Morrigan behind. A glance to Serena showed the elf that the dwarven noble was equally dismayed by the sight before her, and another wave of guilt settled over her. They brought her here. They could have left her with the Legion.

For while death was never welcome nor pleasant, the thought that, as women, something far worse awaited them at the hands of the darkspawn was truly terrifying to the young woman.

She shook herself from her terror as Alistair, Roland, Oghren and the Sten issued forth their battle cries, rushing forward to destroy the thing before them. They, too, had seen the obscenity for what it was, and, from their haste, sought to end it’s - her - life as quickly as possible.

It would be such an act of mercy to do so.

Serena, having collected her wits, gave out a great battle cry, pulling her helmet over her head, arming her shield. With another shout, the dwarven noble shot into the fray, her longsword slashing and jabbing, seeking to penetrate the tough, flabby hide of the creature who had once been a woman.

A tingling shot through her body, and she offered Niall a grateful smile for the rejuvenating spell he cast upon her. Shaking herself, she pulled her bow from her shoulder, quickly notching an arrow, letting it fly into the beast’s face.

The thing - the Broodmother - Laryn, screamed out in insane fury, spitting acidic poison at the men that harried her - it.

A tentacle swept out, knocking Roland from his feet, sending him flying through the air. He clattered to the stone ground noisily, but was up on his feet in an instance, apparently unharmed from his sail through the air. Now Adela wished she had taken Zev with them, for the assassin had an uncanny ability of getting behind their targets and score damage. From her distance, the elf continued to let fly arrows, berating her cowardice to drop her bow, pick up her daggers, and get behind the thing.

Fear kept her feet rooted; fear kept her arm constantly pulling back the bowstring to let loose yet another missile.

Morrigan and Niall continued to assail the beast with spells, hexes, primal, Niall taking time to send healing and rejuvenating spells over his companions.

A cry of pain echoed in Adela’s numbing mind, and she glanced over to see Alistair down, trying vainly to keep from being skewered by one of the tentacles that lashed and poked at him. Pulling a flame runed arrow from her quiver, the elf notched it, sending it flying at the appendage that sought to harm her husband. It hit, digging deeply into the fleshy appendage, igniting immediately, sending flames dancing down its length, and into the hole it erupted from.

The Broodmother screamed its agony, twisting, seeking to escape the swords that jabbed at her, the spells that burned, froze, and otherwise harmed her, the arrows that bit into her flesh.

Adela then shouldered her bow, unsheathed her daggers, and melted into the shadows, slipping around the walls, watching as Alistair regained his footing, steadied his stance, and shot forward yet again to end this.

Each step was fear filled as she watched as the tentacles slowly faltered, wavering, either laying severed upon the bloodied floor or falling back into the holes they erupted from. Taking a deep breath, the elf raced along the curving walls, getting behind the bulky form. Studying the form, she realized she needed to go up, get to the creature’s face, blind her - it - perhaps. She realized quickly that the great rolls of fat would make excellent hand holds, and she hoped that the pair of tiny arms protruding from the massive body would be unable to reach behind. Sheathing her daggers, she grimaced as she gripped onto the squishy flesh. Another breath, and she began to pull herself upwards, toeing onto the rolls, to keep her balance.

The Broodmother was weakening, and a shrill scream issued from its lips. Genlocks began to appear from the shadows and side tunnels, those that emerged from the cavern behind the Broodmother naked as the day they were born (Adela shuddered at that thought as she continued to pull herself up the bulk), attacking the companions who sought to destroy their reproductive creature.

The body shuddered, and Adela gripped tighter, halting her upward climb as the Sten’s greatsword cut deeply into the creature’s stomach, Alistair and Roland each slamming their shields in what had once been Laryn. Resting her forehead upon her hands, she took another steadying breath, and resumed her climb.

DA:O

Serena skipped away from one tentacle, growling as she slashed at it with her sword, holding her shield up to deflect its weakening blows. The dwarven noble glanced over to see that Oghren was fully engaged with a trio of genlocks, his great axe sweeping many aside, the mages standing back, casting spells at the other darkspawn that had emerged. Her growl deepened into a great war cry, and the former High Commander pulled her blade back, whipping it out with all of her strength, severing the battered tentacle, sending the upper portion flopping to the ground as the rest slid back down the hole. With one graceful move, she pivoted on her heels and spun around to race to her fellow dwarf’s side.

DA:O

Her hand slipped as the flesh became slippery with blood and other fluids. Grimacing, she pulled a dagger from its sheath and then plunged it deeply into the shoulder of the once-woman. The Broodmother screeched out in pain, twisting and jostling, trying to dislodge the stubborn elf. Adela held on with one hand, dragging her second dagger free and plunging that into the opposite shoulder. As the Broodmother thrashed, she held on, kicking her feet deeper into the folds of flesh, anxious to keep from falling.

DA:O

Morrigan growled with frustration as she froze solid several genlocks that threatened her and Niall. As the darkspawn froze, Niall let loose a great fist of stone, shattering the five or so genlocks before them. He fumbled into his pocket, pulling forth a vial of glowing blue liquid and quickly quaffed it down, turning to cast healing and rejuvenation spells upon the Sten, who stumbled back, bloodied and battered, from the massive bulk of the Broodmother. With a glance to his side, noticing how pale Morrigan appeared, he pulled free another vial and handed it to his apostate counterpart, who accepted it with a grateful smile.

DA:O

Her arms were now trembling with the effort of her climb and of holding on. Unable to move upwards for fear of falling, she did the only thing she could think of.

She gave each of her daggers a vicious twist, digging them deeper into the jiggling flesh of the Broodmother.

Shrieking renewed, louder and more piercing with each twist, each dig of those daggers, Duncan’s dagger doing even more damage that her mother’s. Chanting, “Shut up, shut up, shut up!” she continued to twist and press the daggers deeper, all while maintaining her foot hold and her grip upon her weapons as blood spewed forth from the deepening wounds.

DA:O

Alistair stepped back, glaring at the offending mound of flesh before him. The creature was weakened greatly, near to death, of that he was certain. He avoided looking into its face, as it so resembled a young dwarven woman, reminding him of what she had once been.

He took a deep, steadying breath and recalled his templar training. As much as he may have hated the idea of being cooped up in a tower for the rest of his life, the training he had received was second to none. Calm now, his shaking subsided, he took his sword up, raising his shield. With his war cry “For the Grey Wardens!” he plunged ahead, pushing off the solid, stone ground, flying at the beast with his sword held out. As he connected with the bulk, he plunged his blade downwards, driving it into the creature’s chest, splitting through bone, seeking the heart that had to reside somewhere in there. He raised his shield, mindful of the acidic spittle the thing could launch, and dug his blade deeper, clinging to it as it strove to shake him off.

DA:O

She saw her husband launch himself at the abomination, and nearly cried out. Choking back her concern, she twisted a blade again, but this time her hand slipped in the blood that continued to spit from the wound. With a cry, her body twisted away, losing the footing on her right side. Her other hand, desperately gripping Duncan’s dagger, twisted around the hilt, and that, too, slipped. With a cry, she slipped down the back of the creature, but the thing twisted in its final throes, launching the young elf away from its great bulk, and toward where a group of genlocks stood. With a sharp smack, her head connected with the stone ground, causing her to loose consciousness for a moment.

DA:O

Alistair clung on, driving his sword deeper. He heard Adela’s cry, but could not set his eyes upon her. Below him, he heard Roland shout and he twisted to see the young warden race to the prone figure of his elven wife.

But he could not release his hold on his sword, not yet. He closed his eyes, certain his friend would get to Adela’s side before she was further harmed. With greater determination he yanked on his sword, pulling it down, further between the naked breasts of the creature, slicing through bone, flesh, muscle and finally, into its heart. With a shuddering sigh, the great mass immediately relaxed, slumping down, unable to fall over.

DA:O

He saw her fall. Fear ripped through him as he saw her fall in the midst of the genlock group - naked as they emerged from the rear chamber - that took note of the elven woman before them. Giving out a great shout, the former knight finished off the genlock he had been battling, and spun about to race to her side.

DA:O

The Sten had seen her fall. The tiny figure of the elf that had him questioning a person’s place in the cosmos, someone who was teaching him that people were far more than their duties. Lopping the heads from the genlocks before him, he turned, sweeping his blade in great arcs, cleaving those genlocks that remained around him in twain as he marched to his commander’s side.

DA:O

Alistair was on his feet and running as soon as he dismounted from the Broodmother. He cut down all darkspawn that rose before him. He noted distantly that there were no more genlocks, only the few that swarmed around Adela. She was moving, struggling to her feet, pushing away from the darkspawn as Roland closed the gap, his sword slashing the naked genlocks down. The Sten arrived as Roland felled the last darkspawn.

Alistair fell to his knees beside her, pulling her into a tight embrace. “I thought I told you…” he gently chided as he pushed her back, quickly checking her over for injuries. Other than a large knot on the back of her head, she seemed fine. Morrigan and Niall stepped nearer, the male mage casting healing spells at the elf.

DA:O

Laying upon the floor, she pushed Alistair’s hands from her. Adela sat up, clutched at her head, grimacing at the blood and gore and other fluids that she lay upon. She looked up, up at the sound of Hespith’s whispering voice.

"That's where they come from. That's why they hate us... that's why they need us. That's why they take us.... that's why they feed us. But the true abomination... is not that it occurred, but that it was allowed. Branka…” her voice fell into a whisper. “my love…” Strength anew came to her and she stood straighter, staring down where Adela lay. “The Stone has punished me, dream friend. I am dying of something worse than death.”

Tears fell from her silvered eyes, unseeing as she turned her gaze inward to the past, of the hurt she felt, of the future she would face.

“Betrayal."

With these final words, Hespith offered Adela and her companions a final salute, then turned, throwing herself into the abyss at the back of the cavern.

[SheilaD67]

I apologize for such a long absence from updating this.  If you are interested in the more updated version (currently at 67 chapters), it's over on the fanfic site: http://www.fanfictio...he_Halla_Reborn   Otherwise, I'll try and get this updated as soon as possible.


Ah, my thanks, as always, for the continuing stream of alerts and favorites that keep popping up for the story. Thank you! And, my special thanks to those who read and take the time to review: Arsinoe de Blassenville, Superstar Kid, Shakespira, CCBug, Nithu, tgail73, zevgirl, Bdub (hello! Hello!), TropicalFool (who sent me a wonderful PM - I just discovered TF's FF, you should check it out

Oh! I don't own anything, except for Adela. And that stylized Halla Loghain is still carrying around on him. All else is BioWare's baby. And David Gaider's. I just hope they don't mind that I rearranged the furniture…

The Halla Reborn
Chapter 51

Dark eyes swept over the bickering forms of the dwarven nobles - the deshyrs - as they stood along the walls, each in their own alcove, glaring down at the Steward. Fergus felt sorry for the older man. His had truly been the only true voice of reason during this whole ordeal.

The human nobleman allowed his thoughts to wander slightly. He was concerned about Adela and the others. They had been gone for over two weeks, the only word of their progress having reached them only a few days ago. A messenger from the Legion of the Dead had advised the Assembly that the Grey Wardens had passed into Bownammar a week ago as they continued to seek out Orzammar's missing paragon.

Now, the nobles bickered and fought, swore and cajoled at one another. Not only was the matter of the throne up for discussion, but inconsequential things such as trade agreements, caste standings, and such, and frankly, Fergus' head was starting to hurt. He had attended several Landsmeets with his father (he swallowed past the pain that memory brought up in his heart, forcing any thoughts of his family away. Now was not the time for such reflection) and he had never seen such wrangling as what he was witnessing now. At any other time, he would have been amused. During the time of a Blight, it seemed ridiculous.

"Lord Fergus?" a well cultured voice called to him from the floor. Blinking, realizing he had gotten lost in his own thoughts, the human noble looked down at the questioning form of Steward Bandelor.

"Pardon? I apologize, Steward. How may I assist?" he asked politely, feeling a little foolish being caught daydreaming.

The dwarven Steward smiled politely at the human noble. "It would seem that the Assembly has reached a decision with regards to the Grey Wardens."

A dark brown rose, and Fergus nodded, indicating that they continue. The Steward bowed respectfully to the human noble, then turned back to the Assembly. "All parties have agreed that proceedings to confirm the throne will be placed on hold. An agreement of all parties has been reached that it shall be left to the discretion of the Paragon who shall sit upon the throne. In the absence of said Paragon, it shall be left to the Commander of the Grey Wardens, as an unbiased personage of noble respect." Fergus stifled the smirk that threatened to cross his lips at the very precise wording the Steward was using now.

The Steward turned a full circuit and then continued. "It has been agreed by all present that the Assembly shall reconvene in one week's time. At which time, if the Grey Wardens or the Paragon have not made an appearance, a vote for the throne shall be placed, and decided upon by those deshyrs appearing."

A frown crossed Fergus' face. Only a week? "Steward," he called down. The older man looked up, and Fergus could see clearly that the Steward did not like the decision either. "A week's time? Surely, we could spare the Grey Wardens more time than that to return to the City?"

"They have already been gone for over two weeks," Bhelan responded, his smooth voice with an undertone of derisiveness directed at the human in their midst.

Fergus turned his frown upon the Prince. "With all due respect, Your Highness," he bowed deeply to the other man, watching for that twinkle that he knew would appear in the younger man's eyes. Yes, there it was. Now, play nice, Fergus. "We had just received word from the Legion of the Dead that they went into Bownammar a mere week ago. Surely we could give them at least an additional week to return?"

There was a general chatter and murmuring from the other nobles, some angry words rising above the softer spoken ones. Bhelan offered a glare to the human noble, who merely bowed his head slightly at him. Steward Bandelor watched the deshyrs closely, his grey eyes sharp, his ears turned into the turmoil of words. Finally, a small smile graced his craggy face, and he risked a glance up at the human, an almost unperceivable nod of his gray-white head.

Bhelan gave a nod, and Harrowmont mimicked it, and the Steward spoke. "As agreed by all present, the Grey Wardens are given by the end of two weeks to make their appearance. Otherwise, we shall proceed with a final vote for the throne."

With those words, the Steward gave the closing remarks, and the deshyrs filed from the Assembly Hall. The young human noble relaxed his stance, giving the Steward a thankful nod of his head before leaving the Hall to return to the Warden compound.

He hoped he had bought Adela and her group enough time.

DA:O

Adela pushed herself to her feet, stepping to stand directly before the bloated corpse of the Broodmother. Behind her, she could hear Morrigan and Niall as they cast about with healing spells, the rustle of a flap to a pack indicating poultices and potions were being sought. She more felt than heard Alistair's approach to her side, and, with tears in her eyes, she looked up into his ragged face.

"Tell me they don't know…" she whispered, her voice raw, the look upon her face anguished. Her eyes turned back to Laryn and she closed them, allowing the tears to spill down her face.

Alistair didn't respond, and she said. "Tell me that Duncan didn't know…that they don't realize what they do…" her voice dropped off as she fought against a sob.

"I don't know." came Alistair's whispered reply.

"How could they not know?" the elf turned, demanding, her voice raised. Their companions looked up, the two dwarves glancing at one another. Adela's arm swept out, encompassing the form of what had once been a young woman - a wife, perhaps a mother - now deformed, abused, changed into something that reproduced the very thing her people fought day in and day out against.

Alistair merely shook his head, his mouth opened slightly in denial, yet unable to answer.

"We dwarva were not aware of these…things," Serena offered quietly, her eyes avoiding looking at the woman, someone she had once known. Her eyes swept over the entirety of the cavern before she continued. "We are deeper than even the Legion goes."

Adela frowned, shaking her head. "I can understand how the dwarves would not be aware of this," she wiped a grimy hand across her eyes. "After all, you fight them daily, just trying to keep them from invading your home. To bring the fight to them would take more resources than you have. However, the Grey Wardens," she was angry, and her hands fisted themselves. "have a duty to destroy all darkspawn. They should have known…they should have traveled deep into the Roads, searching out pockets of darkspawn. I refuse to believe that they don't know!"
"Adela," Alistair put his hands upon her shoulders, shaking her slightly.

"They have to know," she lifted her tear streaked face to Alistair, lowering her voice so that only Alistair could hear.

"And yet, they recruit women into their ranks. They force them to undergo the joining, knowing what may happen to them. They send them into the Deep Roads at their Calling, knowing what fate awaits them if they are not killed outright." She shook her head, suddenly stepping away from her husband, casting at him an accusing stare. "Just tell me they didn't know, that Duncan didn't know." her voice was a plaintive whisper again, pleading with him to deny what she suspected. But he could not. He could only shake his head, uncertain of the answer.

Nodding stiffly, the elf stepped further away from the man who loved her, whom she loved, and picked up her pack. The others rose, picking up their packs as the elf walked to each side tunnel, glaring down into the gloom of each. One tunnel glowed with lichen.

"This way," she decided, turning and heading down the glowing tunnel. Silently, the others shouldered their packs, and, with a sympathetic glance to Alistair, who watched as his wife's back disappeared into the tunnel, they followed.

DA:O

They met no residence as they traversed the twisting corridor, dimly lit by the blue glowing lichen. Adela remained silent, her thoughts focused upon the Broodmother, upon what the Grey Wardens did or did not know, about so many questions that still remained unanswered despite having found Duncan's cache of papers. Resolute to study the papers more thoroughly upon their return to Orzammar, the elf continued to silently lead her companions along the tunnel.

Alistair walked, silently, beside his wife, unable to find words to assuage her concerns. He could lie and state that Duncan knew nothing about the broodmothers, but the elf would know it for a lie, would know he merely sought to soothe her rattled nerves. That was not what she wanted, and would only anger her further. So, he remained silent as well, unsure how to approach his suddenly sullen wife.

The tunnel ended, opening up into a huge cavern. Oghren ran his course fingers along the walls, stating that Branka had, indeed, been here. Her markings were all over the walls and floors.

As they crossed the threshold, walking further in, Niall's foot sank, the stone he stepped upon sinking into the ground. Cursing, he jumped back, but too late. Behind the group, a rock slide of heavy granite fell into place, blocking their retreat from the cavern.

Scowling at the rockslide, Adela turned to the sound of chuckling.

Above them, standing imperiously upon a narrow ledge, stood a dwarven female, dressed in impressive armor, even more ornate and fine than that worn by Serena. The dwarves of the Grey Warden's party stepped forward, Oghren's face alight with delight, Serena's with suspicion.

"Branka!" Oghren chortled, clapping his hands together once. "By the stone, woman! Yer a sight for sore eyes!"
The woman - Branka - narrowed her eyes, her face gray and hard, worn and tired. Those gray eyes, however, were sharp, piercing, calculating. Hard and unfriendly as they peered down upon her husband.

"Oghren? Is that you?" She asked haughtily, scowling down at the man. "I should have known you'd find your worthless hide down here." She turned away from the man's frown, turning her attention to the female dwarf. "And Serena? Never thought I'd see you so far down in the Roads. Please tell me that you weren't fool enough to follow Oghren in his mad quest to find me?"

Serena snorted in an almost unladylike fashion, her blue eyes fixed upon Branka's. "Hardly." The noble straightened slightly. "You caused a lot of upset in Orzammar, Branka. A Paragon is our first and foremost treasure."

Branka scoffed, snorting out her nose noisily. "I never asked to be a Paragon, to found my own house. But, since it was forced upon me," she pointed a gauntleted finger at the younger woman. "sanctioned by your father, I figured 'why not use what I have been given'. The Anvil is the most important artifact of the dwarva, and yet we have left it to rot, sullied by the hands of those it was created to destroy!" Her hand fisted, pumping into the air with her determination.

Serena took a step back, her sharp eyes fixed upon the woman above them. Oghren looked absolutely despondent, merely shaking his head. A smile crossed the Paragon's face, and her eyes fixed upon Adela. "And, who have we here? An errand boy? Come to seek out their Paragon on behalf of the fools in the Assembly?"
"Watch yer tongue. This is a Grey Warden ye speak to!" Oghren found his voice, rising to the defense of the Grey Wardens.

Chuckling, she shifted a hip, resting a hand thereupon. "Oh…an important errand boy then. Let me guess: Endrin has died, and the Assembly is in an uproar over whose ass to put on the throne." She ticked a finger against her chin. "Yes, that must be it. After all," her eyes shifted to Serena's reddening face. "Endrin was on the rather old and wheezy side."

"Watch how you speak of my father, Branka," Serena warned, taking a step forward, her hand upon the hilt of her sword. "You may be Paragon, but Endrin was your King!"

Branka scoffed, but chose to ignore the royal as she turned her attention once more to Adela. "So, tell me, Grey Warden, why do you bother to do the Assembly's bidding?"

Frowning, tilting her head as she studied the dwarven woman above them, Adela answered, "There is a Blight, and I have treaties that obligate the dwarven people to aid at such a time."

Her face relaxed, and Branka nodded her graying head, interested now in the Wardens. "A Blight, you say? Let me guess: With Endrin's passing, no one seems able to make a decision to actually honor their word, and sent you on a quest to obtain their long lost Paragon." Her eyes narrowed and she chortled out a rough laugh. "Tell me, Warden, what will you do for me if I perform this little service for you?"

"You may think us errand boys, Branka," Adela growled out, surprising her friends. "But that is not so. Your city needs you. We need the dwarven people to honor their obligation. If you refuse, so be it. I'll just turn my little party around and go back to Orzammar, and tell everyone you are dead, as is your house."

Branka laughed, laughed hard and loud, bending to slap her hands upon her knees. Straightening, she replied, "Oh! I like you, Warden. Tough as any warden, despite being so very tiny and frail looking. But, I am afraid, there is no 'back' for you and your party." The Paragon waved a hand toward the sole tunnel leading out of the cavern. "You see there? That tunnel leads to Caridin's greatest invention - the Anvil of the Void. That is the only way out of here. However," she turned back to stare at Adela with those piercing eyes of hers. "Caridin lined the passageway with traps. You see, that is why I needed my house, that is why I allowed the creation of the broodmothers. I needed fodder, you see," she said, pacing back and forth, as though was she was saying was the most sane and obvious thing to do. "But, the darkspawn are mindless, constantly throwing themselves at the foe, but never able to figure out the puzzles that the traps truly are." She ceased her pacing, an intense smile upon her face. "You, however, are clever. Clever and resilient enough to trek further and deeper into the Roads than anyone else - from the surface or dwarven cities - has since the darkspawn sent us scurrying to our last refuges." She turned, walking to the opening at the back of her ledge. "I have every confidence you will find your way through the traps."

Before she could leave from sight, Oghren shouted out, "What happened to you, Branka! I remember marrying a girl you could speak to for one minute and see the genius of her!"

Pausing at the exit, she turned, fixing her husband with a startling cold gaze. "I am your Paragon." Then she turned and stepped through the crumbling archway.

DA:O

They had passed through several traps and puzzles, and Adela found that her anger - her hatred - of Branka grew with each dwarven body they passed. She ignored that the darkspawn bodies were most likely created from those women Branka allowed to be taken and transformed into Broodmothers. To think too hard and long upon that would make the small elven woman want to curl up into a tight ball and cry.

The elf allowed the hatred she felt for the dwarven woman to flow through her, giving her the strength and courage to continue on, passed the bodies, through the traps, through the puzzles. That the woman had used her own house - her own family - as fodder against the darkspawn, against the clever traps…as so much more….was unthinkable and unforgivable to the alienage elf. To her, as with so many from the alienage, family was the first and most important thing in the world. All else came second.

They had just finished their battle with a strange trap - angry spirits appeared from thin air while a large, multi-faced, top like contraption continued to assail them. Only by destroying the nearby anvils could she do any harm to the contraption, and soon, the spirits stopped appearing, and the mechanism finally destroyed, revealing a door at the very back of the chamber. Exhausted, frustrated, and angry, the elf called for her party to rest. She had no idea what awaited them ahead, but she did not want to send her friends into the unknown as exhausted as they were.

She slipped off her pack, settling it to the ground, leaning against it. She found she missed Hafter, wishing she had decided to bring the huge warhound with them. She had left him behind, concerned that the narrow spaces would be too confining to the poor mutt. Now, selfishly, she wished for his steadying and warm presence as she settled further down upon her pack.

She glanced up as Alistair settled beside her, placing his pack near hers, leaning against it in a similar posture as she held. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath before turning to him.

He was exhausted. His face was worn, almost gray, his eyes, staring ahead of him, flat and red. She had been giving him the silent treatment, speaking to him - no, rather at him - during battle or when she gave out orders. She was being unfair to him, and she knew it. Tentatively, she reached over, clasping his hand with hers. His body relaxed tremendously as he curled his fingers around hers, pulling her against him in relief.

"I'm sorry," she murmured as she shut her eyes, settling into the warmth and comfort that was her husband. She felt him nod, but he remained quiet. Peeking open an eye, she saw that he, too, had shut his eyes, his breathing relaxed and deepening in sleep. Glancing around, she saw that the Sten was standing guard over the party as the others prepared their bedrolls or food.

Glancing up at the high, vaulted ceiling, she noticed that the same lichen grew there, casting a strange, blue glow over the rounded top of the chamber. Once, this had been a carefully hewed chamber, that was easy to see. Runes marked the walls and floor, the carefully carved archways now little more than crumbled ruins. Gazing about, the elf realized just how much the dwarves had lost to the darkspawn, and she felt a surge of pity for the race. In many ways, they, too, had lost much, due to human arrogance. After all, the Chantry itself admitted that the darkspawn were the result of human avarice. Yet, it was the dwarven people that fought on a daily basis for that human folly. Much as the elven people did.

I must be tired, she thought as she shook those thoughts from her mind. They were too much like something her mother would say, and she had spent her life trying not to adopt her mother's prejudiced view of humans. After all, most humans Adela had met were just people like her own. Some were good, some were bad, most fit in that in-between place, just doing what they had to do to survive.

She settled closer to Alistair. Murmuring, "I love you," she allowed her eyes to fall shut and settled into a light slumber.

DA:O

They allowed themselves only a couple of hours of needed rest and to partake of some nourishment. Serena, following what she and Oghren called their 'stone sense' had found a hot spring bubbling up in from the ground, and the companions managed to wash some of the blood, dirt and sweat from their bodies. A sponge bath, surrounded by others, was better than nothing at this point.

Only slightly refreshed, Adela once against shouldered her pack (a habit she was getting very tired of) and led her companions through the sole doorway out of the chamber.

The tunnel they walked along was lined with the glowing lichen, veins of silver and gold flowing along the walls, floor and, if she guessed correctly, ceiling above. Both dwarves watched as they passed by the gold and silver shot walls, glancing at one another occasionally, a blond or red brow quirked up every now and again. Obviously, there was wealth to be found within the caverns the tunnel interconnected with.

The light began to grow brighter, and the companions knew that it was not from the lichen that the lights came from. Ahead shown bright light, telltale of the end of the tunnel.

As they neared the tunnel's exit, they gasped in unison at the sight before them.

The cavern was huge, opening immediately into its full width. Brightly glowing lichen and gemstones marked the walls and floor, veins of lyrium shooting up from the floor, adding their own soft blue glow. To her left stood a great monolith of white veined obsidian. Toward the rear of the cavern stood a set of stairs, leading upwards, to a great anvil set upon a pedestal. Behind the anvil the cavern opened and dropped, the rising heat currents telling the companions that lava flowed beneath the ledge.

However grand the cavern itself, what truly caught the eyes of each of the companions were the figures that lined, military style, a trail that led to a sole, imposing figure.

Golems.

Taking a breath, Adela led her companions into the chamber, counting as she paused just by the first pair.
Golems made of stone, steel and other materials she could not identify. Crystals gleamed from their still forms, dead, black eyes staring straight ahead. They were uniform in size, each standing well over a head of the Sten. As they passed between the rows of golems, the elven warden counted two dozen of the stoic and unmoving icons.
But it was the unique golem at the column's end that truly held their attention.

Taller than any of the other golems, it stood, nearly twice any of its brethren's girth. It's massive form was constructed of a black metal the elf had seen only once - that of the armor worn by Branka. Runes marked it's body, a crest carved deeply into its chest. It's square shaped head marked with the same crest. Serena stepped to the elf's side, raising a hand, but not touching, the crest. Behind them, they heard Oghren give out a startled snort.

"Caridin…" the dwarven noble breathed, still not touching, but letting her hand hover so close to the crest. "This is the crest of Caridin."

"Indeed it is," came a hollow voice from the huge golem. As the companions jumped back, weapons in hand as they recalled their encounters with the lesser golems that had been part of several of the traps and puzzles, the golem's head twisted down, a blue light shining in its obsidian eyes.

"I am Caridin," the voice continued as its hands raised up in a placating manner, "And if you come for the Anvil of the Void, then you must hear my story."

Tilting her head slightly, Adela looked up - up - at the towering figure. With a nod, she gave the golem that claimed to be the Paragon Caridin permission to continued. "Longer ago than I can recall, I was a craftsman, a smith. I had created many inventions that aided my fellow dwarf," The golem moved, the first movement other than its head and arms it made. It took a step back, turning slightly as its glowing gaze settled upon a nearby golem, rigid as stone and unmoving. "The Anvil of the Void allowed me to forge a man of stone and steel, and because of it I was made a Paragon."

"Those creations helped our people battle against the darkspawn for generations," Serena pointed out quietly, a slight frown upon her face as she gazed up at the legend made…metal…that stood before her.

Slowly, with grace that belied its huge body and metallic construction, Caridin turned toward the noble. "The Anvil gave me the power to create invincible warriors, but it could not create life. At first, we used only willing volunteers, but it was not enough."

Now Serena fell quiet as she digested the Paragon's words. "But, that means…" She whispered when she had found her voice, understanding dawning quickly upon her.

Slowing, Caridin nodded. "Yes, we used the dwarva themselves in the creation of the golems. Men and women whose bravery and commitment to the defeat of the darkspawn outshone any other, willingly gave up their lives, their freedoms…their very souls…so that these warriors of stone and metal could be created." There was a sad quality to the metallic, hollow voice, and Adela found herself staring up into the expressionless face, sorrow for the once man creeping along her system.

"What happened?" Niall, from the back, listening as ever, curious as always, asked. The golem lifted its massive head.

"King Valtor, my patron, Orzammar's king, was not satisfied with my use of only volunteers, stating that the construction of the golems was too slow, the results too few. He demanded I start conscripting to swell the ranks of my creations, using political foes, men or women who had, in one fashion or another, displeased him. I protested at first, but finally acquiesced. I placed those who had no desire to volunteer to the gavel upon the anvil," a visible shudder coursed through the huge body. "and so used them to fuel the power behind the golems."
There was silence at that admission, and Serena's eyes narrowed up at the Paragon. With a snort of disgust, the young royal crossed her arms before her chest, and turned her back to the golem, unwilling to watch it any further.
Caridin's tinny voice yet again broke the silence.

"Finally, I could bear no more. The guilt that lay upon my soul…the blood upon my hands…became too much for me to bear. I revolted against my king, and told him no more. Only volunteers would I place upon the anvil." He went silent for a moment, and then said. "And so, my king ordered my apprentices to place me upon the anvil."

"Fitting punishment," Serena muttered, turning slightly to ensure that the golem heard her bitter words. Oghren hissed for her to silence, but the noble had said all she needed to, and once more turned her back to the golem.

"Of that, young one, I agree," there was a measure of respect in the golem's voice as it directed itself to the young royal. Then, turning back to Adela, Caridin asked, "What brings you here, young elf? Surely you do not seek the secrets of the Anvil of the Void?"

"Not so much its secrets, as a Paragon," Adela answered, looking up into the golem's dark eyes. "We were following Paragon Branka into the Deep Roads."

"For what purpose, might I ask?" Caridin was curious, obviously pleased with the company after so many millennia alone.

Adela could sense the loneliness within the golem that had once been a man. "We," she waved a hand to indicate herself, Alistair, Roland and Niall, "are Grey Wardens," she smiled. "Surfacers who fight against Blights and seek to eradicate darkspawn." She shrugged. "We have a treaty that obligates the dwarven people to assist us in cases of Blights. However, the king has recently passed away, and the Assembly seems unable to rectify that situation. So…"

"In order to garner the dwarva's assistance, you sought out a Paragon to choose the successor to the throne," a hand rose to the metal chin, stroking it in thought in a very human - or rather, dwarven - manner. "These dwarva that accompany you, might I know who they are?"

"This is Oghren," Adela placed a hand to the warrior's shoulder, "of the warrior caste, husband to Paragon Branka. And this is the Princess Serena Aeducan."

Serena stiffened slightly at Adela's introduction, turning to stare, with narrowed eyes, at the young elf.

"Aeducan?" Caridin questioned, turning his gaze to the dwarven woman. "Is she one up for contention to the throne?"

Snorting, Serena shook her head. "It is a long, sad, unfortunately not unheard of story among the dwarven nobility," the young royal said sadly. "Although once I may have been considered for such, no longer am I."
Several moments passed, and Caridin continued his study of the young dwarf. Finally, he turned back to Adela. "If I were to offer my assistance, in the form of a crown, bearing the crest of the one whom I choose as successor to the throne, would you in turn do a service for me?"

With an internal groan, Adela slowly nodded her head, hoping she would not regret her decision. How many quests and errands were they really expected to perform?

"As a creation of the Anvil, I am unable to do harm to it. I can use it to create, however, I cannot destroy it." The massive head tilted down. "Help me to destroy the Anvil. I do not wish to see more souls come to harm because of my own vanity."

Startled, Adela's gaze shifted over her group. Serena had turned back by now, watching Adela closely. When the elf's eyes settled upon her, the dwarven noble gave her a single nod of her head, showing her approval of Caridin's request. Smiling, the elf turned back to the golem. "You shall have our help," the elf offered, reaching out to gently touch one thick arm.

"Thank you," Caridin breathed out, making to turn to lead the group to the Anvil.

A harsh voice from behind caused all to turn around. Striding purposefully into the chamber was Branka, her face a deep scowl, anger and hatred in her voice.

"No! The Anvil is mine!" She all but shrieked. "I have sacrificed too much to just let you destroy it in some infantile attempt to allay your guilty conscience!"

"You would enslave more of our people?" Caridin demanded, turning to stand firm before the glare of the other Paragon.

"To stop the darkspawn?" Branka scoffed, stopping to stand, feet braced upon the floor. "I would sacrifice everything! I have sacrificed everything!"

"Branka!" Oghren called out, "Stand down, woman! Don't let this take from you - from us - more than it already has!"

"You are a fool, Oghren," his wife scoffed at him, her eyes narrowed in anger and hatred.

Oghren recoiled at his wife's declaration, at the intensity of her glare.

"You shall not have the Anvil, Branka of Orzammar," Caridin declared, taking a threatening step forward. Adela and her group parted, weapons drawn, spells ready. "I shall stop you by whatever means are necessary."

"You, too, are a fool, Caridin," Branka sneered, raising her arm to brandish what she held therein. "You are not the only Paragon!"

"No!" Caridin cried as the rod within Branka's hand flared to life, blue and red lights dancing along the rod's surface. "A control rod!" His massive form stilled. "My friends! I cannot move! Please! Help me destroy the Anvil! Do not let it enslave more souls than it already has!"

Without a word, Adela and her group moved into action as the golems that lined the cavern sprang to life. Some moving against the Grey Wardens, some moving against the dwarven woman standing alone in their midst.
The golems surged forward, lumbering and heavy, each step sending a tremor along the floor, echoing throughout the cavernous chamber. The Sten braced his feet, his face impassive and set, as he gripped his greatsword, awaiting the golem that approached him. As it swung back, the giant sprang forward, launching off the ground by several inches, bringing his great blade over his head, swinging down, connecting it solidly upon the stone head of his foe. The automaton stumbled back, ducking down under the weight of the blow, chips of stone flying from the great wound the Qunari carved into its head. Landing gracefully to his feet, the Sten moved forward, purposefully, bringing his sword up to bear once more, seeking to end this encounter as quickly as possible.

Adela watched - briefly - as Oghren practically threw himself into the fray, his great axe sweeping out in great arcs, taking great chunks of stone from the knees of the pair of golems that harried him. She watched as he fell into his battle rage, a fighting technique she had seen him use countless times since he joined their group. He had explained to her that he was a berserker, a warrior that drew upon his rage to give him greater strength, stamina and endurance in a battle. After meeting his wife, Adela was certain he had a full store of anger to draw upon.
She turned, darting away from the main fray, standing near Caridin's inert body as she drew her bow. She frowned at her quiver of arrows, pulling forth her flame runes, hoping that they would do damage to the stone and metal bodies of their golem foes.

DA:O

In short order, the companions, along with their golem allies, managed to down most of the dozen or so golems that rose against them at Branka's bidding. Now Oghren faced off against Branka, and the companions stepped back, uncertain whether they should interfere or not.

"Stop this, Branka," Oghren pleaded as he and his wife circled each other, Branka's shield and sword held tightly in her white hands. "If you stop now, we…we can just go back to Orzammar…"

"And, what, Oghren?" his wife sneered, her eyes flashing angrily. "Go back and rebuild our house? Make nice to one another? Create baby Oghrens?" That last shot hurt, as evidenced by Oghren's wince. "No," she shook her head, "there is no going back. I shall not give up what I have sought for so long. I gave up everything for this! Our people will regain their rightful place in the world!" With those words, she swept forward, her blade lashing out at the warrior. Sadly, the warrior caste dwarf stepped back, bringing his axe up only to parry her sweeping blade back.

Freed, Caridin reached down, catching Adela at the shoulder as she stepped forward, pulling an arrow from her quiver. She glanced up to the Paragon shake his head at her. Biting her lower lip, the elf looked back up, watching the drama play out before her. The others stood, in a semi circle, weapons and spells still at the ready, ready to bring down the female Paragon if need be.

The dwarves continued to circle each other, with Branka rushing forward to try and harm Oghren, the warrior still only meeting her attacks with defensive blocking. He refused to battle her. He couldn't. His heart was breaking, and he found he still could not harm the woman he loved.

Whom he would have given everything - his heart, his very soul - to. If she would only come home.

Serena stood nearby, watching as her friend battled the woman he loved. The royal and Branka had once been friends, but Branka's obsession had long ago alerted the younger woman that she was off balanced, and she knew, eventually, the older woman would hurt Oghren, would do something that would be completely unforgivable. That she would sacrifice her entire house to the darkspawn…even she had not seen anything like that.

And, now, Branka was forcing Oghren to battle her. No. Serena scowled, raising her shield and sword, and rushed forward, knocking Oghren back as she lifted her shield to block one of Branka's thrusts.
Oghren let out a shout, but the Sten, taking Serena's cue, stepped forward, and pulled the male back.

This battle had to end.

Branka circled the young woman, as she and Oghren had just moments before. The difference was that Serena was battle ready, set on the offensive, ready to strike, ready to deliver the killing blow when necessary. Branka taunted, trying to catch the younger woman off guard. But, it would not work. Serena was trained as a warrior; and, while skilled with her shield and sword, Branka was still first and foremost an inventor, a smith. And had not the formal training of the dwarven noble.

So, Serena continued to circle, dashing forward with her sword, slamming her shield into the other woman's face, wearing her down. The other would try to force the younger woman away, but Serena set her feet, bracing it against the floor, calling upon her stone sense to stabilize her. Sword clashed against shield, shield smashed into a face already ruined with age and too much time in the Deep Roads. However, she had spent so much time running, and she had become hard as the stone that surrounded her. Determined, stubborn, insane, Branka met each attack with one of her own. And the two women danced away from each.

Renewing their scrutiny of the other.

Reassessing their battle plan.

Oghren struggled against the Sten's hold, cursing the giant. The others in turn stepped nearer the dwarf and Qunari, shielding Oghren as much as they could.

"You sacrificed your house, Branka," Serena taunted, her breathing coming to her in gasps. "And for what? An Anvil you will never get to see, let alone touch! Those warriors, those soldiers, could have been put to better use defending the city. Not follow you on your insane drive for your ego!"

The royal slashed out with her sword, finely crafted, smirking as it danced across Branka's breastplate, tiny sparks dancing in its wake.

"Ego?' Branka scoffed as she bashed her shield forward, catching the younger woman off guard. "You think it was all for my ego?'

"What else?' Serena asked as she stepped aside, smashing her shield into Branka's side, catching her off balance and stumbling back, her sword wavering. "After all, everything you have ever done was in order to feed your vanity." She turned, cross stepping as she continued to circle. "Everyone else was wrong. But, oh! Never Branka! Only Branka knew what was best for the people of Orzammar. And so you railed and whined against being made a Paragon. About the responsibilities that you just could never quite step up to!" Serena allowed a sneer to cross her lovely face. "And look where it got you. Even Hespith saw you for the vainglory egomaniac that you are, and killed herself!"

With a snarl and a shout of rage, Branka rushed the younger woman, smashing her shield against Serena's repeatedly. Serena's foot caught on a jagged shard of rock, and twisted. Hissing in pain, the younger woman stumbled back, hopping and limping away. Another shield smash brought the young royal down, onto her back, and Branka's sword swept down.

A great roar of anger, despair, and outrage resounded throughout the chamber, and Oghren shook the Sten from him, raised his great axe and rushed to Branka. As Branka's sword swept down, Oghren's axe swept out, catching the Paragon in the back, tossing her several feet away from the prone form of the Aeducan noblewoman, who lay, unharmed, upon the stone. With a snarl, the enraged warrior sprang at the other fallen woman - one he vaguely recalled he loved - his axe sweeping back as she struggled to her feet.

As he neared her, he shoved her back with a shoulder, catching her off guard once more. Stumbling back, her shield and sword laying several feet in either direction upon the floor, Branka raised her eyes. Fear shone brightly.
"I thought you loved me?" she whispered hoarsely just before Oghren's axe swept along, taking her head from her shoulders, sending it flying across the chamber.

Stopping, staring down at the wreckage that had once been his wife. Blood spurted from the garish wound, flooding the floor around the body. The haze in his eyes cleared, and he blinked against the sudden onslaught of stinging, salty tears. Licking his lips, the warrior started away. "I do," he whispered back as he turned to help Serena to her feet.

DA:O

Caridin watched as the two dwarves limped back to where he stood with their companions, those black, blue glowing eyes fixed upon the bedraggled form of the Aeducan noble. During her battle with Branka, an amulet had slipped free of its place beneath her breastplate. A slight nod of his head could barely be seen, and not understood as the group stood and waited for their dwarven companions to rejoin them.

"As promised," Caridin turned to the elven warden. "I shall create a crown with the crest of the one I choose to sit upon the throne of Orzammar." The golem stepped forward, reaching down to gently touch Serena's amulet.
Big, hazel eyes blinked as she looked up at the towering golem. "Me?" she asked, incredulously. "No, no. I cannot. I was exiled…stricken from the memories…"

"A Paragon's word carries much weight, child. And, in your hands, I believe Orzammar would be best served."
"But, you do not know me, Paragon," the young noble continued to argue. "Nor do you know the two men in true contention for the throne."

Chuckling, Caridin shook his head. "I do not need to know them to know you, child. I watched your reaction when I spoke of the Anvil. I saw you take your friend's place to fight against the woman he obviously had loved. You are self sacrificing, and would never take the easier path because it was there." The golem then stepped back, bowing deeply at the waist. "I chose you, Serena Aeducan, to take the throne of Orzammar." Caridin straightened. "And I shall craft a crown befitting such a personage as yourself."

Dumbfounded, Serena could only watch as the Paragon stepped away, pacing carefully to where the Anvil stood. With a great sigh, she turned, and followed the golem, watching him carefully as he constructed a marvelous crown of gold, red steel, and glowing gemstones, replete with her own personal crest.

Once completed, he handed it to the young dwarf. "I feel undeserving," she whispered, studying the marvelous crown with awe.

Chuckling yet again, Caridin placed a massive hand upon her shoulder. When she looked up, he replied. "That is exactly why I chose you."

The Sten moved up, picking up a massive hammer, slamming it down upon the Anvil, breaking it into several pieces. A relieved sigh escaped from the golem as Caridin surveyed the damage.

"Thank you," he turned to the Qunari, who bowed his head as he turned to rejoin his group.

Adela followed Caridin to the ledge that overlooked the river of lava. They stood, silently, for a moment, before Caridin said, "Atrast nal tunsha - may you always find your way in the dark." And, with these parting words, the golem that had once been one of the greatest inventors in Orzammar's history, stepped out over the void, and fell into the roiling lava below. Offering a prayer of her own, Adela turned and walked, slowly, to her friends.
They could now return to Orzammar.

Modifié par Eva Galana, 02 février 2012 - 03:24 .