#the korcari wilds

[playitagainmyjohnny]

[nimthirielrinon]

When I grow up, I want to be Flemeth.

“Such manners! Always in the last place you look. Like stockings!”

[veshialles]

damn kind of obsessed with the fact that The Warden and Loghain basically had the same start to their heroes journeys

[snuuufi]

really enjoying this actually

[eliphasgraham]

I was craving some freshly exiled Aeducan in the Wilds today

[vigilskeep]

the GOOD thing about having to recalibrate the hawke family is getting to make new lore and potentially doodle more of the little family trees that so delight me

[illusivesoul]

"You there, dwarf. You have nothing to fear from any witch. Tell me your name and I shall tell you mine. Let us be civilized"

[ndostairlyrium]

weird fun facts about your oc(s)

rules: share some fun facts about your oc(s). they don't have to be relevant to their story, perhaps even better if they aren't. the weird ones are the best!

Tagged by @herearedragons <3 thanks dear ;u; this was a rather lovely distraction <3

Ankh

Only two people within the Inquisition know her real age. It's not that she's ashamed of it, she just likes to mess around. Anyway Leliana is having more fun than her with it :'

Gets very distracted by patterns (florals especially), she just can't figure them out

"Tell me a bird!" and she knows their call. All of them. Her ability is exceptional, especially during very important diplomatic meetings

Kerry

Thinks Carver's tattoo looks like a *insert any other animal* rather than a mabari. He's very vocal about it

Calls for meetings every last Friday of the month to distribute the loot among his companions, the rest gets sold. Anything magical would get analyzed by Anders and Merrill, so they know what they do before they get sold

Don't tell anyone, but he prefers orlesian cheese over fereldan. The stinky and moldy ones especially (à la roquefort)

Ela

Can dance. You'll never ever catch her doing that

She may have punched king Bhelen in the face once, maybe twice. The "maybe" is because Alistair has tackled her before she could do more damage << luckily Bhelen knows she's a resource, or else she would be banned from Orzammar forever

Can't remember names and faces. She has called Carver "Carmen" for weeks before the name stuck <<

I'm tagging (no pressure, no obligation): @underneathestars @greypetrel @inquisitorgaywarden @melisusthewee & @idolsgf 💛

[mako-designated-driver]

Codex entry #32: The Legend of Luthias Dwarfson

At an early age, Luthias was smaller than most children of the Alamarri. At the age of 12, Luthias saved Tutha, the son of the tribal chief, from his own dog. The dog had gone rabid, and when it attacked Tutha, Luthias slew it with his bare hands. Tutha's father, Mabene, was impressed with Luthias's strength and bravery, and so took him in as his own son.

When Luthias grew to manhood, he became known for his charisma and bravery. While shorter than his fellow warriors, Luthias was stronger and doughtier than any warrior in the tribe. When Luthias was still a young man, Mabene sent him to the dwarven city of Orzammar to negotiate an alliance. Mabene's tribe had come into conflict with other Alamarri, and he needed as much help as he could get.

Luthias was unable to convince the dwarven king to aid his tribe, but fell in love with the king's daughter, Scaea. Luthias and Scaea fled the dwarven realm and returned to his tribe. Scaea taught Luthias the art of fighting without pain, the berserker state known as the "battle wrath," and with it, Luthias became a renowned warrior.

Luthias led his tribe to many victories, until eventually he replaced his foster father as chief of his tribe. This peace would not last. During a feast between the tribal leaders of the Alamarri and the Avvar, the beautiful and powerful Avvar chieftain, Morrighan'nan, became enamored with Luthias and seduced him. Scaea learned of the tryst and fled the village to return to Orzammar. When Luthias rebuffed Morrighan'nan's offer of marriage, she left in great anger, and from that moment on, there was war between the two tribes.

For 15 years, the Alamarri and Avvar fought. During the Battle of Red Falls, a powerful young warrior from Morrighan'nan's tribe challenged Luthias to a battle. Luthias was injured grievously, but slew the boy. Morrighan'nan revealed that the boy was Luthias's son, conceived 15 years ago during their tryst. She cursed Luthias as the murderer of his own kin, and the Battle of Red Falls turned against Luthias.

Morrighan'nan defeated Luthias in battle after battle, until the Alamarri were driven to the foothills of the Frostback Mountains. There, Luthias made a last stand. In the night before Luthias's final battle, Scaea came to him and offered him a dwarven suit of chain in exchange for a night together. Luthias agreed and wore the armor the following morning in battle. The battle was fierce and bloody, and Luthias met Morrighan'nan in personal combat. In the end, Luthias slew the warrior woman, but not before receiving a mortal wound to his heart, the chain inexplicably unable to block her final blow. Luthias died, and after the battle was done a party of dwarven warriors came down from the mountain and took the body of Luthias back to Orzammar.

—From The Legend of Luthias Dwarfson, author unrecorded, circa -350 Ancient

[shannaraisles]

The Warden's Witch - @euryalex

For the delightful @euryalex, who requested a crossover of BG3 and Dragon Age, with her OC Tara and Wyll Ravengard dropped into the wild world of Thedas. Lots of fun to write, and there may be more to come!

The Warden’s Witch

The shade rose from the stones, claws already reaching for the Grey Warden. 

Wyll stumbled backward, sword still sheathed at his hip, shield raised only for protection. 

“Wait!”

The shade, perhaps surprised to be addressed when about to attack, hesitated, and Wyll sensed more curiosity than hostility for the briefest of moments. Time enough to make his plea.

“The Chasind say you can grant protections in exchange for a gift,” he said, hoping he was staring the thing in the eyes. “I’ve come to be that protection for someone.”

Gazarath paused in its slow advance, flame licking at the tips of those outstretched claws, but again, Wyll realised it was waiting for him to speak. He swallowed against the knot in his throat, forcing out the words that he knew he should not be speaking.

“I have a friend,” he began. “A very dear friend. When battle is joined, we Wardens will be in the vanguard to face this first push of the Blight, and it is unlikely any of us will survive. I beg your protection upon Alistair Theirin, unknown brother of the king, and my friend.”

It was not just any life he was asking for. Whether Alistair knew it or not, whether he wanted it or not, his life was about to change. Cailan was no fool; he must know of his bastard brother, and know that Alistair was the only heir he could possibly field at this point in his life. If Alistair died, the Calenhad line would die, and Orlais would be back to thoroughly subsume Ferelden once more. Wyll could not bear to see that happen, not when his family had bled so much to see the Orlesians pushed from the country in living memory. 

“And what do you offer in place of his life?”

The question seared into his mind, scorching words riddled with scorn for what this demon perceived as cowardice on his part. Wyll bristled against that ignorant assumption of his character, but forced the retort away. Antagonising this ... thing ... was not the way to go in order to get what he felt was needed. Instead, he just had to hope that his Chasind contact had been correct in her assertion as to the reason this shade still haunted this spot. 

“I have heard that you long for death,” he said, his tone wary, eyes watchful for any sign that the shade might take this as an invitation to attack. “I am not strong enough to give you such release myself, but I guarantee to you that I will draw out a party of Wardens with more than strength enough to do this deed.”

“Death ...”

He held his breath as the shade pondered his offer, hoping it would be enough. 

After all, the two recruits looked strong enough, even if Daveth couldn’t quite get his head around the fact that there would be a woman joining them when Duncan got back from Kinloch. They were be among those who were sent out to find him when he did not return. And Duncan himself had said he would send the recruits with Alistair out here to fetch the contents of the warded strongbox in the tower yonder, currently teeming with darkspawn. They would have to pass this way, and they would not be able to resist the urge to summon Gazarath without knowing what it was. Since it attacked everyone who wasn’t ready for it, Wyll saw no lie in what he was offering. 

WIthout warning, a sudden blast of energy erupted from the shade, his hand automatically gripping the hilt of his sword, the blade half-unsheathed before he realised it had been no attack. The shade merely stood before him, amid its cairn of stones, power now linking him and it. And there was a third thread he could sense, the blood link he shared with his fellow Wardens telling him that the recipient of that third thread was Alistair. 

“You will not return to your Wardens. You will be an exile, as I have been, until the day you die.”

Relief flooded him. Gazarath had taken the deal. Alistair was survive the coming battle. After that, it would be up to him, but Wyll had given his friend a chance he did not know was coming, and that was what truly mattered to him. He sheathed his sword, saluting the shade with a fist against his heart as the creature sank back into the stones to await its now inevitable end. 

“Well, now.”

Wyll jumped, spinning about to find a dark-haired, pale-skinned woman behind him, staff in one hand, dark eyes trained on his face. Witch. She smirked at the alarm on his face. 

“What do we have here?” she said, her cadence warm, if measured. “A lone Grey Warden, doing deals with the restless shade of a demon that once hounded a Chasind woman to her death out of possessive lust. How far the mighty do fall.”

“I am not here to answer to you, witch,” he said, with more bravado than he felt. He was alone in the Korcari Wilds, there were darkspawn uncomfortably close, and a Chasind witch stood between him and the path to the road. 

“No, you are here to bargain for the life of your friend,” she said, and he could have sworn he saw something more compelling than curiosity in her gaze. Was that ... envy, perhaps? Longing? “What is it about this friend that makes you so willing to throw away everything in order to keep him safe?”

He could not have said why, but in that moment, he felt no need to lie. Perhaps it was the danger of his situation; perhaps it was that she had done nothing to even threaten harm. Perhaps he just needed someone living to know, before he, too, succumbed to the blighted corruption and died doing what he had sworn to do. 

“He and I were Joined together,” he told her, this stranger in the wilds, a witch perhaps of legend. “We swore our vows together, drank the cup together. We trained together. He is the closest I have ever had to a true brother. He does not deserve to have his life end here and now because of the foolish ambitions of the king.”

“And you do?” Her brow rose, curious at his eagerness to throw away his life. 

“His life will be a great one, I am sure of it,” Wyll informed her. “My own worth is determined by how many darkspawn I will take with me to the grave.”

“Oh, I do not -”

But her rebuttal, however sincere it might have been, was broken by the sound genlocks charging from the trees, and from then on, instinct took over. Wyll found himself standing back to back with a witch, an apostate mage, trusting her to keep him alive as she trusted him to do the same, both of them united against the Blighted foe without the need for further words. Black blood was spilled, scorched, blasted into oblivion. In a matter of minutes, the Wilds were quiet once more, and Wyll stood, panting as he cleaned and sheathed his blade, his eyes checking over the woman who had just saved his life.

“Are you hurt?”

Her head snapped up from her own inspection, the surprise in her gaze more than enough to tell him that her own safety was a matter of second concern for those who usually surrounded her. 

“I ... I am unharmed,” she managed through her surprise, lowering her staff from its defensive position. She cleared her throat, tossing her head to send her hair rippling in a raven-black cascade down her back. “You are a worthy warrior. It would be a shame to have you die before your deal is completed. Your death nullifies the agreement, you understand?”

Wyll hesitated, glancing at the ash-covered stones.

“I ... No, I was not aware of that caveat,” he admitted, his lips daring to quirk just a little at the sound of her rather sweet laugh in response to his ignorance. “Then it appears I must stay alive until after the battle, even after Gazarath dies.”

“Out here, that will be a tall order for a man alone,” she mused, picking at some unseen splinter on her staff. “I think I will join you. It would be a shame to see your bargaining go to waste.”

His eyes narrowed, uncertain if he should trust her.

“And what is your price for this ... assistance?”

Her lips twisted into a dark smile that seemed more practised than true. 

“That, we can discuss once we are away from here,” she said, gesturing to the battlefield around them. “The Chasind will soon come out of their camps to paw over these bodies, and my si- someone will be soon at the tower nearby. They may attempt to prevent us.”

Wyll’s head tilted as he considered her for a long moment. There was something there, something in the way she wouldn’t quite meet his eyes, in the shift of her feet and the set of her shoulders ... she was running from something. She hadn’t intended to come across him, but their meeting gave her additional protection she had not expected to find. What could a witch of the wilds be running from?

In truth, what did it matter? She had saved his life, as he had saved hers, and both proven they could fight well together. He only needed to live at most a few days, and Alistair’s continued breath would be guaranteed. If he could deliver her from her pursuers in that time, all well and good.

“Very well,” he agreed, holding out a hand to her. “A witch and a Warden, it shall be. Wyll Ravengard, at your service.”

Long, slender fingers slid into the grasp of his gauntlet, squeezing just firmly enough that he felt it through the shake. Those deep, dark eyes flickered to his, limned with a strange sort of innocence he had not expected to find out here in this desolate place. 

“Tara,” she said in return. “My name is Tara.”

“Well, then, Tara .. shall we be going?” He flashed her a cocky grin, settling his shield on his back once more, hooked firmly over the travel pack he had snuck from the camp earlier in the day. 

“After you, Warden Ravengard,” he said, gesturing with a magnanimous sweep of her free hand. “I am your witch.”

As he turned to lead the way back to the path and turn their steps to the north, away from Ostagar and the Wilds, he couldn’t help a faint flicker of warm interest in his chest at those sweet, wicked little words.

My witch. Wouldn’t that be something?

[sandra-lattise]

[minaakaajaa]

A clip from my upcoming third Episode of Let's Play Dragon Age: Origins with the Dwarven Noble Origin! Episode 3 will be released on Thursday, 7/11/24.

[laurelsofhighever]

Fandom: Dragon Age: Origins Characters/pairings: Alistair x Cousland Chapter: 4/? Rating: M Warnings: Canon-typical violence Fic Summary: The story of the Fifth Blight, in a world where Alistair was raised to royalty instead of joining the Grey Wardens.

Read it on AO3

--

“Our task in the Wilds is twofold,” Warden Rhodri barked over his shoulder. He had said little as their small troupe had descended into the forest, following a scouting path until the palisade surrounding the camp had disappeared behind the trees, and now they stood on an outcrop at the edge of a small, marshy pond with the mire before them bleeding in and out of focus through banks of mist. Apart from the whining insects, the place seemed devoid of life.

“First, there are ruins to the west of here that used to be an old Grey Warden outpost. There should be documents there that we need to retrieve.”

“What kind of documents?” Daveth asked.

The Warden’s eyes narrowed. “Important ones. The second reason we’re out here involves the vials you were given. Each of you will need to fill one with darkspawn blood before we return.” He glanced upwards, calculating. “Sunset isn’t far away – we’ll have about three hours before we need to be back.”

“Is this another test?” Ser Jory’s eyes had flitted in every direction as they traipsed into the wilderness, but now they fixed into two hard, indignant points. “I’ve already proven myself. We would do better to prepare for the battle ahead –”

“Part of being a Warden means following orders,” Rhodri snapped. “We do what we must, and right now that’s heading west.” He touched his hand to the broad-headed axe belted at his side and started forward again without waiting to see if Jory had been sufficiently cowed by his words.

Daveth lingered a moment longer. “Hey, Your Ladyship – you’re going to get left behind.”

Rosslyn ignored him. A spray of delicate white flowers poked up from the moss at the base of a nearby tree stump, and she was stooped with dagger in hand to pry a clump loose from the half-frozen earth. She didn’t know which part of the plant the kennelmaster needed for his medicine, but the grim line of his mouth as they had stood over his sickening charges stuck like a burr in her mind. When she had brought him her hound Cuno, weary and footsore from their march south, the man had tutted and his whiskery grey brows had drawn down like a thundercloud as he harrumphed about the perils in asking more of an animal than it was trained for.

“There wasn’t much choice,” she had answered, stroking her dog’s ears.

“Aye, that’s truth enough to go round, and at least this one is only exhausted. I can fix that. Can’t do much for these others, though, not once the taint spreads, not now the gates are shut and no one will bring me the remedy.”

She knew which flower he meant when he described it. Nan had always called it ‘prick-my-finger’ for the daub of brilliant red at the centre of each shallow bloom; it grew in the sacred groves of the Storm Islands where only the augurs were allowed to go, and it was burnt at Alamarri funerals as an offering to the Lady of the Skies. She tried not to think about that particular use as she transferred the small treasure into a leather pouch tied to her belt, and hoped she could get it back to the kennelmaster in time.

When she straightened, Daveth still lingered at her side, his gaze a nervous dart between her and the retreating figures of Rhodri and Ser Jory. He offered her a nervous twitch of his lips.

“You waited for me.” There was no inflection to the statement, and he quailed under the intensity in her eyes.

“Yeah, well… I said I’d watch your back, didn’t I?” He shrugged. “We’re in this together, way I see it. Whatever happened to us before, we’re here now, and being a Warden is important.”

She turned away from him, fighting back memories of blood and fire and her father’s last breath spent on begging. “We should catch up with the others.”

As the party moved deeper into the Wilds, the silence around them pressed in, weaving its roots into the spaces between their ribs so that even Daveth’s attempts at humour and Ser Jory’s worrying eventually faded, and left only the faint jangle of armour to sound in the watchful forest. Warden Rhodri stalked ahead, a hulking, determined figure with clear experience as a ranger. He picked them the easiest path through gnarled copses and pools of ice-sharp water, every so often halting them to wait, watchful as a hart with the scent of a wolf on the breeze. Whatever he sensed remained a mystery to his three charges; they held their breaths, and then they moved on.

The quiet gave Rosslyn too much time to think. Numb exhaustion had dogged her footsteps on the road from Highever, a void of grief and black rage that made her biddable because it was simply too large for her comprehension, but seeing Alistair again had stirred something painful in her chest. Thoughts of him made the nightmare shrink back, but only in the manner of an awning drawn aside to reveal a vista of direct, blistering sunlight. His shoulders had filled out in the two years since she had last seen him, the angle of his jaw more defined and authority easier in the tilt of his brow, but his eyes were the same, rich and deep as a peat stream. The way he had looked her…

What bitter irony that they should be reunited now, when his title laid all before him and she – she had nothing left but blood.

Ahead of her, Ser Jory’s voice quavered as his nerves overcame him.

“Did you leave no one behind in Denerim?” he asked.

Daveth shrugged his response. “Bit of a luxury, having people to care about. There weren’t any Helenas, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“What about you, Ser Rhodri?”

“I’m no ‘ser’,” the Warden replied. “And no, there’s no one waiting for me.”

“I am sorry.” Jory ducked his head. “When I see my wife again, this will all be worth it. Knowing I kept her and our child safe.”

Rhodri’s gaze flickered back over his shoulder, but he made no reply. The furrow in his brow spoke eloquently enough to Rosslyn, who recognised the weight of unspoken guilt as the same shadow that had coloured Duncan’s words as he dragged her away from her home, her duty. It hadn’t stopped him. She doubted Rhodri would do better; his two other, blithe charges failed to notice the way his shoulders hunched as they chatted in low voices about bright futures, shrinking away from the truth that they were all dead soldiers marching.

Unwilling to draw attention to herself, to have Ser Jory ask after Highever and the people left behind, she turned away to watch the trees. The lack of birds disturbed her. In her father’s woods, the eaves teemed with game and the warbling songs of thrush, robin, and wren. The orchard hummed with bees in the spring and swelled with bright red apples in the summer– and all of it was now no more than a memory, a pyre burnt out and left to scatter in the wind. All of it her fault.

A flutter of blue caught her attention. Her hand went to her sword hilt, just for a moment before recognition hit. So familiar her heart thundered to be out of her chest, the sight set her off running before the decision consciously registered in her mind. The shouts behind her fell away in the crash of underbrush as she dived towards the banner, the golden Laurels on a blue field, which she had last seen crowning the ranks of the army, gleaming as it passed through the barbican onto the Imperial Highway.

Flies startled up in a black cloud as she burst through the final layer of scrub and came to stand in a squelch of mud in the middle of a massacre. Bodies lined the trail, darkspawn and humans both, some strung out like beads and others bunched together in knots where the fighting had been more sustained. The soldiers wore the standard leather face guards she had seen on those in the camp, covering the mouth and nose to avoid ingesting darkspawn ichor, but they had mostly fallen before they could draw their weapons, struck from above by a hail of crudely fletched arrows. Some had been taken to pieces. Parts were missing.

“Maker have mercy,” Jory breathed, when he and the others caught up. “Those are darkspawn?”

Rhodri grunted. “Hurlocks. Less clever than genlocks, but stronger.”

The ringing in Rosslyn’s ears meant she barely heard the exchange. Sword drawn, she picked her way through the carnage, the pit in her stomach growing more cavernous with every face she peered into that wasn’t her brother’s.

“What if they’re still around, waiting to ambush us right now?” Daveth’s voice, clipped and shrill.

“Part of a Grey Warden’s skill is the ability to sense ‘spawn, and mine tells me they’ve gone. East, to be specific. Half a day ago.”

“This darkspawn sense…” Jory started. “This is why we’ve been brought out here? To learn it?”

“In a manner.”

They were all Cousland dead. Infantry, lightly armoured, not house guard. She had trained with some of them, recognised them even under the blood spatter and the mud, though she didn’t know their names. None of them was Fergus.

“Help…”

She spun so quickly to the noise her neck cracked. The others heard it too, and the scrape of blades being drawn accompanied her steps towards its source. A soldier looked up at her, blue eyes creased with pain and his gauntlets bloody where he held them to the wound in his side. He had managed to prop himself up against a log, but there was no movement in him now except the laboured, uneven rise and fall of his breathing.

“Easy, sergeant,” Rosslyn murmured as she crouched next to him.

“My… my lady.” He gasped. “You shouldn’t be here.”

She swallowed. “Tell me what happened. Where is my brother?”

“Don’t… know…”

“Easy,” she repeated. A glance down told her he would not last.

I won’t survive the standing, I think. She pushed the thought away.

“The ‘spawn attacked us. We… we gave him time… to get away. I got knocked down. They thought… thought I was dead.” He tried a laugh; a bubble of blood collected at the corner of his mouth. “Not long now… eh? Been waiting…”

His eyes rolled back in his head, his breath a laboured gurgle that made her want to scream, but before she could flinch away he lunged for her, bloodied grip iron-strong on her arm. “You make them pay,” he hissed. “It’s up to you. It’s –”

The grip fell slack, the eyes cold. All she could do was stare at him.

It was Rhodri who stepped in to close the man’s eyelids and mutter an invocation to the Lady, a prayer she recognised. Her mother had taught it to her, along with many other things about the Alamarri gods, but when she had fled Highever, she had not even thought to voice it.

“What do we do now?” Jory asked.

“We need to deal with the ‘spawn that did this. They’ll be a threat this close to the camp otherwise.” Rhodri straightened, collected himself. “Keep your weapons out and your eyes sharp, and no talking. And you,” he added to Rosslyn once the other two were out of earshot, “never rush in and endanger your comrades like that again.”

She rose to her feet and tilted her chin, owning the extra inch or so she had on his height as she stared down eyes prematurely lined by care. “Or what? They might not have worked out yet what’s meant for us, but I’m no fool. You Wardens are fond of secrets, taking advantage of dying men to get what you want.”

“I know what happened to you,” he growled. “But you still breathe, and this is now the path you walk.”

For a moment, she contemplated what would happen if she gutted him, and simply ran – to find Fergus or else to return to Highever and take the vengeance she had promised to those left behind – but the thought flashed away again quick as a marshlight. So close, her blade would not miss, but in killing Rhodri she would condemn Daveth and Jory as well, left to the mercy of the darkspawn and an uncertain path back through the trees. Besides that, she didn’t have supplies for a long journey, only a small waterskin and no hunting bow or arrows; she had been taught how to survive in hostile country, but the first rule was always to avoid getting stuck unprepared. An unfamiliar forest in Guardian, where animals were scarce and edible leaves lay buried under layers of snow and earth, would not take long to prove her folly.

The Warden saw some of her intent in her expression, but did not flinch from it, only waited for it to pass into something less dishonourable. When she dropped her gaze from his and stalked away, the grip on his axe eased and he fell into step behind her, chivvying them all along the trail like a shepherd.

--

When they finally caught up with the darkspawn after another half an hour of walking, it was the noise and the stench of the creatures that betrayed them. They took no pains to hide themselves. Some of the trees had been cut down, and on their stripped trunks body parts and bones had been hung like Summerday garlands, with rude images of eyes and fanged mouths painted in blood beneath. From the clearing beyond, snarls and guttural strings of sound that might have been language echoed and bounced back towards them from the walls of the rocky outcrop they were using for shelter. A fire painted their shadows huge and grotesque against the stone, unaware of the group of Wardens creeping closer.

Rhodri signalled for the recruits to wait at the base of a crumbled statue that had been augmented with flayed horse ribs, the bones strapped to its back and spread wide in a grotesque semblance of wings. One lone hurlock loitered by the path beyond the reach of the fire, but only until the Warden closed the distance like a cat and slit its throat. With the scout dispatched, he gestured the advance. Rosslyn crouched and tested her way forward, shield low and sword held in a reverse grip to keep it from snagging on any errant branches. When she reached her chosen hiding spot, she pulled the leather guard up over the bridge of her nose, her gaze flicking between the shadow where Rhodri waited to give the signal to attack, and the rabble of darkspawn in front of her that squabbled over scraps of unidentified, half-cooked meat.

She forced herself not to look away from them, with their rough, ashen skin and bloodshot eyes. The clothes they wore were patchy and ill-made from animal hide and pieces of rotting cloth, their limbs sometimes guarded by mismatched armour but more often bare, exposed, showing easy points to strike. One was bigger than the others; it sat watching the arguments of its cohorts rather than joining in, its crude, horned helmet given a deference that singled it out as well as a battle standard to her tactically trained eye. Her muscles tensed, ready.

Rhodri burst from his hiding place with a wordless battle cry. The darkspawn turned. Their shrieks rose to a cacophony as Daveth and Jory added to the fray. Rosslyn saw her chance – the leader’s back turned as it hefted a rusty, two-handed axe – and she sprang for its unprotected back. Shield up, like she had been taught, to protect from any overhead blow, she aimed low and severed its hamstrings before rising in a graceful arc to sink her sword point into its armpit. Snarling, it died before it fully hit the floor, and somehow the rest of them felt it. They scattered like leaves, burbling with panic, and they were easy to put down.

A savage smile grew behind her mask with each new hurlock she felled; the inferno twisting inside her sprang loose, bereft of the targets it truly wanted to consume, and sated itself instead on the lives of the monsters scattering before her fury. Her sword flashed like molten copper in the firelight, her bulk a battering ram, her blows as precise as the strike of a heron into the water.

When it was over, her battle-blood spent and no enemies left standing, the other recruits hung back, wary. The winter air sawed in her lungs, black ichor dripping from her blade, and behind the leather mask the wolf’s grin still hung on her lips like it had the first time she had bested one of her instructor’s elite exercises.

Across the clearing, Jory shivered and poked the closest corpse with the point of his sword. “These truly are foul creatures. Even when my mother used them to scare me into behaving as a boy, I never imagined something so… horrifying.”

“You need a convenient bucket to lose your lunch in, Ser Knight?”

“There’s not much time,” Rhodri interrupted. “Collect your blood, then we move on.”

The two recruits bent to their task without complaint, though both sent sidelong glances her way as they held their glass vials to the wounds on the slain darkspawn and replaced the stoppers.

“What will the blood be used for?” she asked, without moving.

“It’s proof of your skills, for one thing,” came the answer, with a faint trace of hesitation. Rhodri frowned down at the hurlock leader. “Not many could kill an alpha so cleanly. You did well. Now come.”

The ruins of the Warden tower could be seen over the lip of the hollow. They had to cross a stream and mount a hill, following deer tracks past the charred remains of some ritual circle scattered with ash, but when they reached the circle of crumbling walls, Rosslyn doubted anything so delicate as parchment could have survived the weathering of what must surely have been ages. Bushes grew up between the old tiles and cracks in the wall, creepers strangled window frames whose glass had long since crumbled into sand, and a deep scent of green rot hung in the frigid air, trailing along exposed skin like the caress of a fingertip. While Rosslyn and Daveth kept watch, the others forced their way into the tower itself, through a door that fell to rusty, mouldering pieces under the blows of axe and shield.

“Where is it?”

“The chest should be somewhere over – no.”

There were shuffling noises, the sound of heavy stones being thrown on to soft earth, and with a flurry of curses the two men emerged a few moments later, coated in mud up to the calf and a confetti of wet leaves that stuck to their armour.

“Where’s the treaties?” Daveth asked.

“Gone,” Rhodri answered shortly. “Rotted away or stolen.”

“A beam collapsed on top of the chest they were stored in and broke the enchantment,” Jory added helpfully.

“So what do we do now?”

Rhodri shook his head and glanced back to the tower room, his mouth pulled down in a frustrated line. “We must return to the camp before dark.”

Already the sky had darkened, a bank of low, heavy cloud creeping from the southwest, but no rain fell. The whole forest stretched out beneath the crest of the ruined hill, a maze of narrow paths and a thousand places for the darkspawn to swarm through, to leach into Ferelden like ink spilled across paper. The group they had killed was just a small drop in the bulk of the horde, and they had only been so quickly defeated because they were taken off-guard, had needed an instant to reach for their weapons. As they started the winding route back to the encampment, the look that passed between Rosslyn and the other recruits showed she wasn’t the only one worried that the coming battle would not be so easy.

[ammoniteflesh]

Criseyde Amell playthrough has been so fun thus far.

Irving, Duncan, everybody: Being a Grey Warden is such a high honour! You're meant for something more! Go, seize this opportunity!

Criseyde, ugly crying after having just betrayed her best friend because she was convinced he'd be killed otherwise: I DON'T WANNA

[nimthirielrinon]

Chapter 9 is up!

She turned to Dania and took a step closer to her. "And what of you," she asked, "What do you believe?"

Having had a long day in a long week that was part of possibly the longest month of her life, Dania simply replied, "I'm not sure what to believe."

[bhalspawn]

i want to know about differences between dalish clans. does vallaslin vary at all between different clans? what about ones that live in wildly different climates? are there dalish clans that don't live primarily in forests, but wander in mountains or deserts?