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.

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Chapter Eleven: The Road to Lothering

As ever in the days since Ostagar’s fall, Sagramor took the first watch that night, his sharp eyes gazing into the surrounding woodland. The storm that had settled over the region for the past several days continued to unleash its elemental fury, and he shivered within his sodden cloak, cursing their inability to start a fire in the pervasive downpour. Around him, the forest was alive with the hiss of the rain, the chirping of insects and Alistair’s fitful snoring. The Blight had yet to touch this region; according to Morrigan, the darkspawn horde was still a few days behind them, their progress northwards slowing. The young sorceress believed they were simply recouping their losses from Ostagar and hunting down any surviving defenders, but whatever the reason, they would not tarry forever.

It had taken them a full two weeks of travel to reach their current position, two hard and miserable weeks spent creeping through the Ferelden wilderness, dodging bands of patrolling darkspawn and subsisting on whatever they could forage. In that time, Sagramor’s ability to sense the creatures had developed, as promised, and barely a day went by when he did not feel the ghostly whispers in the back of his mind that signalled their approach. Between himself and Alistair, they usually had forewarning of an enemy warband in time to go to ground, but on a few occasions, escape had proved impossible. Fortunately, between the bladework of the Wardens and Morrigan’s impressive magic, they were able to cut down the darkspawn without severe injury, and continue their journey.

Unfortunately, that was the one bright spot in what had become an utterly miserable journey. With the Wardens’ packs lost during the fighting at Ostagar, the little company found themselves criminally undersupplied and lacking the basic essentials for surviving in the wilderness. What little food they possessed was consumed quickly, and they were frequently forced to go hungry when their attempts at foraging proved fruitless. The constant stress of evading the darkspawn had not helped matters, causing tempers to flare rapidly. On more than one occasion, Sagramor was forced to meditate Alistair and Morrigan’s constant bickering, though the simmering hostility between the two never truly dissipated.

Having to act as peacemaker between the two was enough of a burden for Sagramor, but that was merely the beginning. By some unspoken agreement, the young elf found himself in command of their tired party, becoming its leader by virtue of no one else wanting the job. Aside from his spats with Morrigan, Alistair remained distant and withdrawn, consumed by the loss of Duncan and the other Wardens. It did not stop him from fighting darkspawn; indeed, he met those opportunities with a genuine, vengeful relish, but outside of battle his grief reigned absolute.

Morrigan, meanwhile, had neither the inclination nor the charisma to lead. The dark-haired sorceress had proven herself a very useful ally, but her presence with them was the result of Flemeth’s urgings rather than any desire of her own to see Ferelden saved, and she remained largely aloof of the Wardens’ concerns. Sagramor had the impression that the fate of the country and its people was of little concern to her, and while the two men grappled with their inner demons, Morrigan seemed untouched by the tragedies of Ostagar. She was content to follow their lead, not to take up their cause as her own.

That left only Sagramor to command, and the notion was so absurd the young elf did not know whether to laugh or weep. He was more boy than man in many respects, a fact he would admit to himself if no other, and he lacked the experience and training one would expect of a good commander. It would be a lie to say that his own soul was unburdened; his grief over failing Shianni mingled with their disheartening defeat at Ostagar, a toxic brew that served to multiply his doubts. In the dark of night, he began to question himself, and amidst the vastness of the Ferelden wilderness, their plan seemed increasingly like a child’s fancy. On paper, it was simple; use the treaties to enlist the aid of allies, rebuild the shattered armies of Ferelden, and defeat the darkspawn horde, but the more he considered it, the more their quest seemed foolhardy. A lowly elf, a regretful knight and a callous sorceress; Ferelden’s survival depended on these meagre few?

He let no sign of this show to the others. One thing he had learned from watching men like Elder Valendrian in times of crisis was that a good leader should never show doubt or despair in front of those they commanded. Their spirits were low enough as it is without openly panicking, so Sagramor resolved to remain steadfast, a fixed point in the storm that raged around them. Though, perhaps some small measure of doubt was not a bad thing. The odds were against them, and they would have to employ every weapon in their arsenal to see this through, and the mind, Sagramor knew, was the most powerful weapon at all. Loghain had taken advantage of Ferelden’s trust in order to betray them; if they were to be victorious, they could not walk into any situation blindly. Self-assuredness was the privilege of the powerful, and to the elf’s regret, they were anything but.

The rustle of pine needles and fallen leaves alerted the elf to the strange black fox that loped its way towards their pitiful camp, golden eyes fixed upon him. Coming to a halt, the beast glowed with an otherworldly luminescence, limbs shifting and growing, fur vanishing, face morphing like a ball of clay in the hands of a potter, until at last when the light faded, Morrigan stood before him, pale hands clasped wearily about her staff. “The darkspawn have lost our trail,” she whispered, sitting down to rest without any further ceremony. “Even the foremost of their warbands is a day’s march behind us, as far as I could determine.”

“Well done, Morrigan,” Sagramor replied, genuinely impressed. Over the course of their long march, Morrigan had taken in upon herself to range far and wide for the enemy’s presence, using her magic to transform into various beasts so that she might scout undetected. It was always a different beast each time, he noticed. Sometimes she took to the air in the form of a raven or sparrow, while on other occasions, she became a fox, wolf, weasel or even rat to stalk at ground level. At times, it seemed like she was deliberately showing off, but so long as she continued to work hard, Sagramor didn’t care much. “You should eat. You must be weary from casting your spells.”

The dark-haired girl scoffed at this. “I am not some weakling noblewoman who requires a dozen courtiers to help her step out the door, Warden. I will endure.”

“As you wish.” Sagramor had quickly learned the importance of de-escalating matters when it came to Morrigan; there was no sense arguing over nothing. “You know your limits better than I would, though I have to admit, I’ve never seen any magic like yours before.”

“’Tis not a common art, shapeshifting. The Chantry and their Templars have taken great pains to eliminate what they refer to as ‘hedge magics’, the ability to turn into beasts one of them,” Morrigan explained, drawing her cloak about her to ward off a fresh cloudburst. “Such arts are more often found amongst the wild places of the world, for not even the Chantry can eliminate every refuge where mages practice their art freely.”

“Did the Templars ever try and hunt you and Flemeth down?”

“On numerous occasions,” the sorceress remarked calmly. “The fact that they once counted fools like Alistair amongst their number should tell you how successful they were.”

“Go easy on him, Morrigan,” Sagramor gently chided her, glancing over to his fellow Warden, muttering in his sleep. “He’s a better man and ally than you might think.”

“Perhaps. In any event, the frequent searches of the templars proved to be an amusing distraction when it came. Mother would have this excited gleam in her eyes, and she would announce that ‘the game had begun again.’ Those templars that managed to discover our home without blundering into a Chasind ambush or experiencing the dangers of the landscape had to reckon with her, and I’ve yet to meet any capable of the task. In time, I would aid her, a young girl to shriek and run and lure the Templars to their doom. Flemeth also took this as an opportunity to test my magic. As a child, I would be easy prey for the intruders, but there was little they could do to catch me as a bird or beast.”

“You almost sound nostalgic. I can’t imagine growing up in such a dangerous environment.”

“It suited us well. For many years, it was simply Flemeth and I. The Wilds and its creatures were more real to me than all of Flemeth’s tales of the world of men, and it was a place that encouraged me to be strong, lest I be overcome by something stronger. Mother taught me to be predator rather than prey, and thus, the Wilds became my home, and I a natural denizen. I did leave the Wilds at times, but only for brief periods, enough to give me a glimpse of the civilized lands beyond.”

“Very daring. It sounds just like you.”

Morrigan gave a small laugh. “That is… kind of you to say so. In any event, I have rarely experienced any dangers that I was not prepared for, in the Wilds or beyond. There was little to fear that my magic could not dispose of.”

“So shapeshifting, elemental attacks… what else can your magic bring to the table?” asked Sagramor.

“I have some knowledge of entropic spells,” Morrigan declared. “I can sap the strength from your enemies, dull their thinking, leave them weak and vulnerable for you to slay. My knowledge of healing magic is rudimentary, but I know enough of herb-lore to offer some basic first aid.” Arms crossed behind her breasts, the sorceress voiced her own question, pregnant with malice. “Have you decided then? Am I an unnatural abomination to be put to the torch?”

“What? No!” Sagramor pleaded. “Listen, Morrigan, we’re a company. It doesn’t matter that you’re an apostate; you fight for us, so we’ll fight for you. I’m not going to rat you out to the Chantry, and while you might not believe it, neither will Alistair.”

“You sound so certain of that,” the sorceress remarked, shaking her head in disbelief.

“That’s because I am certain. I didn’t sell people out in the Alienage, and I’m not about to start here,” the elf stated, brimming with conviction. ”There’s been enough treason already without adding to the pile myself. You work with us, Morrigan, and you won’t have any problems.”

“I am relieved to hear it,” Morrigan answered. Overhead, the tree limbs hissed in the warm night wind, and at once, the girl became distant once more. “I shall rest now. Wake me when my watch begins.”

Within moments, the girl was asleep, and Sagramor left her to rest, taking up his vigil once more. In the end, Morrigan and Alistair could be relied upon. He merely hoped that, one day, he might prove himself worthy of such loyalty…

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The next day, the unlikely trio finally reached the beginnings of the Imperial Highway, the dense woodland parting to reveal the ancient granite trail cutting through forest and valley alike. Like Ostagar, the Highway was a relic of Old Tevinter architecture, a massive stone artery spanning the length of the continent, designed to allow their troops quicker passage over land across their far-flung empire. The life’s work of thousands of slaves, the Highway had been built upon great concentric arches to support its vast weight, lifting the roadway above ground level and doubtless giving the arrogant magisters a commanding view of the lands they had enslaved. In the centuries since, the nations that had sprung up from Tevinter’s old territories had maintained the Highway for their own use, and so the little company made excellent time along the great stones stained by time and the elements, covering the distance of a full two days’ march cross-country in the space of a morning. As weary as they were, Sagramor pushed the little company hard, eager to make up for lost time, and as the beating sun reached its zenith, he was the first to spot the steeple of a small chantry in the distance, past the endless golden fields of wheat.

He was also the first to spot the bandits barricading the Highway ahead of them, the stone path suddenly infested with a dozen scarred, tough-looking men. Grimly, he realized they were not the only ones to encounter their impromptu checkpoint, and beside him, Alistair gasped in horror at the sight. Three huddled figures knelt helplessly before the brigands, the foremost being pummelled by three of the grinning thieves, a woman’s pleas and a child’s cries splitting the warm summer air like a knife. “Highwaymen,” Alistair spat, becoming animated for the first time in days. “Preying on those fleeing the darkspawn, I suppose.”

“They’ve preyed on their last victims,” Sagramor growled. As they neared, the elven features of the bandits’ current targets became apparent, and he quickened his pace, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. To their credit, Morrigan and Alistair followed him close behind without question, and the elven warrior took a deep breath to study himself, the enemy finally noticing their approach.

One of their number, evidently the leader, gave a curt nod, and a bleeding and battered elven man was tossed away into the waiting arms of his family, mother and daughter crouched at the side of the highway, faces streaked with tears at the bandits’ cruelty. The daughter was no more than six, a skinny lamb bleating fearfully in her arms, and Sagramor wondered what dark fate had driven them into the path of the bandits. The highwaymen had been eagerly robbing the elves for what little wealth they possessed, but now, they smelt a far richer set of marks. “Leave these ones for now, gentlemen, we have more travellers to attend to. Led by another elf of all things!”

“Uhh, they don’t look much like the others,” one of the bandits mumbled dully, the Maker having clearly blessed him with greater brawn than wits. If he was a dullard though, the rest of the gang were fools indeed, giving cocksure smiles as they levelled bows and spears at the armed party, dismissing the lone voice of reason in their midst. “Maybe we should just let these ones pass.”

“Nonsense!” the bandit leader retorted, flinging his arms open in a welcoming gesture, or at least as welcoming as he could be with a dozen unwashed and bloodthirsty ruffians at his beck and call. “Greetings, travellers!”

“Do not waste breath bandying with these curs, Sagramor, for they are fools to get in our way,” Morrigan remarked scornfully, bringing her staff to bear. “We have no time for niceties. I say teach them a lesson.”

“Now, is that any way to greet someone?” the lead bandit asked, grinning widely. “A simple ten silvers and you’re free to move on.”

“You should listen to your friend, ser,” Sagramor replied, examining their would-be extortionists. The sides of the road were peppered with scattered bundles they had taken from past victims. The bandits themselves weren’t much to look upon; few possessed any armour beyond hunting leathers, and their weapons had seen better days, but they were more numerous, and had the confidence that came with it. One look at the bruised face of the elven man, his worn arms wrapped tight about his wife and daughter, hardened the Warden’s heart. He doubted they had a pair of silvers to rub together, yet the brigands had set upon them all the same. If they were cruel or desperate enough to rob such poor folk, there would be no reasoning with them. “We’re not refugees.”

“See, what’d I tell ya!” the dissenting bandit cried. “No wagons, and this one looks armed!”

“The toll applies to everyone, Henric,” their leader answered smoothly, his honeyed words stifling any further objections. “That’s why it’s a toll and not, say, a refugee tax.”

It was a petty euphemism to conceal their misdeeds, but enough for a dullard like Henric. “Oh, right! Even if you’re no refugee, you still gotta pay.”

Fury building up, Sagramor drew his sword, the eyes of the elven family widening at the sight. He was all-too aware of the anger rooted in his soul, the product of a life bent beneath the weight of injustice, a vicious beast that he kept caged with reason, bound by conscience and sedated with prayer. It came in handy during a fight when the circumstances required a will unrestrained by doubt, but all the same, he was ashamed of it. Good men did not allow rage to guide their actions, but in the days since Shianni’s rape, the beast slipped free more easily, and after the betrayal at Ostagar, the hardships of the journey and having to arbitrate the disputes of his two companions, Sagramor was in no mood to hold it back.

And these scum were of a particularly vile breed; men who, in times of woe, worked to deepen the misery of their fellows, who took advantage of those already left weakened and destitute, who would threaten his people with theft and murder merely because they could. The ill-stacked piles of boxes and sacks that lined the side of the Highway were testament to the bandit’s previous efforts, and the elf made no attempt to halt the flowing scorn. “You must be the most idiotic bandits in all of existence. Seriously? You’re actually going to make a Grey Warden submit to your little shakedown? Are you this desperate for coin?”

Henric gasped. “Grey Wardens? Weren’t they the ones what killed the King?”

“What?” Sagramor demanded. Behind him, Alistair made a sound of shock and no small indignation. “What do you mean the Wardens killed the King?”

“That’s the rumour,” the lead bandit explained, nervously pacing backwards. “Teryn’s put a two hundred-sovereign bounty on the heads of any Warden found, but I think we’ll just let you continue on with your fugitive, king-killing ways.”

In that moment of indecision, with greed and fear warring the hearts of the bandits, Sagramor struck. Two hundred gold sovereigns was enough to push any man into desperate action, and the lure of the reward would work its magic on the bandits soon enough. To hesitate would also allow them to make the family their hostages, and he could not risk their safety. Besides, he was angry now; Loghain’s blacklisting of the Wardens was enough to push him towards violence and in the brigands, he had finally found a viable outlet for his rage. The bandit leader screamed shrilly as the elf’s greatsword scythed towards his neck, missing by a hands-breath and cutting down the man beside him. “Kill him!” the highwayman shrieked. “Cut them all down!”

So ordered, the bandits charged, but Sagramor could see the disbelief in their expressions, the knowledge that they were facing a member of the most legendary military order in Thedas. They were afraid of him, and he had no intention of disabusing them of the notion. The foremost three bandits suddenly flash-froze, their ice-ridden faces twisted into an agonized rictus thanks to Morrigan’s magic, and then Sagramor and Alistair were upon the shocked survivors.

Henric was the first to recover his wits, bringing his two-handed warhammer down upon Alistair. Letting his raised shield take the telegraphed blow, Alistair put his longsword into the bandit’s belly with all the passion as he might a training dummy. Beside him, Sagramor stood between the bandits and their victims, cursing the highwaymen as cowardly degenerates and pawns of a traitor, greatsword arcing through limbs and weapons alike. His wolf’s blood roused, nothing could stop the elf, and the hard-bitten ruffians who had found it easy to waylay travellers for their wealth quailed at the idea of standing against the howling warrior. Two bandits elected to cut their losses and flee, but Morrigan was there, staff brimming with eldritch light. The first man had a moment to scream before an arcane bolt reduced him to ashes. Her blackened staff twirled, and the second bandit was punted off the Highway by hurricane-force winds, his battered corpse vanishing amongst the dense wheat fields.

With more than half their number down, the remaining bandits became increasingly desperate, their efforts more frantic. A dagger slipped through the rents in Sagramor’s armour, grazing a rib. The elf cried out at the sudden pain, the hilt of his greatsword bashing the foe away. Arrows began flying, the bandit leader entering the fray under the cover of a pair of archers, and Sagramor finched as a shaft whipped past his lean face. Another bandit tried for the elven family, helplessly frozen in terror, but Alistair was there, beating down the offender with the flat of his shield. Once, twice, thrice, each blow like a blacksmith hammering hot metal, until the highwayman at last went still, Alistair’s sword ensuring he was down for good.

And then an animal’s howl cut through the chaos of the fight, and a swift brown shadow barrelled past the surprised Morrigan, throwing itself upon the bandit archers. It was a mabari warhound, its great muscles bulging beneath the tattered fur, immense jaws clenched around a bandit’s forearm with enough force to shatter the bone. An arrow barely missed its flank, and the beast turned towards its assailant, ripping out his throat in a single, terrifying leap.

Sagramor had no idea where the hound had come from, or what had compelled it to aid their fight, but he wasn’t about to let the opportunity slide. Taking advantage of the bandit leader’s distraction, the elf hammered the man’s blades from his hands, his backswing silencing the bandit’s scream upon the greatsword’s length. Cries sounded behind the elf, and he whirled about, but Alistair, Morrigan and the warhound had done their job well, finishing off the few remaining bandits and leaving the now-quiet Highway strewn with the bodies of the dead. “An amusing diversion,” the sorceress muttered, noticing Sagramor’s wound. “You are injured, Warden.”

“Just a scratch. It can wait,” Sagramor replied, disregarding the sharp pain in his side, focusing instead on those they had rescued. “Are you three alright?”

“We are now,” the elven man answered cautiously, rising upon shaky legs to stand between the strangers and his family. Their worn, dirty clothes and callused hands identified them as itinerant labourers, elves who travelled from village to village, offering their labour for whoever was willing to pay. It was a hard life; full of uncertainty, vulnerable to depredations of men like these bandits and absent even the basic support structure of the alienage community, and Sagramor’s respect for the scared family grew. “Thank you for your help, stranger. We knew there were bandits prowling about Lothering, but we had no idea they were so close to the village.”

“Papa, are the bad men gone?” came a small voice, as the child peeked out at Sagramor from behind her father’s legs, tiny hands fretfully stroking her pet lamb. The warhound padded forward curiously, bloodstained jaws flexing in a canine grin, and she gave a small shriek, darting back into her mother’s arms. “Please don’t eat Flopsy!”

“Do not fear, child, your pet is quite safe,” Sagramor assured her, warding the dog away with a click of his fingers, the beast responding instantly. To the frightened family, the bloodstained elf and his companions must have been a terrifying sight, and he sheathed his blade to avoid traumatizing them further. “My name is Sagramor Tabris of the Denerim Alienage, Grey Warden of Ferelden. My companions and I mean you no harm. Please, be at peace. You’re in no danger from us. You have my word on it.”

“Are you truly Grey Wardens?” the elven woman asked, giving her daughter a reassuring hug. “Do you know what happened to the King?”

“The King has been slain, and his army at Ostagar lost,” elaborated Sagramor. “That much is true, though the Grey Wardens were not to blame.”

“Clearly, someone thinks otherwise, if this bounty is any indication,” Morrigan interjected coldly.

“What did that bandit mean by that?” Alistair demanded, incredulous at the notion. “Loghain can’t possibly be scapegoating us for his treason!”

“He already has, fool!” Morrigan snapped. “And the people, being as easily cozened as they are, will swallow such lies whole.”

“What are your names?” Sagramor asked the family.

The father swallowed nervously, but nonetheless complied. “My name is Meilyr, ser Warden, and this is my wife Joanna, and our daughter Penny. We own you a great deal for saving our lives, but there is little we can do to repay you.”

Sagramor scoffed in derision. “First off, I’m not a “ser”; we both work for a living. Second, we saved you because it was the right thing to do, not in hopes of extorting a reward. That being said, my companions and I are in dire need of information. We’ve been on our own for the past two weeks, cut off from the rest of Ferelden. Please, could you tell us what’s been happening? What’s Loghain been up to?”

Meilyr and Joanna began to speak, and with every rumour and anecdote that passed their lips, the fears of the elven Warden only deepened. These were common elves sharing what little they had had learned from their travels, not the spymasters of the rich and powerful, but bit by bit, a picture of Ferelden began to emerge, and what Sagramor saw was grim indeed. Loghain’s desertion from the field at Ostagar had only been the beginning; the declaration of his regency had been heard across the land, even as far south as Lothering. “Was this his plan all along?” asked Alistair, spitting venom at the notion. “All those lives sacrificed, just so he could sit on the throne?”

“There are some who would do far more for far less,” Morrigan chided him. “The treachery of men is more consistent than the passing of the seasons.”

“We arrived in Lothering a couple days after he passed through,” Joanna interjected, eager to assist their rescuers. “From what he heard, he didn’t stay in there for long, but he did order the local bann to bring all his forces north with him.”

“So the village is defenseless, then?” asked Sagramor.

Meilyr gave a regretful nod. “More or less. Some of the local militia are still there, and there are some Templars trying to keep the peace, but between all the refugees and the threat of the bandits, they’re stretched thin. Seems like everyone from south of here has come to Lothering looking for food and shelter, and they’re quickly running out of both.”

“You didn’t stay?”

“Of course not!” Joanna scoffed. “The shems are always quick to blame us when things go bad, and it was only a matter of time before they decided to string us up from the nearest tree. They barely had any charity for each other, much less for strange elves.”

“We had hoped to find refuge with family in Gwaren,” Meilyr explained, “but we had heard rumours of bandits stalking the roads north and east of Lothering. I thought that if we came south a bit then headed east cross-country, we might avoid them.” He gave an exhausted sigh as he looked over the carnage Sagramor and company had left in their wake. “This band found us almost as soon as we left the village, and dragged us over here as their prisoners. Some of them discussed sending us to “the boss”, whoever that is, but they must not have seen the value in it.”

“You had no way of knowing,” Joanna reminded him soothingly, placing a comforting hand on her husband’s arm. “And the Maker delivered us to safety in the end.”

“True. I must thank you again, Warden. Loghain may brand you outlaws, but there’s no way we’d side with a shemlen over one of our own folk.”

“Could you tell us more about this bounty?” Alistair inquired.

Meilyr looked askance at the questioner, clearly unused to a respective inquiry from an armed human, but eventually decided there posed little danger in answering. “We don’t know much, I’m afraid, only that the Teryn declared the Wardens to be traitors responsible for the King’s death. It’s like that bandit said, a full two hundred sovereigns for any Warden killed or captured.”

“’Tis a large sum?” asked Morrigan.

“Very,” Sagramor answered. Two hundred sovereigns was the stuff of dreams for most Fereldans, no matter their race. It was enough money to equip a small army, renovate a small castle, even purchase a title, and for the starving and desperate refugees fleeing the Blight, it would be more than enough inducement to hunt the Wardens down.

“If we may ask, wait about the darkspawn?” Joanna demanded, naked urgency in her words. “Are they close?”

“A few days behind us, perhaps, but they’ll be here eventually; Lothering is right in the horde’s path. Escaping northwards would probably be your best bet, though if you do mean to continue east, please do so quickly.”

“If you do head to Gwaren, make sure you go through the Brecilian Passage instead of cutting through the forest itself,” suggested Alistair. “There are worse things than bandits in those woods.”

“We will,” said Joanna, bundling up her daughter in her arms. “Thank you again, Sagramor. We never would have made it out of here without you.”

The hound gave a small whimper, and all eyes turned towards it. “Yes, and your dog too,” Meilyr remarked. “It’s a truly magnificent beast. Where did you find it?”

“In truth, I think he chose me. Before you leave, you should take whatever supplies you need from the bandit’s stores; Alistair, see if there’s anything we can use ourselves. Morrigan, would you keep an eye out for any more bandits?” asked Sagramor. “I need to check on our furry little friend here.”

At the mention of it, the mabari began playfully hopping around Sagramor, only calming at the elf’s command. Quickly, the Warden looked over the warhound, noticing how patchy and ragged its brown fur was looking, the new growth having only just begun to emerge. The animal’s head cocked quizzically as Sagramor continued his examination, and it gave a small, familiar little bow, the elf’s eyes widening with recognition. “I think this is the hound I got those flowers for, back at Ostagar. Do you think he was looking for me?”

“If so, then he’s definitely imprinted on you,” Alistair explained. “He’s probably been tracking us ever since the battle.”

“Oh, wonderful,” Morrigan jibed, rank with sarcasm. “Does this mean we’re to have this mangy beast following us about?”

“He’s not mangy!” cooed the former templar. The hound’s stubby tail wiggled, clearly pleased with all this attention. “You’ll have to name him, Sagramor, to make sure the imprinting sticks.”

“Well, he’s certainly proved his value,” the elf said, stroking the dog’s fur. “Any ideas?”

“Uhh, how about Rabbit? Or Barkspawn?”

“Those are terrible names,” Morrigan remarked, displeased with the whole notion.

“Well, why don’t you come up with one then?” snapped Alistair.

Before their bickering could escalate further, Sagramor made his decision, kneeling down so he was level with the dog. “How about… Ragnar? Would you like that as a name?”

The hound gave a happy bark, licking at Sagramor’s face. “I take it that’s acceptable,” the elf muttered, smiling for the first time since Ostagar even as he wiped away the hound’s benediction. His diligence had been rewarded, and now they had a new ally to fight at their side.

***************************

Parting company from Meilyr and his family, Sagramor and his companions headed north, an hour’s march bringing them to the wooden gates of Lothering’s southern palisade. Before continuing their journey, the group had taken advantage of the bandit’s accumulated plunder to bolster their own flagging stores, and a few minutes picking through the disorganized piles rewarded them with comfortable ox-hide packs, a few days’ worth of dried meats and bread, some spare clothing and camping equipment, and finally some extra silvers from the bandit’s purses. There was a great deal of excess equipment that they were forced to leave behind for lack of pack animals to bear them, while other valuable goods like tents, weapons and armour were strangely absent from the trove, likely sent to the “boss” Meilyr had mentioned. The elves departed eastward, and Sagramor gave a quick prayer for their safety on this long road ahead of them, in gratitude for their aid.

Mindful of Meilyr’s warnings, the Wardens grudgingly secreted their griffin tabards inside their packs before any of Lothering’s sentries spotted them. It was a point of pride to be able to wear their Order’s heraldry, and to conceal their loyalties did not sit well with either man, but in the end, the reality of the situation had won out. In the eyes of the populace, Loghain was a hero, and even those who would question his assertions would comply for the sake of the reward. If Sagramor and company were to recuperate and prepare themselves for the journey ahead, they could not do as Wardens.

From atop the Highway, Sagramor witnessed the village laid out before them, a small little township rooted on both banks of a gentle stream, smoke rising from the hearths of thatched-roofed houses surrounding the village chantry. In better days, Lothering might have been a place of rural innocence, but now, the effects of the Blight were already being felt. Behind the rotting palisade, the elf beheld a sea of tents housing the vast numbers of refugees fleeing the darkspawn, and raised voices could be heard as the residents and newcomers quarreled. The village sat hopeless and vulnerable in the eyes of the Wardens, and Sagramor offered a muttered curse. Morrigan had been correct; Lothering was not defensible, and the vast horde that had overwhelmed Cailan’s host would lay waste to it in an hour’s time.

“So here we are,” Alistair remarked, leaning on the Highway’s stone railing. “Pretty as a painting.”

“Ah, so you have finally decided to rejoin us, have you?” Morrigan asked with a vicious smirk. “Falling on your blade in grief seemed like too much trouble, I take it?”

“Is my being upset so hard to understand? Have you never lost someone important to you? Just what would you do if your mother died?”

“Before or after I stopped laughing?” said the sorceress.

“Right, very creepy, forget I asked.”

“Speak your mind, Alistair,” interjected Sagramor, eager to avoid another spat between the two. “What did you want to talk about?”

“I just thought we should talk about where we intend to go first. We have three treaties to call upon, and not a lot of time to do it, after all.”

“Honestly, I haven’t had a chance to give it much thought,” the elf admitted guiltily. “I could probably use some directions; I know the Circle of Magi is in Lake Calenhad, but not much more than that. Orzammar is up in the mountains, correct?”

“Yes, up in the Frostbacks to the northwest, though Gherlen’s Pass. The pass is supposedly safe to travel year-round, but if it’s all the same to you, I wouldn’t take my chances with it during the winter.”

“And what about the Dalish?” asked the elf. “Even amongst my people, we know little about them, but if they’re nomadic like all the stories say, we might have some trouble finding them.”

“Good point. I think our best bet would be to try searching the Brecilian Forest; it’s wild country and human settlements are scarce, just the sort of place the Dalish could take refuge in. With luck, we’ll find a clan in there that might aid us. All that said, with Loghain breathing down our necks, getting Arl Eamon’s help might be our best option.”

“Is there any chance we can find other Wardens to aid us? I’d assume the branches of the Order in other nations would help against the Blight.”  

“They would, but aside from sending a message, we’d have to leave Ferelden to seek them out, and with the Blight advancing, I don’t think that’s a good idea. Besides, if Loghain’s willing to hunt us down, I doubt he’ll let any more Wardens enter Ferelden to begin with. Sorry to say, but I think we’re on our own.”

“What about you, Morrigan?” Sagramor inquired. “Do you have any suggestions?”

“’Tis obvious; go after your enemy directly. Find this man Loghain and kill him. The business of the treaties can then be concluded without interference.”

“Yes, he certainly wouldn’t see that coming!” Alistair remarked snidely. “Because it’s not like he has the advantage of an army, or experience, or-”

“I was asked for my opinion, and I gave it. If your wish is to come up with reasons why something cannot be done, we will stand here until the darkspawn are upon us!” snapped Morrigan. “When one is pursued by a hunter, the best course of action is to remove his capacity to hunt. Can we really afford to waste time dealing with the fools who flock to his banner when there are darkspawn to slay?”

Ragnar gave a little whimper, and idly, Sagramor moved to pet his new hound. “Listen, how about we table this discussion for now? Let’s face it, we’re tired, we’re ill-supplied, and the entire country has gone mad since Cailan’s death. For the moment, we should just focus on getting ourselves ready for the next phase of the journey. Once we’re better equipped and have a better idea about what’s been going on, then we can decide where to go next.”

“Sounds reasonable,” said Alistair. “We’re with you, Sagramor.”

“Let us just hope these villagers prove hospitable,” Morrigan remarked. “We have foes enough without adding a rabble of willfully-blind peasants to the list.”

“We’ll get it done, Morrigan,” Sagramor assured her, Ragnar trotting faithfully alongside him. And perhaps I will be able to repay Hawke for her kindness in the bargain…