Title: The Grey Path
Author: The Phoenix King
Game: Dragon Age: Origins
Summary: Humanity's last hope isn't even human. Called upon to walk a path of blood, valour and duty, Sagramor Tabris must raise an army, rise to power and find his inner strength if he is to save Ferelden from the Blight.
Overall Rating: M/R
Pairings: Tabris/Leliana
Disclaimer: Dragon Age characters, settings, and all in-game dialogue property of Bioware.

Note that this is Part One of the chapter. Due to DA’s file-size limitations, Part Two had to be moved onto a separate document.

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Chapter Seven: The Poisoned Chalice – Part One

True to her word, Morrigan lead the party of Warden recruits through the endless expanse of the Korcari Wilds, never glancing back as she darted across the mire with a confidence borne of experience, occasionally disappearing into the mists. Laden down with their armour, the recruits cursed as they stumbled through the muck, only to find the apostate a dozen yards ahead, reclining lazily on a fallen log or shaking her head in mock despair while perched in the boughs of a pine tree. “’Tis a wonder you made it this far to begin with!” she opined. “How have you been enjoying the Wilds thus far?”

“Oh, rampant darkspawn, endless muck and untrustworthy witches, what’s not to like?” Alistair remarked snidely, giving the apostate a vicious glare. “And how exactly are you running this fast through the swamp?”

Morrigan laughed. “What makes you think I’m running? Or walking at all?” she asked, darting down the tree and vanishing once more into the brush. Groaning, the Wardens followed. There was no solid ground to be had here, and it was slow-going through the knee-deep marsh. Idly, Sagramor noticed that the sun, its light already weak through the dense mists, was starting to fade, and he pressed on, eager to return to the King’s Camp before nightfall.

After a few minutes of wearying effort, Morrigan appeared from behind a nearby tree, and ushered the party into a small clearing. Torches planted around the perimeter burned through the mist with a sweet, honeysuckle aroma, and at the centre of the clearing, a ragged shack had been built on wooden posts to keep it from flooding. “We have arrived, Wardens,” she said, golden eyes flickering curiously between them. Coolly, the apostate strode towards a cooking fire built beneath the dying limbs of an apple tree and addressed the lone figure hunched over a cast-iron cauldron. “Greetings, Mother. I bring before you four Grey Wardens, who--”

“I see them, girl,” the older woman interrupted in an imperious tone, stepping out from the shade to examine her guests. “Hmm… much as I expected.”

When he was a child, Sagramor loved to hear stories about magic and witches, an interest no doubt rooted in the fate of Nimue. Morrigan’s mother looked like she had stepped right out of those stories; an aged and wizened crone, left ugly and somewhat deranged by the sorcerous powers she commanded. Her white hair hung lankily from her scalp, greasy and impregnated with dirt and grime, while age had sunken in her cheekbones and left her face hollow and gaunt. Stick-like fingers peeked out from the sleeves of her ragged cotton dress, and from the hollows of her eye sockets, the same intense golden eyes examined the Wardens with calculated intent. She bore no staff, but considering that Morrigan had to get her training from somewhere, it seemed likely that the old woman possessed magic herself, and if these two had managed to elude the templars for this long, then they were doubtless more resourceful than they seemed.

Not that Alistair seemed to get the hint. “Are we supposed to believe you were expecting us?”

“You are required to do nothing, least of all believe,” the old woman answered with an uninterested shrug. Beside her, Morrigan gave a ghost of a smile. “Shut one’s eyes tight or open one’s arms wide, either way, one’s a fool!”

“She’s a witch, I tell you!” Daveth hissed urgently. “We shouldn’t be talking to her.”

“Quiet, Daveth!” snapped Jory. “If she really is a witch, do you want to make her mad?”

“There’s a smart lad,” said the old woman, retrieving a perfect red apple from a hollow stump and taking a bite. “Sadly irrelevant to the larger scheme of things, but it is not I who decides. Believe what you will.” Her attention fell upon Sagramor now, and the elf shivered despite himself, feeling the full force of both pairs of golden eyes upon him. “And what of you? Does your elven mind offer you greater insights, or are merely as blind as the rest?”

“Believed or not, some things just have to be accepted,” Sagramor replied. “One cannot change the world by walking into it blindly.”

“Ah, there is the answer I sought,” said the old woman, expression as inscrutable as ever. “An open mind and not one made of mush. So much about you is uncertain, and yet, I believe. Do I?” she asked herself, before emitting a short, harsh laugh. “Why, of course, I do!”

“So, this is a dreaded Witch of the Wilds, Daveth?” asked Alistair. “Not very scary, is she?”

“Witch of the Wilds?” the old woman repeated, a mischievous gleam appearing in her eyes. “Morrigan must have told you that. How she loves such tales, though she would never admit it. Oh, how she dances under the moon!” she cackled.

Blushing faintly, Morrigan’s face shifted into a resentful frown at her mother’s antics. “They did not come here to listen to your wild tales, Mother.”

“True, they came for their treaties, yes?” she replied, setting aside the apple and drawing three delicate-looking scrolls from the folds of her apron. “And before you begin barking, your precious seal wore off years ago. I have protected them.”

“You--” Alistair halted before he could get into the swing of his rant. “You saved them?”

“And why not?” the old woman asked with a braying laugh. “Take these to your leaders, and tell them that the threat is greater than they realize.”

“What do you mean?’ Sagramor asked, graciously accepting the parchments and handing them to Alistair for inspection. He would know what to look for to ensure they were the genuine articles. “Have you encountered the darkspawn, ma’am? Can you tell us anything about their numbers, where they are headed?”

“I mean either the threat is more, or they realize less. Or perhaps the threat is nothing, and they realize nothing!” she said, offering a mad giggle. “But do not mind me. You have what you came for.”

“Well, do we, mate?” Daveth asked, trying to peek over Alistair’s shoulder at the treaties. “Are these the real thing?”

“I think so,” the former templar replied, examining the treaties with a clinical eye. “They bear the markings Duncan told me to watch out for, and they certainly look old enough. I think—I think these are it.”

“You see? Safe and sound,” the old woman boasted smugly. “There’s a lesson for you in there, Warden, though I doubt you have the eyes with which to see it. Your elven companion might, but you? That remains to be seen.”

Sagramor gave the mages a respectful bow, a strange gesture so divorced from the context of Ferelden civilization. “Regardless, thank you for your assistance, my ladies,” the elf solemnly declared. “Is there some way we could assist you as repayment for your efforts?”

“Manners!” gasped the old woman, bringing a shriveled hand to her breast in mock astonishment. “Always in the last place you look, like stockings! You could do far worse than this one, dear daughter.”

“Mother!” Morrigan cried in embarrassment, her blush deepening.

“Oh, do not mind me, Warden, you have what you came for. And we require nothing of you, save that you do your duty. The rest will attend to itself.”

“Time for you to leave then,” Morrigan spoke up, examining the Wardens, and Alistair in particular, like she would a lump of dirt on her boots.

The old woman was having none of it. “Do not be ridiculous, girl. These are your guests. You brought them here after all, it is only right that you lead them out again.”

“Oh, very well,” Morrigan groaned in resignation, shooting her mother a venomous stare before stalking out into the marsh once more. “Follow me, Wardens.”

Grinning, Alistair carefully rolled up the treaties before placing them into the satchel containing Fergus’ report. “Keep a close eye on that, would you, Sagramor?”

“You got it,” the elf replied, pausing only to bow towards the old woman. “Again, you have our Order’s thanks.”

“They are most welcome, young man,” she answered. “Now go. Night in the Wilds can be very treacherous, and this night more so than usual. Go.”

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With the Wardens’ mission accomplished, blood and treaties well in hand, Morrigan led them back to the trail up the cliffs to Ostagar, covering in the space of a few hours what had taken them the entire afternoon to travel. No darkspawn confronted them on their way home, though if this was a result of the route Morrigan had taken, or simply the darkspawn pulling back their scouting parties to reinforce the main attack, Sagramor didn’t know. In any event, he was grateful for the reprieve. Their sojourn into the Wilds had been a tasking one, and after all that, he had no desire to lose the objects of their quest in a random skirmish.

Morrigan halted at the first set of torches marking the way up the narrow path, her eyes burning eerily in the light. “I shall take my leave here, Grey Wardens. Am I safe in assuming you can walk the path to your fortress without incident?”

“We’ll be fine, Morrigan, but again, thank you for your aid,” Sagramor answered. “We could not have succeeded in our mission without you.”

“I…” The apostate froze, stumbling over her words, as if getting a compliment was an unfamiliar experience. “I did very little, truth be told. Now, you should be on your way. You have much to do this eve, and little time to do it.”

“Oh right, the darkspawn are coming here. Completely forgot about that!” Alistair remarked snidely. “Never would have known if you hadn’t told us.”

“Could you try and not piss off the witch, mate?” interjected Daveth. Ever cautious, the former thief had elected to take a few steps away from Alistair in the increasingly-likely event Morrigan turned her magic against him.

“In any event,” Sagramor said, interceding before Alistair’s glib tongue could get him in trouble, “I hope that you and your mother remain safe. Your home is isolated, but it may not remain so for long.”

“Mother’s power will be more than sufficient to protect us,” Morrigan replied. “But… thank you for your words, all the same. We will be well, I can assure you.”

“I hope so, Morrigan. Until we meet again.”

With that, the apostate wordlessly darted back into the brush. Sagramor lingered for a moment, waiting until a raven, nearly invisible against the dark, burst from the trees and winged south into the Wilds. “What makes you think I’m walking at all?” he murmured in understanding, and turned back towards civilization.

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With that, Alistair led the bloodied recruits back to the King’s Camp, the four men chatting amiably now with the Wilds behind them. For his part, Sagramor couldn’t help but feel confident. The Wild had been a crucible from which he had emerged intact, and any lingering doubts about fighting the darkspawn had vanished after proving himself against them. To his relief, Daveth and Jory were in high spirits as well. “What happens now, Alistair?” asked the knight, eyeing a bloodstained patch on his armour with distaste.

“Now, we get back to Duncan and start the Joining,” Alistair explained. “The sooner we get that done, the sooner we can get ready for the battle.”

“Hey, maybe we’ll be fighting alongside that Hawke woman, eh, Sagramor?” teased Daveth. “You seem like the type to go rescue damsels in distress anyways.”

“More than you know, Daveth,” the elf admitted wryly, the old wound flaring within his soul. “But I’m certain that Duncan and the King will send us where we’re needed. Strategy has to come first.”

“Sound like a right proper soldier, don’t you?” Daveth slapped the elf on the back. “There many would-be heroes were you come from?”

“A few, each in their own manner, each hoping to prove themselves and be better tomorrow than they are today, but isn’t that the same of all men?”

Daveth shrugged. “You’d have to ask a philosopher about that, mate. I’m just a guy who’s discovered a fondness for shooting darkspawn in the face.”

“Well, once this Joining is done, I’m sure you’ll get lots of opportunities.” Waving one of the camp’s messengers over, Sagramor gave him the flowers he had obtained in the Wilds and an injunction to bring them to the kennelmaster. As much as he would have liked to deliver it himself, the Joining took priority, and Sagramor had a suspicion that none of the Wardens would brook any further delays. After all, with the fate of the world at sake, who would?

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“At last, you return,” Duncan said as the Warden recruits approached his fire, dark eyes betraying no reaction at their survival. “Were you successful in your mission?”

In response, Sagramor presented him the treaties, along with the three vials of darkspawn blood. “We were, Duncan. Also, we have a report about the darkspawns’ movement from Lord Cousland; he wanted us to deliver it while he went to rally his men.”

“When was this, Sagramor?”

“Several hours ago, perhaps. Has he not returned?”

“No, and the likelihood of his survival dims with each passing moment. This report is the first word we have received from him since he entered the Wilds. If the darkspawn should arrive at the fortress before him, it will be the last.” Quickly reviewing Fergus’ notes, Duncan nodded in satisfaction. “Excellent work, all of you. This report will help the King to prepare his defenses for the upcoming battle, and the treaties will play their part in the weeks yet to come.”

“Am I safe in assuming that there’s no going out to look for him?”

“I am afraid not, Sagramor. It is a pity, for Fergus Cousland is a fine leader and warrior, but we must now concentrate our efforts against the advancing horde. Sending out men to search for him and his followers would only be a futile waste of their lives, as much as I would wish otherwise.”

“Hey, Alistair, you think we should tell ‘im about the witches?” asked Daveth, shuffling uncomfortably under Duncan’s questioning gaze.

“There was a woman at the tower, and her mother had the scrolls,” Alistair elaborated. “They were both very… odd.”

“Were they Wilder folk?” inquired the older Warden.

“I don’t think so. They might be apostates hiding from the Chantry.”

Duncan gave a disappointed frown. “I know you were once a templar, Alistair, but Chantry business is not ours, nor should it be. We have the scrolls; let us focus on the Joining.”

“If possible, Duncan, I’d like to know a little bit more about this ritual before we begin,” Sagramor piped up. “I understand it is a matter of secrecy, but I think we’ve earned the right to learn what we’re getting into.”

“Well said,” Duncan replied. “I will not lie to you; we Grey Wardens pay a heavy price to become what we are. Fate may decree that you pay your price now rather than later.”

“Are you saying this ritual can kill us?” the elf blurted out loud. Realization struck, and he clamped his hand over his mouth, eyes darting about for any eavesdroppers. Fortunately for him, Duncan’s billet was relatively secluded, and the other inhabitants of the King’s Camp were too busy to take notice. “Sorry.”

“The Joining can kill you, as could any darkspawn you might face in battle. You would not be chosen, however, if I did not think you had a chance to survive.”

“Let’s go then,” urged Daveth. “I’m anxious to see this Joining.”

“I agree,” seconded Jory. “Let’s have it done.”

Sagramor nodded in assent, quickly composing himself. “I am ready to face whatever lies ahead.”

“Excellent,” remarked Duncan. “You will need that courage to face what is to come. Alistair, take them to the old temple.”

Something about those words made Sagramor’s skin crawl, but he was committed. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, the elf fell in behind the others, wondering what it was exactly they were being asked to do…

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True night had only just fallen over Ostagar, and the recruits had been waiting for over half an hour for Duncan to return. Any questions posed to Alistair had been met with bland reassurances and sympathetic denials, so there was little for them to do but wait and brood on what was to come. In the growing dark, the empty temple decorated only with a few torches, their doubts and anxieties were allowed to fester. Sagramor was no exception. He just wished that they could get this Joining over and done with.

Knowing they sat with a former temple of Old Tevinter certainly wasn’t helping matters. Centuries had passed since the Imperium had been forced from this part of Thedas, the temple itself had fallen to ruin, and their altars and iconography had been destroyed or removed long ago, but the very idea of being in a place once devoted to the Old Gods invoked some primal fear in the elf. How many slaves, both elves and men, had died in the construction of Ostagar? How many innocent people had been dragged into this once-bloody shrine to be sacrificed to the bloody Seven, or were simply killed to augment the fell powers of the magisters? By any reckoning, far too many. Even worse, the ruins were fairly isolated from the rest of the fortress, and Alistair had taken up his post at the sole entranceway, as if to prevent escape. Something was very wrong here, and Sagramor tightened his blue cloak around him in an unconscious gesture of concern, grateful that his drawn-up hood concealed his nervous expression.

Worst of all, it seemed that Jory’s hesitation, previously vanquished along with the darkspawn he had killed, had returned stronger than ever. “The more I hear about this Joining, the less I like it.”

“Are you blubbering again?” Daveth demanded scornfully. While Sagramor could understand what the knight was feeling right now, the former thief was apparently without pity. “How in the Maker’s name do you get any fighting done, what with the way you piss and moan?”

“Why all these damned tests? Am I not a knight of Redcliffe? Have I not earned my place?”

“Maybe it’s tradition. Maybe they’re just doing it to annoy you.”

“Calm down, Ser Jory. Whatever it is, it’s nothing we can’t overcome,” Sagramor reassured him, sounding a lot more confident than he felt. “Besides, there’s nothing we can do about it now, so just try to relax. Panicking will not help matters.”

“I only know that my wife is in Highever with a child on the way! If they had warned me… it just doesn’t seem fair.”

“Would you have come if they’d warned you? Maybe that’s why they don’t tell you,” opined Daveth. “The Wardens do what they must, right?”

Fear injected a shrill note into the knight’s voice. “Including sacrificing us?”

“I’d sacrifice a lot more if I knew it would end the Blight,” Daveth declared, addressing Jory with a steely gaze. “You’ve seen those darkspawn, ser knight. Wouldn’t you die to protect your pretty wife from them? And the babe too? And what about you, Sagramor? I’m sure you’ve got family and friends that’re worth protecting, right?”

“You’re certainly not wrong on that count, Daveth,” answered Sagramor, shaking his head in resignation. He hadn’t expected a career criminal to be so capable of self-sacrifice, and his respect for the rogue only increased. “I’ve done it before, and I’ll do it again if necessary, though I pray to the Maker that I never have need to.”

“So yes, Jory, maybe you’ll die. Maybe we’ll all die. But if no one stops the darkspawn, we’ll die for sure.”

“I have just never faced a foe I could not engage with my blade,” Jory confessed, ashamed of the notion. “Darkspawn bleed and die like any other foe, but this?”

The clink of metal drew their attentions, and Duncan walked into the temple bearing a great silver chalice, looking particularly solemn, even for him. “At last, we come to the Joining. Before we begin, I must ask that each of you swear an oath never to repeat the truth of what you hear tonight to anyone outside of the Order. We Grey Wardens have our secrets, and they must remain as such if we are to carry out our duty. Swear this to me, aspirants of the Grey.”

“I will honour this oath, Duncan, I swear it in the Maker’s name,” stated Sagramor, bowing low.

“And I,” added Jory.

“You got my word, Duncan,” Daveth proclaimed, “for whatever worth it holds.”

“Good. I accept your oaths, and will hold you to them, for reasons that will soon become clear,” Duncan said gravely. “The Grey Wardens were founded during the First Blight, when humanity stood on the verge of annihilation. For nearly a century, the darkspawn had laid waste to the surface and the Deep Roads, destroying any and all they came across. The Dwarven Empire had been cast down, the barbarians were scattered and destroyed tribe by tribe, and even Old Tevinter, in all its terrible strength, was no match for the hosts of Dumat. The light was going out, and soon there would be nothing left but ashes.” Such was the power of the old man’s voice that Sagramor could witness it all happening in his mind’s eye; the endless ranks of the darkspawn clashing with the armies of men and dwarves, the ghastly howls of the beasts as they laid waste to entire cities, the land in their wake sickening and drenched in blood. The moment passed, and the elf trembled at the intensity of the vision. “In such desperate times, desperate solutions were all we could bring to bear. And so it was that the first Grey Wardens drank of darkspawn blood, and mastered their taint.”

The chalice was brought forth for the recruits’ inspection, and Sagramor’s grey eyes widened with shock at the sight of the viscous darkspawn blood slowing oozing about in the cup. “We’re to drink the blood of those… those creatures?” asked Jory, face as pale as a linen sheet.

“As the first Grey Wardens did before us. As we did before you,” Duncan asserted. “This is the source of our power and our victory.”

“Those who survive the Joining become immune to the taint, and we gain a measure of the darkspawns’ strength and endurance,” Alistair calmly elaborated in the face of the recruits’ trepidation. “We can also sense the taint in the darkspawn, and use it to slay the Archdemon.”

“Those who survive?” Jory repeated.

“Not all who drink the blood will survive, and those who do are forever changed. This is why the Joining is kept secret. It is the price we pay.” Duncan allowed the recruits a moment for his words to sink in before continuing. “We speak only a few words prior to the Joining, but they have been said since the first. Alistair, if you would?”

Clearing his throat, Alistair spoke the oath, keeping his head down as if in prayer. “Join us, brothers and sisters. Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us to carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten, and that one day, we shall join you.”

“In peace…” called Duncan.

“Vigilance,” came Alistair’s response.

“In war…”

“Victory.”

“In death…”

“Sacrifice.” Pregnant with unspoken regret, the word hung for a moment in the night air, and then was gone. Keeping his head lowered so as not to meet the eyes of the recruits, Alistair took up his place at the entranceway, hand going to the longsword sheathed at his waist.

The oath finished, Duncan approached the first of them, chalice in hand. “Daveth, step forward.”

Without hesitation, the former thief complied, accepting the cup and drinking deep of the vile concoction that lay within. Taking back the chalice, Duncan stepped back a pace, and Sagramor noticed how unsteady and tired Daveth looked. For what seemed like an eternity, the human simply stood there, rooted in place by the enormity of what he had undertaken.

And then Daveth began to scream, a horrifying, bloodcurdling sound. Staggering away like a drunkard, the former thief started choking, his throat swelling and pulsating unnaturally, hands clenched to his head as if to keep it from bursting, every spare breath taken up by his wails of agony. Daveth retched, drenching the stone with bloody spume, and when he raised his head, only blank white eyes looked towards the other recruits for solace, before he vomited up black blood once more.

“Maker’s breath!” Jory cursed, stepped backwards at the sight.

“I am sorry, Daveth,” said Duncan, focusing only the coughing, choking recruit.

“There must be something we can do!” insisted Sagramor.

But there was nothing to be done. Groaning his last, Daveth collapsed, blood oozing from his mouth, his entire body shaking and convulsing until, mercifully, he was still. Duncan knelt to check his pulse, but it was a forgone conclusion, and Sagramor felt his loss like a punch to the gut. He had not known Daveth for more than a day, but the thief had been courageous and affable and deserved a far better fate than this. At his side, Jory was trembling like a leaf in an autumn gale, eyes rapidly glancing between Daveth’s body and the sorrowful Alistair blocking the doorway.

His face a stoic mask, Duncan closed Daveth’s blank eyes, and then took up the chalice once again. “Step forward, Jory.”

Whatever remained of Jory’s courage after witnessing Daveth’s dreadful fate snapped like a twig underfoot. “No, this is… I have a wife, a child! Had I known…”

“There is no going back,” the Warden intoned darkly, advancing.

And then Jory, in his fear, elected to doom himself. Giving a terrified cry, the knight drew forth his greatsword, leveling the steel blade at Duncan in the hopes of warding him away. “No! You ask too much, there is no glory in this!”

“For the Maker’s sake, Jory!” Sagramor blurted. A new note of urgency entered his voice as Duncan brought forth one of his own blades. “Duncan, please, there’s no need! Ser Jory, you are a knight of Redcliffe. You’ve beaten your fears before, so put up your sword!”

“No! I won’t do this! Now stand aside, old man!” Duncan did not move. “I said stand aside!” Jory repeated, punctuating his words with a desperate lunge aimed right at Duncan’s gut.

Sagramor had seen Duncan fight during their encounter with the ghouls on the road, yet part of him was still so amazed how quickly the old man could move. With a small flick of the wrist, his silverite dagger deflected the lunge, wrenching the four feet of cold steel harmlessly out of the way, before darting beneath the knight’s guard and burying itself in his heart.

Gasping in as much surprise as pain, Jory staggered backwards, his blade falling from nerveless fingers. “I am sorry,” Duncan told him, slipping the blade free of the wound, but the knight was beyond hearing anything anymore. Jory collapsed, wheezing a final breath as he fell, his blood congealing and mingling with Daveth’s on the old stones of the temple. Wiping down the polished blade before sheathing it once more, Duncan faced the last recruit, brown eyes staring intently. “But the Joining is not yet complete.”

Terror seized Sagramor, and for an instant, all he could consider was fleeing this awful place, running back home with all the speed he could muster. But his legs refused to obey, rooted in place with fear. Moreover, Alistair had yet to move from the temple doorway, and the former templar gave the elf a small, pre-emptive shake of his head in warning. Duncan would not have placed him there to cut off a recruit’s escape if he was not willing to do the job, after all. He was trapped. The only escape from the Joining was death, and he was not a man to give up while even the smallest spark of hope remained. “You have been called upon to submit yourself to the taint for the greater good,” Duncan reminded him, bringing the chalice forth. “It is a high price to pay, but one that must be if this world is to be saved. Drink.”

Before the fear could provoke him into futile action, the elf’s sense of pride and honour rose up in fury. He had been raised on tales of heroism, of his grandfather’s time with the Night Elves, of Maric and Calenhad and Loghain and all the other champions of Ferelden’s history, of Andraste’s Exalted March to bring down Old Tevinter, and in none of those stories did the hero ever abandon his duty out of fear and selfishly run away to save his own skin. If the darkspawn won, there would be nowhere left to run to anyways, and the weather-beaten walls of the Denerim Alienage would not stop them. Humans often spoke of his people as being cowardly worms, how dare he even consider proving them right! Duncan had given him an opportunity to demonstrate the worth of the elves, and saved his life in the bargain. He could not forsake that debt now, and more importantly, he would not prove himself unworthy of his people’s trust.

Promise me, son, that whatever happens, you will choose to be a good man.

Good men did not run in the face of danger, or abuse the trust of others, or allowed their fears to govern their reason. With shaking hands, Sagramor took the cup and drank of the brew, forcing himself not to gag upon the bloody, reeking concoction.

Immediately, the pain struck, as if molten metal had been poured down his throat. Sagramor stumbled away, the chalice falling to the floor with a hollow clatter. The voices came next, striking with agonizing force, thousands of them, millions, all screaming. Retching and shuddering with pain, the elf added his voice to the chorus, his mind drowning beneath the pain and noise. Darkness shrouded his sight, and then…

Sagramor awoke into a brand-new nightmare. The old temple and the fallen recruits had vanished, and in their place, he found himself within an ancient hall, the majesty of the its elaborate carvings and towering statues long since subsumed beneath a tide of filth, the nobility of its design consumed by the corruption that had overtaken it. All around him, a teeming host of shadowy figures whispered sibilantly as they marched through the hall, flowing around the elf, heedless of his presence, their words rendered indistinct beneath a persistent song that echoed softly at the back of his mind.

With a start, Sagramor realized that he could feel the shadows as if they were a part of his own flesh. The darkness that comprised the thousands upon thousands of looming spectres was a part of him as well, and he stumbled back as they began to turn, finally acknowledging the intruder in their midst. Willing his legs to obey him, the elf ran, darting through the hall in near-panic, slipping through the shadowy ranks as they reached out for him, the aggravating buzz of the song growing steadily louder.

And then he felt it. Sagramor fell to his knees in agony, horrified, as a new shadow emerged, the very presence of it making the air crawl with rot. The song crescendoed to a fever pitch, and the other shadows shrank back in the face of this new arrival like naughty children. In this bizarre, dream-like state, Sagramor could felt the evil radiating from it, that palpable sense of wrongness it brought forth with every tortured breath. The world recoiled in horror at its foul presence, the universe itself dying simply because the shadow existed, pulsing like some malignant, cancerous growth on the face of reality.

It saw him, and it lunged. Sagramor raised his arms to ward the creature away, a pathetic gesture in the face of something so monstrous. He caught a glimpse of bloodstained fangs, the shadow was close enough to strike-

And then the elf awoke, the relieved faces of Duncan and Alistair looking down upon him. “It is finished,” the older Warden said, offering his hand. “Welcome.”