Summary: The time has come for the Joining, and the recruits gather with Duncan and the other Wardens to undergo the mysterious ritual. No one can predict what will happen, only that it will change their lives irrevocably...
AO3: Here.
A/N: As a heads-up to any tumblr-readers I have here; I renamed the ao3 version of this fic because I’m going to be breaking up my huge DAO narrative into individual stories that deal with each arc of the narrative. All of these mini-stories will go in one single series, which is going to be what keeps the title To Answer the Call. I am also going to start posting just previews here on tumblr, while linking to the ao3 version of the story because these chapters are getting longer, and I don’t have scripts that help me format everything quicker… xD Apologies for any inconvenience!
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Preview:
They didn’t have long to rest. As soon as everyone was able to stand on their own, Duncan herded them to a secluded corner of the camp and bade them wait. Richu and Grigor had gone to the healing tents to fetch Velyn. Alistair and Rondall were left to stay with the recruits and guard the Joining site.
The night was dark enough, at least, that no curious onlookers from the king’s camp would see them.
Always find a silver lining, Alistair thought darkly.
The unease was palpable. The recruits were wary and tense. Ser Jory was the only one moving, pacing back and forth, face tight, gait stiff.
“This damned Joining,” he muttered. “The more I hear of it, the less I like it.”
Beside him, Daveth groaned, “Enough with your blubbering, ser knight. It’s already happening, isn’t it? Might as well shut up.”
Ser Jory made a frustrated noise. “Of course you’d say that, you don’t—” He broke off and exhaled carefully, hands twitching at his side. His face was a twisted scowl of pain and frustration. Alistair exchanged a wary look with Rondall.
“Look, Ser Jory,” he began in what he hoped was a sufficiently calm voice. “It’s going to be—”
“Have I not earned my place?” Ser Jory demanded, barreling through Alistair’s attempt at reassurance. “These damned tests, I—What is the purpose of lying to us about it all?”
“You’re going to be fine, Ser Jory—” Alistair tried again. Daveth’s sharp scoff cut him off.
“Who gives a damn?” he sneered. His eyes were hard, gaze locked firmly on Ser Jory. “Maybe it’s tradition. Or maybe they’re just trying to annoy you. Damned easy thing to do, isn’t it?”
That got Ser Jory’s hackles up. “Lying to us is tradition, then?” His voice was rising. Alistair shot another look Rondall’s way. Could use a little help here.
“All these secrets, all these tests, and what purpose do they serve!? There is no honor in it—”
“Honor?” Daveth marched forward to meet Ser Jory in challenge. “What would you know of honor? The way you’re griping about it.”
“I know more of the matter than you, clearly—”
“Clearly! Clearly, you’re talking out your arse. You’d cut and run at the smallest thing, not even thought about why they might be having us go through all this—”
“To sacrifice us without our knowledge—”
“Because you wouldn’t be here if they’d told you what you’d be doing, and someone has to stop this damned Blight! You saw those darkspawn out there, same as I! You want to talk about honor? What about that pretty wife of yours you keep going on about? Isn’t it the honorable thing to want to protect her? Wouldn’t you die if it meant keeping her safe?”
Ser Jory’s face was ashen. “Of course, I—”
“Maybe you’ll die,” Daveth snarled through gritted teeth. “Maybe we’ll all die. If nobody stops the darkspawn, then we’ll all die for sure.”
“They still should have told us. My wife—” Ser Jory’s eyes were bright, wet with tears, the pupils dark and small. Fearful. “If I’d have known, I—I wouldn’t have left—”
Quick face study of several of my DA elf OCs! The top picture features the makeup I’ve given them, while the bottom picture shows them all without their makeup. From top left to bottom right:
Ira’Melanon (Mila) Mahariel Ruenna - Dalish mage born to the Mahariel family in the Sabrae clan, Mila was skilled with magic from a young age and was set to be the First or Second of the clan’s Keeper. However, due to a lack of mages born in the Ruenna clan of the Frostback Mountains, Mila was sent to become First to their Keeper after deliberation at one of the Arlathvhen gatherings. Years later, the Ruenna clan pushed to have Mila replace their previous Keeper, as it was believed that this Keeper didn’t truly have the clan’s best interests at heart. Mila took her new duties seriously, despite being born to a different clan, and as a result, the clan developed a fierce protectiveness of and respect for her. She is skilled in the Keeper magic the player can unlock as a specialization in DAA. Her makeup doesn’t really have any story significance, I just think she looks gorgeous in that shade of lipstick.
Ilhenan (Ila) Tabris - My canon Tabris who becomes a Warden after Duncan visits her alienage in Denerim, Ila has learned the skills of a dual-wielding rogue from a young age, thanks to her adopted mother, Adaia. Ila’s primary concern is the safety of her community and family, and her usual calm and patient demeanor tend to go out the window very quickly if either of those groups are threatened. Ila was named for her birth mother, but knows virtually nothing about her, as it always visibly upset Cyrion whenever she asked. Ila tends to keep her personal interests - dancing, listening to stories, her sweet tooth - to herself, and affects very stringent control when around those outside of her alienage. The makeup she’s shown to be wearing was given to her by her father on her would-be wedding day, and was the exact same type of makeup worn by Adaia on her and Cyrion’s wedding day. In the picture below, I added some darker colors to Ila’s eyes because that’s how I envision her after becoming a Warden; she’s exhausted and stressed, and it weathers her face.
Tylana Aravasan Sabrae - Dalish hunter born in the Sabrae clan, Tylana is extremely skilled in the use of her bow, and aggressively protects her clan from any dangers she comes across, human or otherwise. She is very competitive and can be quite smug at times, which has led to a childhood rivalry between her and my Warden Mahariel, Velyn, who is equally as hot-headed. Tylana’s ultimate goal is to become Master/Mistress of the Hunt, and to that end, she has trained relentlessly ever since receiving her vallaslin. When Duncan arrives at the Brecilian Forest, the ruins with the eluvian are revealed, and Velyn is recruited into the Wardens, Tylana finds herself conflicted, untrusting toward Duncan, but wanting to place her trust in her Keeper’s decision, and torn between wanting to help Velyn and find Tamlen. She doesn’t wear much makeup, but I loved the contrast of the pale teal/blue color for eye shadow with the subtle orange of her vallaslin.
Adaia Tabris - A skilled dual-wielding rogue, and fierce advocate for better treatment of city elves, Adaia came to the Denerim alienage when she was just about at marriage age, and her parents were hopeful that they’d have better luck finding her a match than they’d had in their previous home. At this point, Adaia met a recently widowed Cyrion, still grieving the death of his wife, and the two became friends. Adaia helped Cyrion through his grief, also helping him take care of his infant daughter, Ila. In time, Cyrion eventually proposed to Adaia, and she happily accepted, already feeling like they were a family. From then on, Adaia raised Ila as her own daughter, and Ila grew up to idolize her, eagerly learning how to wield knives and daggers so that she could be more like her mother. Adaia was killed in the streets of Denerim while trying to defend some of the working elves from drunk city guards, leaving Cyrion emotionally broken and Ila much less outspoken than she used to be.
And there they all are! My hope with this was to take what the DAO CC gave me and differentiate each of the OCs so that they have their own unique set of features that makes them look like an actual person. I’m personally very happy with how it turned out, and I’m thinking I might do more of these kinds of studies in the future!
My Tabris going into a rage in the Arl of Denerim’s estate. I love the way the game lets you handle that part of the female Tabris origin, but I do wish at times that the game also animated the expression of pure rage and vengeance that I know was on my Tabris’s face.
Heyo! Currently, I’ve been working on a multi-Warden multi-chapter novelization of Dragon Age: Origins. The whole of the narrative will take place over the course of several fics, all a part of the same series on ao3. The series is called To Answer the Call, and the first work is called Wardens at Ostagar, which introduces my DAO Wardens and protagonists. For a quick visual reference, I’m including this post in the author’s note section of the fic at the beginning of the first chapter, just so that any readers have an idea of what these characters look like.
Top row, left to right:
Ilhenan (Ila) Tabris
Gundhram Aeducan
Gazza Cousland (not a Warden, but an important figure in the story)
Bottom row, left to right:
Aja Amell
Tristan Brosca
Velyn Mahariel
Here is a link to the series: To Answer the Call
Here is a link to the first fic: Wardens at Ostagar
Summary: Battered and bruised after the skirmish in the Wilds, Alistair and the recruits return to camp and rest for what little time they have before the Joining. Alistair reports to Duncan and struggles with his own perceived failures.
AO3: Here.
A/N: As a heads-up to any tumblr-readers I have here; I renamed the ao3 version of this fic because I’m going to be breaking up my huge DAO narrative into individual stories that deal with each arc of the narrative. All of these mini-stories will go in one single series, which is going to be what keeps the title To Answer the Call. I am also going to start posting just previews here on tumblr, while linking to the ao3 version of the story because these chapters are getting longer, and I don’t have scripts that help me format everything quicker… xD Apologies for any inconvenience!
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Preview:
Night had fallen by the time the group reached the camp. They staggered through the gates, one after another, breathing hard and stumbling over their own feet.
Eyes raked over them, men and women exchanging glances as they passed. The recruits were tense. Alistair determinedly avoided catching anyone’s gaze.
He’d known that there would be other soldiers about, but he’d hoped they might be just late enough returning to avoid the worst of the scrutiny.
What had he been thinking.
Who else had gone into the Wilds and returned alive, even battered and bruised and burned to hell? Who else, since the king had put a stop to the scouting runs?
We’re practically famous, Alistair thought with a caustic roll of his eyes.
Then again, maybe the soldiers had been hoping for a better turn-out from the fabled Grey Wardens. Maybe Alistair failed to meet their expectations as well.
Biting down hard on the inside of his cheek, Alistair clenched his jaw and made his steady way toward the healing tents. Aja was heavy in his arms, his skin pulled and stretched and hurt, and he was tired.
Chapter Summary: Alistair and the recruits make their way into the Korcari Wilds to collect vials of darkspawn blood for their test before the Joining, but they wind up finding more than they initially bargained for, and perhaps more than they can handle.
AO3: Here.
A/N: As a heads-up to any tumblr-readers I have here; I renamed the ao3 version of this fic because I’m going to be breaking up my huge DAO narrative into individual stories that deal with each arc of the narrative. All of these mini-stories will go in one single series, which is going to be what keeps the title To Answer the Call. I am also going to start posting just previews here on tumblr, while linking to the ao3 version of the story because these chapters are getting longer, and I don’t have scripts that help me format everything quicker... xD Apologies for any inconvenience!
Warning: Graphic violence depicted in this chapter; description of corpses in this chapter
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Preview:
No one spoke as they entered the Wilds. The mood was strained and heavy, the last few noises of camp following tentatively. Alistair wondered if perhaps they were as afraid as he and the recruits to venture too far.
Then the gates closed, and the noises stopped.
The Wilds stretched out before them, wet and hot and treacherous, greeting them only with silence. Dead and utter silence, with not even the buzzing of insects or the chirping of birds.
Thank you, darkspawn, for scaring away every living thing in the area.
“Right,” Alistair began, turning to look over the recruits, voice low. None of them had their masks on, but for Gundhram, Ser Jory, and Aja. Alistair thought about pushing the issue, but no darkspawn were close enough to warrant it. They would be fine for now.
“Stay close to me, and I’ll lead us to an area away from the main horde but with enough darkspawn that each of you can have your turn.” He answered the obvious question before any of them could ask, “Usually how it works is you each take the blood of one of the darkspawn you kill.” Usually. He cast a glance over his shoulder toward the Wilds.
Daveth whistled. His mask hung loose about his neck, and his grin was clear. “Shall we take their ears for trophies as well?” Alistair snickered and Ser Jory rolled his eyes.
“You’ll have to cut them off and clean them yourself,” he replied, in that awkwardly stiff but genuine way of his. “Who knows what these monsters carry.”
“Might be enough to make a necklace,” Alistair interjected, still careful but game for the banter.
Daveth laughed and Ser Jory couldn’t seem to tamp down a snort.
None of the other recruits responded, however. Alistair found himself biting back a comment that promised to be rather caustic.
I hope you’re all better at killing darkspawn than you are at making light conversation.
Out loud, he said nothing, and began to lead them through the thick brush and muck of the Wilds.
Chapter Summary: It’s time for the Warden recruits to face their first test before the Joining; a test which will take them through the mysterious and dangerous Korcari Wilds, but first, both they and Alistair must prepare.
Ao3: Here
A/N: Here comes Alistair! Yay!
Warning: Graphic depictions of illness in this chapter.
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The sun was rising slowly, and Alistair paused in his polishing to glance eastward. It was weak, that sunlight, peeking timidly over the horizon, and Alistair had to wonder if it was as intimidated by the Wilds as the soldiers.
But the sun’s light was spreading, slow as it was, and Alistair felt himself relaxing as the yellows and oranges grew stronger and clearer.
Beside him, Grigor let out a triumphant huff, and Alistair snickered.
“So, I’m confused,” he started, dropping his elbow to his knee to peer thoughtfully at Grigor. The big man glared and Alistair ignored it gleefully. “If it’s red, does that mean that blood was spilled last night, or that blood is going to be spilled this night?” Grigor snorted.
“It means there’s gonna be blood this night on account o’me wringing your skinny little neck for thinkin’ you’re so clever,” Grigor snarled. He turned and looked pointedly at the sky, adopting an expression of exaggerated disappointment. “Ooh, looks like ya get to live another day! Pity, that.”
“I’ll just thank my lucky stars, then,” Alistair replied primly. He and Grigor stared at one another for all of three seconds before their grins broke free. Alistair reached over and nudged Grigor’s shoulder. “Good omens, then?”
The weathered lines of Grigor’s face deepened and he looked again to the horizon. Alistair sobered.
“We’re alive another day,” Grigor said, measured and level. “And so are our comrades.” He rested a large roughened paw on Alistair’s shoulder. “Reason enough to thank the Maker. Rejoice a bit, if not to let our hair down.” Alistair snickered and his eyes flickered over to the new recruits, all sleeping. He let out a slow breath.
“Don’t think everyone quite got that message.”
The recruits slept stiffly in their bedrolls, looking rigid and uncomfortable, untrusting and wary, even in their rest. Alistair had been eager to speak to them when he’d finally gotten a chance to get back to camp the previous night, but by then, they’d all completely passed out. Rondall too. Richu had explained the circumstances, their travels across Ferelden, and how exhausted they all were.
He’d explained about the Dalish called Velyn. Explained that Duncan would likely be watching over Velyn for the majority of the night.
That they might lose a recruit this time even before making it to the Joining.
It wasn’t exactly what Alistair had hoped to learn when he’d heard of Duncan’s return.
The hand on his shoulder squeezed and he glanced over to see Grigor looking supremely unconcerned. He shrugged and his eyes flashed.
“They’ll come round,” he rumbled. Alistair hummed.
“Of course, and then we’ll all be one big, happy family, won’t we?” That one got him a friendly cuff at the ears. Alistair chuckled, but the mirth slipped away quickly. “And that Dalish, Velyn. Think he’ll make it?”
Grigor’s face turned grim, his brow furrowed. At the sight of it, Alistair felt his gut sink.
“I’ve seen Blight Sickness before,” Grigor rumbled eventually. “Never ended well for the poor bastard who had it. Them woodfolk are hardy, though, I’ve heard.” He shrugged. “Could be enough to get him through.”
They fell to silence, observing their companions-to-be. Alistair pulled in a slow breath, let it out through his nose. Time will tell.
He sheathed his sword – shiny as a whistle, take that, Knight-Captain what’s-his-name – and stood to his feet.
“Well, on that happy note—” Grigor rolled his eyes and Alistair grinned unrepentantly. “There is that whole thing with the Joining, and the Wilds, and leading the recruits around like ducklings and all that. And somehow, inexplicably, I’m to be the one keeping things from getting out of control.” The banter came easily to him, and Alistair let it smooth over the harsher edges of the thoughts in his mind. “I mean, have you met me?” He turned his grin on Grigor, and received for his troubles a look far too knowing for his taste. Grigor’s features softened and Alistair found himself bracing.
Oh, Maker’s—breath… Sometimes he wasn’t sure if it was a good or a bad thing that his companions could read him so well after only a few months.
Grigor reached for him, and Alistair expected that great hand to once again clap onto his shoulder or his arm. When it closed gently over the back of his neck – Andraste’s arse, Grigor was huge to be able to reach so high up while still sitting down, was he part Qunari? – Alistair started, stumbling forward slightly. Grigor’s smile was gentler than usual, and Alistair forced himself to hold his companion’s gaze.
It’d taken him a while to learn that such gestures weren’t meant to be patronizing or belittling. Not from these men.
“You’ll be fine, lad,” Grigor rumbled, and there were plenty of things Alistair could say to that. Plenty of things that, months ago, he might have. But…
He found he didn’t want to, in that moment. He didn’t want to pretend it didn’t help, the confidence of his companions, these men who had taken him in and made him theirs.
Of course, the camaraderie barely had time to settle before Grigor was reeling his hand away and clapping Alistair hard on the back. He laughed when Alistair tripped forward.
“So, get on, there,” he barked. “And don’t get yourself killed.”
Alistair snorted as he righted himself, “No promises.” With a final mock-impatient wave from Grigor, Alistair made his way out toward the main camp. His strides were resolute and light as he went, and he had to laugh at himself a bit, honestly. One pat on the back from an ex-sailor with an enviable beard, and I’m ready to take on the world. Funny, that.
The morning passed quickly for Alistair, though whether it was because of nerves or the season, he wasn’t entirely certain. A final check with the quartermaster had his weapons and armor cleared for the… adventure ahead, followed by a final awkward prayer from a Chantry Sister he wasn’t quite able to dodge, and lastly, a final check of his supplies had him ready to go.
The sun was climbing steadily by the time he began to make his way toward the gates to the Wilds, its earlier shyness apparently forgotten. Alistair wished it would slow down at least a bit.
One more challenge to face, though, before reaching his destination…
As he drew nearer the kennels, Alistair felt his expression tighten. Already, he could hear the sounds coming from within the enclosure, dogs whining and whimpering and crying in pain.
Of course – inevitably – he came to a stop.
Not all the dogs were in the kennels; there were many who were being kept with the soldiers, the mabari master working and training them for the next battle to come. Only the sick and wounded ones were kept here.
Alistair’s eyes slid to the kennel master. Maker’s breath, how did he do it? His face was gentle and seemingly untroubled, and his eyes were soft as he regarded one of the mabari in his charge. Chances were the poor thing was going to die, how did he look so calm?
Flashes of something else, of different dogs in a different kennel at a different time all danced through Alistair’s mind and he carefully bit the inside of his cheek, pressed his lips tight together.
Maker’s sake, he hadn’t even actually seen the dog die back then, he’d only heard it from some Chantry messenger after Eamon had sent him away, and he’d still bawled his eyes out until it felt like his body had run dry.
He should move. He should keep on, keep from distracting the dogs, he had a thing he had to do after all, right? Right. He should move.
Of course, wasn’t it just a fact of life that the moment you decide to do something, something else just rolls right into your path and trips you up.
Barely a second after Alistair took a single step past the kennels, a low keening whine sounded, far closer to him than any of the others.
The voice in his head – the one that remembered being 11 years old and hearing about a dog that had died because she’d been separated from him – told him not to turn, not to pay attention. Told him to keep right on and just get on with what Duncan needed him to do.
But Maker damn it all, Alistair couldn’t help it: he looked.
The dog was a purebred mabari, exactly the kind the army loved to train for battles like these ones. But what must once have been a very smooth coat was now washed out and matted, and Alistair could see sections of the fur thinning on the poor thing’s back and legs.
That was always how it worked with the dogs that were tainted; the fur would thin and fall out, the muscle mass would go, and they would waste away until death was practically a blessing. Unless the Taint made them aggressive and wild, in which case death was as much to save others as to help the dog.
The mabari kept whimpering, even as Alistair awkwardly ignored it, even as he tried to shuffle past without drawing attention. Of course, it didn’t work.
The kennel master looked at the whimpering dog with surprise, then turned to Alistair before he could completely get away.
“That’s more energy than he’s shown since we brought him here,” the man marveled, pushing to his feet to approach the dog. The mabari growled low at him with a wary and pained expression – and how Alistair knew that’s what it meant, he had no idea – before turning his head back to Alistair and weakly nosing at the bars of the kennel.
“I could be wrong, but I think he wants to greet you.” The kennel master’s voice was soft and gentle, a soothing cadence that Alistair immediately guessed worked wonders on the mabari.
So why are you looking at me? Alistair wanted to ask the dog. For all you know, I sound like an angry cow perpetually gargling nails, and have the bedside manner of a Chantry Mother on fire. Or Grigor.
He forced himself to calm as the dog continued to whine at him, and summoned an easy smile.
“It’s alright, I don’t want to get in the way,” he tried, offering a casual wave and turning on his heel.
But the kennel master was quicker than that, damn him.
“No, actually, this works really well,” he said with his relaxed ‘cool as you please’ voice, and Alistair could swear he sounded hopeful. “You can approach him and calm him down, and then when he’s ready, I’ll be able to finally treat him.” His gaze moved back to the dog and he sighed. “As best I can, anyway.”
Almost against his better judgment, Alistair raised an eyebrow and parroted, “As best you can?”
The kennel master shrugged, “Not enough of the right ingredients to really cure them. I can do my best to dull the pain, but for the ones that swallowed darkspawn blood, I can’t do anything else.”
Candid. Alistair winced, eyes turning back to the dog. He seemed to have lost either the interest or the energy to keep begging for Alistair’s attention, and now lay in a curled and quivering ball against the kennel bars.
And Maker, Alistair wanted to punch himself for asking, but…
“Wouldn’t it be kinder, then, to just… put them out of their misery? The ones you can’t save, I mean?”
The kennel master turned to Alistair and stared, eyes suddenly hard, expression tightly controlled but determined.
“It would be if I didn’t know that they could be saved,” he rumbled, very nearly sounding like a growling dog himself. He turned back toward the mabari. “The means to do that are out there, in the Wilds, I just can’t get them. There’s a flower that’s absolutely essential for the cure I’ve been using. But since the king stopped the scouting trips into the Wilds…” He let the sentence trail to nothing and shook his head.
Oh, dammit.
The sick mabari let out a low whuff of air and squirmed, apparently trying to make himself smaller, probably trying to escape the pain. Alistair felt something twist in his chest.
It really was a forgone conclusion. There was no way Alistair would be able to ignore it, to not do something when he could.
“I’m heading out into the Wilds with some of the Warden recruits today,” he offered. “You tell me what the flower looks like, I can promise at least to keep an eye out.”
The kennel master’s eyes brightened and he turned to grace Alistair with a hopeful look.
“You’d do that?” he asked. “That’d be a great help. It’s got white petals with a dark red center. Smells like honey, if you don’t mind sticking your nose into local flora.” The man’s voice took on a wry note and Alistair found himself snorting.
At the risk of discovering some kind of sentient poisonous Wilds plant that ends up biting your face off.
“Sounds good,” he replied, shooting a nod in the kennel master’s direction. “If I find it, I’ll bring it here.”
Offer made, Alistair turned to make his way toward the Wilds, ready to breathe a sigh of relief that the whole interaction was over.
But the kennel master was apparently part dog himself because he refused to let this bone go.
…Probably for the best I didn’t say that aloud.
“I’d still like to treat him in the interim, if you wouldn’t mind getting in there and muzzling him,” the kennel master said soberly. “Every time I try to get close, he gets aggressive. Snaps out at me. Suffering or not, I can’t risk a dog passing on Blight Sickness through a bite.” And he looked… he looked hurt as he said that, like he might have tried anyway, like he’d fought this battle before and been told that this was the way things had to be.
Alistair’s brow furrowed and he glanced back at the mabari.
Poor thing was clearly trying to sleep, but every exhale was a whimper, every movement a pained struggle.
Alistair’s shoulders slumped. “Well, when you ask so nicely…” he mumbled to himself. He turned to the kennel master, “How d’you want me to do this?”
The look the kennel master gave him was subdued but grateful. He made his way toward the kennels and reached for a well-worn leather muzzle.
“Just approach him slowly and wait for him to decide to let you closer.” He held out the muzzle. “Then slip this on and I’ll take care of the rest.” Here, he paused. Alistair waited, eyebrows raised. “If… if you want to stroke him a bit, he might like that. Soothe him some.”
Yeah, no. Alistair really, really did not want to do that.
But he took the muzzle and made his way over to the kennel. Maker, this close, he could smell the Taint on the sick and wounded dogs. It set something roiling in his gut, but he kept on.
The kennel master opened the gate and ushered him inside.
“Just be gentle with him,” he instructed. “Once the muzzle’s on, I’ll be in and take over.”
Alistair nodded and the kennel master closed the gate behind him.
Well. Just me and a bunch of sick dogs now.
He could see the dog that needed muzzling – the only dog, in fact, who hadn’t been muzzled in the group – curled up against the bars, removed from his fellows. He looked up as Alistair approached, whined plaintively, but it turned to a weak growl when he saw the muzzle. Alistair continued to approach, but kept his pace slow. The dog’s eyes were clouded with pain, but never wavered. Alistair pulled in a breath.
And had no idea what to say.
“…Soooo…”
The dog let out a huff and pulled one of his paws over his eyes.
“Hey! There’s no call to look so despairing, I wasn’t exactly prepared for this little exchange, you know. So my openers aren’t exactly the pinnacle of wit at the moment, it happens.”
The dog huffed again, letting his paw flop to the ground, his tongue lolling out of its mouth.
His cracked dry tongue, darkened with the black tendrils of the Taint. Alistair sobered.
“Alright,” he said with a fortifying breath. “I know this is probably the last thing you want right now, but…” He trailed off. Took a careful step forward. The dog whimpered. Alistair stopped. His brow was scrunching up, his mouth twisting along with it. Maker, the poor dog was in so much pain.
“Yeah, I know,” he lowered his voice, softened it a bit as he continued his slow approach. “Not the most enjoyable thing in the world, and I can’t promise it won’t be uncomfortable—” Close enough to touch now. Alistair bent to his knees beside the dog and began to reach out. “I can promise at least that I won’t poke you in the eye.”
Another huff. Alistair optimistically chose to interpret it as the mabari equivalent of a laugh, weak though it was.
The dog was looking warily at the muzzle in Alistair’s hand, but made no move as Alistair moved it closer. Brave dog…
In the moment when Alistair’s fingers touched the dog’s sickly fur, he almost pulled back. Stiff with dried blood and thin from the Taint, the dog’s coat was as far from healthy as Alistair had ever seen on a mabari. He stroked through the mess once, twice, and his fingers came away with small clumps of matted fur. He swallowed and levered himself down from his knees to his arse. Better to be sitting for this.
“Alright…” He scooted closer, slow and careful. “Here we go…” Gently, he reached for the mabari. The dog let out a weak yelp as Alistair lifted its head to his lap. “I know, I know, I’m sorry,” Alistair murmured, lowering his voice thoughtlessly. He waited until the dog relaxed, body slumping against his knee, then went for the muzzle.
Getting the muzzle on wasn’t itself entirely difficult. Watching the dog sniff pitifully and nose against Alistair’s pant leg was a bit more so.
“I know, it’s awful, and no fun, and I’m sorry I have to do it, and all that.”
The mabari huffed and turned what looked to be a very unimpressed glare on him. Alistair held up his hands, placating, even as he fought a smile.
“I’m told it’s not forever, though,” he added, going for a light and reassuring tone. “Just a little while, then you’ll get the cure, and boom. No more muzzle!” Somehow, his hands had fallen to the mabari’s head and had begun stroking absently as he spoke. More fur came away, but the dog at least seemed to be soothed by it.
Damn kennel master, always has to be right about dogs.
“Then you’ll be back to killing darkspawn in no time. You’d like that, yes you would! Kill all those icky darkspawn, tear their heads right off, maybe an arm or leg for good measure. Teach them to infect you!” He heard a weak growl at that, and turned to see the mabari snuffle in what he optimistically interpreted as agreement. And was that… was that an attempt at a tail wag? Alistair smiled.
“See? Better already.” The mabari huffed and nosed into Alistair’s thigh. For a moment, Alistair sat in silence and simply watched the poor fellow breathe, uncomfortable and in pain but calmer.
“It seems you do have a way with him, after all,” the kennel master’s pleased voice carried through the muddled haze of Alistair’s thoughts and he turned.
The kennel master approached and knelt down beside him, “That should do for me to at least lessen his pain a bit. Poor thing got a mouthful of that vile stuff in the last skirmish.” Alistair grimaced.
Poor thing, indeed.
Shaking his head, the kennel master stood to his feet and gestured toward the gates. A wry look suddenly morphed his features and Alistair experienced a moment of almost violent foreboding.
“Maybe if you find that flower in time, we can see about imprinting this little guy on you.”
Oh. Oh no. No, that was not likely to end well.
“Ooh, right, probably not the best idea,” Alistair began, speaking over the kennel master’s attempts to object. “Dogs and I don’t get on well, don’t know what it is. I just show up, and they start barking and growling. Of course, this would be the exception, but let’s be honest, it’s got to be all those darkspawn fluids getting to his head. They can mess a guy right up, those fluids. Well. Dog in this case.”
The kennel master chuckled as he shut the gate behind Alistair, seemingly unaffected by his rambling.
“As you say then.” And was it Alistair, or did the kennel master sound amused? “Thank you for this, friend,” the man continued. “It’ll be a relief to finally be able to treat these dogs proper.”
Oh, I can imagine that. With a final word of only slightly awkward farewell, Alistair turned and made his way toward the gate to the Wilds.
Behind him, he heard a final low whine, sorrowful and thin, and only just managed to keep from turning around.
If he was lucky, the dog wouldn’t have too much longer to wait for a cure.
Alistair approached the wooden gates that led to the Korcari Wilds, weapon in hand, armor donned, and a familiar mixture of nerves, anticipation, and resolve in his stomach.
No telling how this would all go, really. For any of the recruits. And it wasn’t like the part that awaited them afterward was going to be a reprieve. Alistair sighed and set himself down to wait.
At least the gate guard was friendly enough.
The sun had only just reached its midday peak when Alistair saw Duncan’s familiar figure approaching in the distance, armed and armored, and with a small worn sack dangling innocently from his arm, suspicious in its simplicity. Alistair had a feeling he knew what was in that bag.
And there were the recruits with him. Alistair took a moment to observe them properly now that they weren’t collapsed in exhaustion.
Daveth and Ser Jory he knew, had known for the months Duncan had been away. And he could admit to some relief that he wouldn’t be leading about a group of complete strangers.
There was one of the dwarves, Gundhram, with his long dwarven-styled hair – though his beard was oddly short and messy – and a grim expression that deepened the furrow in his brow. He walked stoically by Duncan, regal even in his rusted mismatched armor; Richu had told Alistair this one had been royalty in Orzammar.
The other dwarf, Tristan, he walked at the back of the group, and Alistair first took note of him because he took note of Alistair. His eyes flickered over Alistair’s figure, taking in every detail it seemed, and nothing in his expression gave anything away. Alistair guessed from the way he held himself that he’d seen plenty of combat, but beyond that, could say very little of what this dwarf might be like.
The elf caught his eye next, shoulders tense, muscles coiled. Ila, if Alistair remembered correctly. She walked close to Duncan, but further from the others, and hers was an expression of closed and guarded distrust. Her eyes flitted about the camp as they walked, as though she expected an attack at any moment, and Alistair winced to think why.
Then, finally, the mage. Aaaja? They would be introducing themselves, at least, Alistair was glad for that. But this one, her fear was plain to see. She tried to stand straight as she followed Duncan, but every few steps she would stumble lightly and have to right herself, and Alistair could see how her hands clenched around her staff to keep from shaking.
There’s always one…
Lucas had been scared too, when he and Alistair had been the ones set to undergo the Joining. Lucas had been terrified, and Alistair had been too, but it was different to see it. The wide eyes, the shaking, the clammy skin. Helpless constant fear.
And then, when Lucas’s turn came, that fear had been justified. And Alistair hadn’t been able to look at the body without his stomach turning.
Maker, not another one. Alistair could only pray that the Joining would be kinder to the mage – and the other recruits – than it was to Lucas.
Duncan and the others drew closer, and Alistair pulled himself from his thoughts. He summoned a light grin.
“Here we all are,” he greeted, gesturing when the group came to a stop. A range of scowls and careful non-expressions greeted him, and Alistair couldn’t stop the wan smile—“Cheerful bunch. You know, I've always said: one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together.”
Nothing from Ila, Gundhram, or Tristan – hardly surprising, really, for all Alistair hadn’t even officially met them yet – but he spied a slight quirk to Ser Jory’s lips, and heard Daveth chuckle, “Nothing like the end of the world to—”
“That’s a terrible thing to say!”
And that… most certainly wasn’t Daveth. Alistair turned with the rest of the group to see the mage, of all people, looking at Alistair with a sort of horrified confusion.
Alistair blinked and Duncan turned an odd expression on Alistair as he pointedly said nothing. Of course he’s going to let me embarrass myself in front of the new recruits.
He cleared his throat and tried a casual shrug. “Is it? I’m trying to find a bright side to all of this. I suppose it wasn’t very convincing.”
Nicely done, Alistair. Wonderful first impression. And then, Well, I can't help it if they don't have any sense of humor!
Daveth chuckled and shot him a look, which Alistair staunchly ignored. The arse was only laughing because he wasn’t the one being scolded like a child by a new recruit.
At least he's laughing at all.
Come to think of it, though, this mage reminded Alistair a bit of the old Revered Mother at the Chantry Duncan had rescued him from. Very fond of scolding, she.
Aah, And there it was, that suspicious look on the mage’s face that Alistair remembered receiving whenever he’d mucked something up at the Chantry. He offered her an awkward shrug, and her eyes snapped downward, lips pressed as she avoided his gaze.
Well…
“Alistair.” Duncan – finally – stepped forward. He cast a quick, sharp glance at Alistair, then turned to the recruits. “Now that we are all here, we can begin.” That sobered them, and Duncan inclined his head. He gestured to Alistair.
“Recruits, this is Alistair. As the junior-most member of the order, he will accompany you into the Wilds during your task, as is tradition.” Alistair offered a smile and a light wave, pushing past his instinct to joke. Hadn’t quite gone the way he’d expected last time.
“Glad to meet you all.” No responses from anyone but Gundhram, who gave a curt nod. Alistair wished he could say he was surprised.
“Alistair, these are the newest recruits,” Duncan gestured. “Gundhram—” The regal dwarf, with the long hair. “Tristan—” The dwarf with the unreadable expression. “Ila—” The tense elf, looking at him as though he might explode any moment. “And Aja—” Ah-ha! So that was her name!
Alistair greeted them as they were introduced, and received a nod of acknowledgement, again, only from Gundhram; Tristan shrugged and said nothing, Ila only stared warily at him, and Aja didn’t bother to meet his eyes, expression still tight.
Well, that’ll probably take a while to smooth over…
“And, unfortunately, our final recruit remains unable to join you on this task,” Duncan continued, voice low and grave. Alistair turned, brows furrowed.
Velyn.
“Is he…?”
Duncan inclined his head. “He has survived the night, though he suffers still, and I’m afraid he doesn’t have much longer.” A tense silence swept over them all, and Aja flinched. Alistair shot her a curious look, but her eyes flicked away from his. Of course…
Duncan ignored the exchange, eyes hard as he looked to the recruits and continued, “It is therefore all the more important that you be on your way sooner rather than later.”
Daveth shifted suddenly, lips curling, “Into the Wilds, yeah?”
Duncan inclined his head. “Yes. The Korcari Wilds will be the site of both your tasks.” Daveth responded to that with a resigned shrug, shooting Alistair a look just this side of wry.
“And what can we expect from these Korcari Wilds?” And that was the low rumbling voice of the errant dwarven monarch. It sounded… well, it sounded like a low rumbling voice, really. It reminded Alistair a bit of Grigor, but the cadence was much closer in tone to Duncan.
Alistair shrugged.
“Oh, the usual,” he piped up, dry. “Snakes, spiders, bogfishers probably, more spiders, and maybe huge spiders?” To that, Gundhram offered only an unruffled expression, and was that a hint of impatience Alistair detected? Gamely, he ignored it, but continued on more seriously.
“The real problems will be the darkspawn and the Chasind, if we encounter any out there.” Aja sucked in a breath and froze. Alistair gave her what he hoped was a reassuring look and attempted to lighten his tone. “Although the darkspawn might have already run them all out, so it could be a moot point.”
Even though ‘just darkspawn’ is hardly better…
“Chasind?” Gundhram’s voice cut in. Alistair nodded.
“Folk of the Korcari Wilds,” he explained. “They live throughout the swamps and trees there. Good with magic, but I should be able to sense them if they’re using it. At the very least, I’ll have a better chance of dealing with them.” He jerked a thumb toward himself. “Former templar.” And he wasn’t quite able to keep back the familiar wince as he said it.
He very carefully did not look at Aja.
“Alistair’s skills will be a great benefit to you all while you’re in the Wilds,” Duncan spoke up, and Alistair couldn’t help the burst of warmth in his chest at the words. “It would behoove you all to listen to any advice he has, and pay heed to any warnings he gives.” He paused and turned to give Alistair a slight nod. Alistair returned the gesture, determination and anticipation flooding him in equal measure.
I won’t let you down, Duncan. He looked to the recruits. I’ll try not to let them down, either.
“So what are these tasks. You haven’t told us anything.” The demand cut sharply into Alistair’s thoughts, and he turned to see the alienage elf, Ila, staring hard at Duncan. Her gaze was cold and unyielding, but there was tension behind it too; her shoulders were stiff, her jaw tight, and her brow furrowed in a manner which suggested she trusted them all about as much as a darkspawn she was encountering on the road.
Unsurprisingly, Duncan took it all in stride, barely a snag in his expression. “Yes. There are two tasks you must complete. The first is to obtain seven vials of darkspawn blood, one for each recruit.
“This is to be a test of your abilities, both individual and collective,” he explained. “You must work together to collect the components. This is as much a part of the Joining as what comes after.”
Stony silence. Alistair spotted several pairs of narrowed eyes, and he couldn’t rightly say he blamed them, given what he knew about the Joining that they didn’t. But none of them protested as Duncan continued.
“For your second task, there was once a Grey Warden archive in the Wilds, abandoned long ago when we could no longer afford to maintain such remote outposts.
“It has recently come to our attention that some scrolls have been left behind, magically sealed to protect them. Alistair, I want you to retrieve these scrolls if you can.”
Alistair’s eyebrow shot up, but he nodded. This was the first he’d ever heard of such scrolls.
“I’ll make an effort to find them, but what exactly are they for?” he asked.
“They are treaties,” Duncan replied. “Signed after the First Blight, promising aid to the Grey Wardens in the event of future Blights.” Alistair’s eyes widened slightly. Oh. Might want to get a hold of those, then, yeah.
“Alright,” Alistair nodded. “Where am I looking?”
“The outpost will be in ruins, most likely. It will be an old structure. If the magic seal is still intact, you will likely feel its presence, and—” Here, Duncan hesitated, a slight barely-there breath. “Aja may be able to help you if the traces of magic are too faint for your abilities to pick up.”
Alistair turned to see Aja watching Duncan with a wide-eyed nervous expression. Her hands tightened on her staff, and Alistair waited for her gaze to flicker over to him. When it did, he gave her a small nod, solemn and serious. She swallowed hard, but still nodded back, which was at least somewhat hopeful.
Getting off on the wrong foot or not, this was too important to go in hoping for the best. If there really was a chance that the magic seal might be too weak for Alistair to sense, he needed to know that she would be able to at least make the effort in his place.
Duncan was looking carefully at Aja. “I do not think you will need to venture very far to find what you’re looking for.”
The reassurance didn’t seem to go far in assuaging her fears; Aja only nodded tersely in response, avoiding everyone’s eyes.
“Now that you all know your tasks, there are two more things I need to give each of you.” Duncan placed the worn sack on the ground at his feet and knelt down to rummage through it. When he rose again, he was holding several cloth masks.
“These are for all of you.” Moving down the line of recruits, Duncan handed one to each. “They will protect your mouth and nose from any stray darkspawn blood during your encounters with them. Once you undergo the Joining, you will not need to concern yourself with this, but for now you are still vulnerable, and the effects of Blight Sickness vary enough that it would do well to be cautious.”
They took the masks, one by one, and stared at them. None moved to put them on, instead looking between the masks and Duncan with a mixture of guarded wariness, and, in Aja and Ser Jory’s case, fear.
“And here…” Duncan returned to the sack and retrieved several familiar bottles from its confines. Alistair pulled himself straight and exhaled slowly. The fun part…
As he watched, Duncan passed a bottle to each recruit, carefully catching their eyes as he did. “These are the vials with which you will collect the darkspawn blood. They will not break easily, but be careful not to lose them.”
Again, one by one, they took what Duncan gave them, and surveyed them in silence. Even Daveth seemed to have nothing to say, his expression subdued.
Alistair remembered holding a vial just like these for the first time six months ago. It was a small and unassuming little thing, but it had marked the moment when he’d first started to feel – viscerally, in his bones – just how much was going to be asked of him. And that was before he’d actually been handed the chalice and told to drink…
From the shadows passing over the recruits’ faces, from the little twitches and flashes of uncertainty – of fear – it looked like they were beginning to realize too.
Abruptly, Duncan turned to Alistair, eyes sharp, features severe, and held out a final vial. “Alistair, you will collect the darkspawn blood for Velyn, as he is unable to himself.” Alistair stepped forward and took the vial. Duncan’s expression shuttered and he added softly, only for Alistair to hear, “Maker willing, he will live long enough to use it when you return.”
Alistair’s jaw tightened and he nodded. When he stepped back, Duncan’s expression was controlled once again.
“Watch over your charges. Return quickly, and safely.”
Alistair glanced to the recruits, then back to Duncan.
“We will.”
Duncan looked around at them all, and nothing of his thoughts showed on his face.
“Then may the Maker watch over your path. I will see you when you return.”
Without any further words, Duncan turned and made his way back into the camp. Alistair watched him go, and thought he knew what his destination was.
But he couldn't think on that now. Couldn't dwell on Velyn, or the Sickness, or what might be coming for any one of these recruits.
The vial was heavy in Alistair’s hand and it carried with it an urgency that could not be ignored. He tightened his fingers around the vial’s girth for a quick moment before tucking it away in the pouch at his belt. He looked to the gate guard and nodded. Moments later, the gate to the Wilds was open to them.
Nothing for it now.
No one made a move toward it, and Alistair looked at them all sharply, knowing that they feared, knowing that they were uncertain, but unable to allow them to dwell on it. They didn’t have any more time to waste.
He began to walk toward the open gate, expecting, but not waiting, for them to follow.
Cyrion had tried to keep his reservations to himself, at first. He had tried to keep quiet as Adaia had begun to teach little Ila the skills and tricks with her knives and swords and all those other things Adaia had taken with her from her previous life.
At first, he had even tried to watch, because it was his daughter, and he had wanted to support her as she learned.
That hadn’t lasted long. Watching Adaia methodically go about laying the foundation that would destroy their child’s innocence, that would stamp out that inquisitive nature of hers he loved so much, dampen her spirit and crush her imagination… Cyrion had been unable to continue watching for long, so he had left. Seeing it had only made him irrationally angry, and he should never be angry with his wife, not for trying to help their child.
He had prayed to the Maker, to Andraste, reflected by the Vhenedahl, but the anger had not left him.
He knew Adaia’s fiery nature, knew that she was enraged by the injustices the elves faced daily from the humans, and he had thought himself remarkably patient for having tolerated it as long as he had.
It seemed he was not so patient as he’d thought.
So the frustration built, and the anger with it, until one day, Cyrion saw Ila burst through the door of their home, boasting of the techniques her mother had taught her, and he could no longer stand it.
“I just don’t see why she needs to learn these things,” he said in a low voice as Adaia entered the house after Ila, proud smile on her face.
The smile fell as soon as Cyrion spoke. Luckily, Ila had moved away from them both, distracted with practicing the movements her mother had taught her. She’d taken up their broom and was using it as a sword. The anger clenched in Cyrion’s chest, mixed with sadness.
Adaia looked from her daughter to her husband, drawing a guarded expression over her features.
“We’ve talked about this, Cyrion,” she replied, careful to match the quiet tone of Cyrion’s voice.
At least she has some control, Cyrion thought cruelly. He winced in shame as soon as the thought finished.
“You agreed that it would be a good idea to teach her a means to defend herself—” Adaia continued, frustratingly rational, and that angered Cyrion further.
“I know!” he hissed. “But it’s—I didn’t think—” He turned his attention back to Ila, avoiding Adaia’s gaze. Their young daughter danced about with the broom, narrating a romantic yarn about a heroic elven princess – her favorite to tell and hear – using her mother’s skills to save the alienage castle from the evil mage bandits.
Cyrion shook his head, brow furrowing. He turned to Adaia, gesturing tersely at Ila.
“She thinks it’s no different from dancing, Adaia,” he exclaimed, voice quivering with the effort to keep quiet. Adaia stiffened. Cyrion kept on, “She doesn’t understand what you’re trying to teach her, she doesn’t understand that you’re teaching her to hurt people!”
“I’m not teaching her to hurt people, I’m teaching her to defend herself!” Adaia hissed back.
“She doesn’t need to be defended when she’s here!” Cyrion’s voice rose for just a moment, and all it took for him to correct himself was a single flicker of Adaia’s eyes over to Ila and back.
Adaia’s eyes narrowed and her nostrils flared. “Tell me you’re not that naïve.”
“I—” Cyrion began, helplessly waving his hand. “I just want her to have a chance to live her life without needing to—to…” Adaia let him run out of words, silent and still, and Cyrion hated it, felt patronized and embarrassed. The frustrated and furious sadness only pulled a tighter knot in his stomach, roiling in its own helplessness.
“I know,” Adaia replied, suddenly sounding tired. “I know what you want for her, and I want it too. But I’m not willing to lie to either one of us about it. The world isn’t kind to people like us, Cyrion, but that doesn’t mean we should try to hide from it.”
“Why are you yelling?”
Cyrion jumped and whirled to see Ila facing them across the room, no longer dancing, broom still in hand. She looked between them both, and Cyrion was struck by her in that moment, a sharp girl with sharp eyes, so like her mother. He forced a smile onto his features.
“It’s nothing, princess,” he answered brightly. Ila’s eyes continued to flit between him and Adaia. Cyrion reached for her hand and began to lead her outside. “Come. Let’s go find Shianni, shall we? I’m sure she’d love to see how much better you’ve gotten.” He leaned down conspiratorially. “Do you think she’s practiced as much as you?”
Ila puffed out her chest.
“No, she probably just kept falling over. She’s so clumsy on her feet.”
Ila began to pull Cyrion toward the door, newfound goal in mind, showing no sign she’d ever heard her parents arguing. As he reached the door, Cyrion turned back to glance at Adaia. His heart clenched at the look on her face.
He knew she was right about the world, he knew that. The elves were kept down because the humans declared it, and it wasn’t right, it wasn’t fair. And no amount of quiet resistance would change that.
But why did it always have to be fighting instead? Why did his little girl have to give up her fantasies and dreams to learn the truth? Cyrion just wanted her to be happy, to have her place in the world, one that she deserved, without having to spill blood to get there.
Cyrion didn’t know if that made him naïve or not.
Turning his attention back to his daughter, Cyrion allowed her to lead him out of their home and into the blinding sunlight outside.
A/N: I love writing backstory stuff for my Wardens. So much love for the families and friends of their prologues, and Cyrion was no different. I headcanon that he and Adaia disagreed about whether or not to teach Ila all of Adaia’s rogue (my Tabris was a duel-wielding rogue) skills, and they never really resolved any of it before Adaia was killed. And after humans killed Adaia for her defiance, Cyrion was scared that he would lose his daughter too if she turned out too much like her mother, so he discouraged her from using those skills too much, and rarely spoke of Adaia.
It also just hurt to speak of her, and Cyrion couldn’t bear to bring her up in front of his daughter, and eventually years passed without him ever having mentioned her more than a few times to his child. There is so much potential for growth and struggle in Cyrion, and I love it.
I have some follow-up ideas floating around for this piece too, as well as maybe a piece from Adaia’s perspective, but this is definitely one I think would be fun to continue, if only because Cyrion’s individual dynamic and potential development is so interesting to me.
