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l THE BEGINNING OF WHAT'S TO COME l
Two figures quietly roamed through a remote, overgrown grove, the quickness in how they maneuvered the strangling roots and vines implying familiarity. One of the figures moved with a slight limp and stood with a hunch underneath tattered robes. The second figure in contrast was a raven haired beauty who's amber eyes cut through the grotto's dawn-light with the likeness of a cat. The hunched figure droned on and on as the younger woman quietly grew impatient behind her.

""Those who gather in Denerim are facing a task that is nearly impossible." The hunched figured continued. Sensing her counterpart's lack of seriousness she stopped and spun around, her amber gaze just as bright and intense as the younger woman's. The figure's tone shifted into utmost graveness and in response, so did the expression of the other woman. "They look to traverse an entire continent that is tearing at the seams all the while a Blight begins tear away at their lands from the ground up. They seek answers, explanations. Salvation. It's still unclear if finding all that is even possible."

"None of them are ready, Isadora. Not the prince, not the warden -- not even with all the magic you hold in your disposal can you handle what's to come alone. Not a single of you are up to the task." The hunched figure continued, her gaze fixating into an intense glare from under the hood. Her tone grew more and more grave as she continued onward, relentless. "But you must see to them becoming what they must. You must see to all of them becoming nothing less than what's needed to save Thedas. You must see to them becoming heroes."

A moment of silence followed as the situation set in. Isadora watched the figure with a cautious gaze as she thought. Eventually she acknowledged it with a nod and spoke, her voice laced with a hint of cheekiness that was expected of her. "A bit of a tall order mother, but one I will attempt nonetheless."

"So go then, girl." The figure sighed tiredly in response before turning her back on the younger woman. The younger woman nodded and turned away before a bright light consumed her form. The light faded and there was only a crow left where the beautiful woman once stood. It cawed once before shooting upward into the sky with both speed and grace. The hunched figured watched silently as it disappeared from sight.

The last blight was thirty years ago. The destruction of the Kirkwall chantry nearly twenty. The end of the first mage/templar just nine. The age of the Dragon has brought on drastic change to the Thedas already but the figure knew, with a peculiar feeling of guilt in her chest, that these events were just the beginning.

Fergus stood silently at the center of the royal palace’s courtyard with his hands held formally behind his back, he was clad in a golden armor akin to the one worn by his uncle during the Battle at Ostagar. It was early morning and the sun was still hidden behind the horizon. Today was the day of his “expedition” and despite his serious expression and confident posture, the prince had his uncertainties.


The Anderfels was for the most part, unexplored. It was an arid, harsh land with plenty of beasts willing to sink their fangs into a steel chest plate. The few cities they had in the area were known to be unfriendly to anyone who wasn’t a native and their warriors were some of the finest, if not vicious in nature.

But he had no choice. The Blight grew closer and closer each day and this journey was Ferelden’s only hope of surviving the onslaught. You’d think that due to the severity of the situation it’d warrant a series of caravans with rations and supplies, platoons of knights to protect it, and the official royal flag flying behind it all. Fergus certainly thought it was necessary but the Queen of Ferelden, his elder sister, did not.

She couldn't risk leaving Ferelden weakened against the horde already occupying the majority of the Kocari Wilds in hopes that an Order that had long disappeared would be found. So instead of a proper expedition, the prince had to be content with a small group of adventurers willing to travel through the hell and back.


He sent out hundreds of letters to various noble families and their lands. Each one hid none of the dangers that would come with the journey but heavily emphasized the immense amounts of gold and glory one would receive granted they survive. Many came. In fact, so many willing adventurers arrived that both he and Valora knew they wouldn't have been able to effectively turn the entirety of them into a cohesive unit.

So Valora, as clever as the Ferelden spymaster was, devised a series of tests that the adventurers had to subject themselves to over the past week. The twenty men and women who passed both the mental and physical aspects requirements were then investigated silently by her agents. Using the frightening amounts of information she had gathered, Valora found only five individuals who she felt would be up to the task and capable of developing synergy. Once she saw how few were suited, the spymaster then invited a Chevalier she knew well to join through a missive she had sent to his Empress. Fergus wasn't particularly happy about that last part but he would not drive any more conflict between him and Valora than his previous choices already had.

These six individuals were the ones who Fergus now waited to arrive at the gates.
 
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VAMARO

Old bones transported themselves wearily through a bag of withered skin, creaking all the while. Time abhorred a life in constant motion, and Vamaro’s life was motion. His feet blistered, an additional layer of callouses to look forward to. At this point, it was simply a natural layer of armor. A steed would have been practical for traversing throughout Ferelden, yet Vamaro’s posterior simply would not have agreed to such a prospect. Thus, the dwarf decided to carry the sore mass that was his elderly body, garbed in a hefty raiment of brown leather.

Aches and lingering pains had been all the trial and tribulations for the day, the prior week’s way of sending its regards. His body had long since been rendered unfit for rigorous exertion, but the task called for it, and the mind demanded it. Bone rubbed against bone with every whirling motion the Tempest exhibited, the type of friction that had long since rendered his form as pain incarnate. In many ways, he had aged incredibly. It was thanks to those very same ways that he had aged horrifically.

Ferelden itself was agreeable enough. Thedas had much more to offer in terms of decorum and aesthetic, but Ferelden was a culture that rewarded merit, and less scheming politics and nepotism. That was, of course, not to say it was without its politics; the Arls and Banns saw to that. At the very least, however, the cuisine agreed with him. Hearty stews that were utterly without the garnish of trained cooks – pragmatic, if unacceptable to the discerning palate, dining that suited him just fine. He had even considered this a viable option for a final settling place, before thinking better of it.

A singular memory rose above the rest of the mire when Vamaro lingered in Ferelden. It had been one of his first jobs, in the days before Cailan, in the days of Maric. The target had been one of the oh-so-revered Ash Warriors, a criminal that hid himself behind expunged records and the hope for redemption. But he was just as Vamaro was; a murderer.

Entering the camp under the guise of a charitable proprietor of goods had been easy enough. Tailing the mark as he left with his scouting party was more difficult, but well within his capabilities. Entering the camp they had made was remarkably more difficult, but Vamaro was a prodigy, however unwilling. The killing stroke, of all things, should have been the most trivial of all.

Curse those damn Mabari.

A mark of the hound’s ‘affection’ graced Vamaro’s left calf to this day, a mark of fangs. A slash near about the eye from the now conscious warrior followed. A decade more of swordplay would not have made the Ash Warrior Vamaro’s equal, but his ferocity was astounding. He roared, and the Mabari roared, and before he knew it, a contingent of the houndmasters were upon him.

He had thought bitterly, back then, of the parallel. They stood and fought, while he ran as his father was murdered in the street.

It was this thought that once again enraptured Vamaro as he arrived at the gates.



THE FAMISHED

The Famished was but a ‘thing’. Outside of Par Vollen, and in much of remainder of the world, this was the case. Ferelden did not agree with the Qunari, and the Famished did not agree with Ferelden. Yet the hunger demanded that she be here. Bloodshot eyes regarded their surroundings with distaste; so many bas, and so many shadows to uncover. Burn the shroud to ashes with gaatlok, and the eyes would fade.

She had a sneaking suspicion that she was being watched.

She always had a sneaking suspicion that she was being watched.

The past week had been particularly unkind to her, inexplicable scratches and burns adorning her body, showing through holes in the rags of her white (now dirtied) garb. It was possible, even, that in light of the tests that she had undergone, that some of these wounds may have even not been self-inflicted. She arrived at her destination, glaring at all those present.

“Pashaara!” The Famished spit, at no one in particular, “Golden one, if I could burn the eye-fluids of all these basra, I would. I pray our journey begins swiftly.”
 
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Asaara felt more than a little overwhelmed as he took his first steps toward the royal palace. The previous week had been nothing short of absolutely unbelievable, multiple times Asaara had doubted he'd even survive to see this day, it seemed that all of Thedas had wanted in on the expedition, so what were his chances but slim to none. But against all odds he, and a small select group had passed whatever test had been thrown at them.

Now all he had left to do to reap the rewards, was to do his best not to die . . . Oh, and find the Grey Wardens or something to that effect. He chuckled to himself as he glanced up towards the road. His destination, the palace now no longer a blip in the distance, but about a fifteen minute walk from his current position.

The flat of his sword bounced lightly on his shoulders, held in place by only his arms which hung over opposite sides of the lengthy scrap of iron. The blade was rough, and even nicked in several places. Small wispy scratches reflected off of its surface; each a story in their own. Some of the stories however, were noticeably newer than the others. Asaara owed that to the recent 'trials' he'd been subjected to. He shuddered, one arm extricating itself from the blade to absentmindedly thumb an almost healed thin scratch that ran down the side of his jaw line. The pain from the wound was gone, but the memory still gave him the willies.

"Can't believe I got scratched by that damn, ngh . . . This thing better not scar or Maker help me --" Asaara cut off, slowing himself to a stand still right outside the gates. He sighed, rubbing his face with one hand while the other balanced the sword over his shoulder.

"Ho. Ly. Shit!"

Huge was an understatement. The building looked like it could eat Lowtown whole and still have room for more. Asaara couldn't help but feel completely out of his element. One foot hovered over the threshold of the Palace's gate. After a moment of hesitation he made his choice, stepping inside the gates toward his
oncoming death new destiny.
 
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The constant rocking motion, summed up with the closed eyelids, brought Imryll undesired drowsiness. Oh, she did love to sleep, but today was not the ideal time to indulge in whims. A long sigh broke from her lips followed by a grunt—an almost silent way of showing her displeasure.

“I know what you’re doing, Revas,” Imryll said.

The aforementioned gave her a sidelong glance, having learned that his only sane choice was to completely ignore her ranting—even if it posed to be a hell of a difficult job.

“You’re trying to make me miss my chance. I won’t let you.” The look she gave Revas was that of someone who is used to jealousy. “You see—agh!“

The cart wheels passed over some incredibly big, and annoying, pothole, deeming her efforts to straighten her posture useless. But of course it hadn’t been a coincidence; the crooked smile plastered on Revas face said it all. If looks could kill, Imryll’s would have made him gag and choke on his own spit.

“Ah!” The tension lifted as Revas’ companion—some silent, almost invisible elf—pointed towards the gigantic hell-of-a-castle.

Words stuck on Imryll’s throat as she regarded the building with amusement. She had been able to appreciate similar buildings, but had never been able to enter one. It would be her first and, probably, only chance. Her palms started to sweat. Not good. She had to be calm so as to be able to make a break for it, if needed.

Imryll inhaled, her hand reaching out for her sack. “This is it, guys.” A big smile formed on her lips as she leapt from the cart. “I’d say I wish to see you again, Revas; but I like you, and even though I am a great liar, I’ll just be honest with you.” Revas rolled his eyes, urging the horses to a trot so he could lose the annoying elf’s voice. “I hope you choke and die!” Imryll shouted with joy.

She turned on her heel and strode towards the castle.

She wouldn’t say she was nervous; instead excitement made her fingers tingle. This all new adventure and search for the Wardens gave her a strange urge which needed to be quenched. Her life was boring, so much that she wished even for something dreadful to happen. Now she didn’t have to think much about it, something was definitely happening. And it also included amounts of money she probably wouldn’t even be able to count. THAT made her the more ecstatic.

As Imryll arrived at the gates, she let her eyes drift from the dwarf towards the Qunari people. She stopped, just so to be able to examine her new companions-to-be. Her gaze lingered on Asaara.

“I thought Qunari men are supposed to be ugly.” Her voice held a matter-of-fact tone.
 
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How precisely a missive seeking warriors for a fool's errand at the behest of the Queen of Ferelden's warrior brother had found its way into the hands of a Dalish clan was not Solavir's task to puzzle out. Nor could she expect to fathom the reasons behind her keeper choosing to not only take its request to heart but to approach his first with the battered scroll. Had he known that she dreamed at times of the world outside their clan? Or did he think that she should temper her stubbornness with the humility of battling alongside others in a fight that she could not face alone? All questions, no answers.

The answers were hardly relevant any longer, no matter what they might be. They did not impact the events that followed and if they were to influence anything else, she would have time to take them into consideration once more. With a gleam of adventure in her eye, she left the forest while much of her clan was tending to the halla. The night before had been the official ceremony to see her away and now there was work to be done. The other elves had already made their well-wishes and even burnt incense to ask the gods to guide her still no matter how far from home she might wander.

If she had thought that the journey would be easy, she was mistaken. On foot, she had made her way through the maternal embrace of the forest where the bounty ensured that her hunger was sated each night without needing to dip into the sack of supplies that she carried along. The plains were still scarred, more so than she had known, and they were considerably harder to traverse. She had nearly depleted her supplies when she arrived at last in Lydes and was able to use what little coin she had received from the keeper to purchase a horse and a scant amount more food to see her through.

When Solavir had arrived in Ferelden, it was already with her eyes far more open than they had been within the relative comfort of her clan's fold. They had struggled, but it is one thing to have others to rely upon and quite another, she discovered already, to make the long and exhausting journey on her own. While she had not envied the idea of working as a group before, she was quickly becoming more amenable to the thought.

As for the trials that had ensued, those she handled with more bravado. There was a thrill to battle that rewarded the sweat and effort paid into it, the same for which could not be said of saddle sores. If she stumbled and sustained a cut to the arm, which she would assure anyone looked worse than it actually was, it was still a great deal better than the prospect of walking for days across the uneven earth of Dirthavaren's scars. She had succeeded in the end, wound or not, and had begun to grow suspicious that this task had been in vain until the instructions prompting her to head to the castle.

Now that she was here, she felt a twinge of anxiousness for the first time since she left. The constant movement and unending assault of new and often unpleasant experiences had stolen away all her concentration but now that she was once again able to really look around her and consider it, she felt on edge. These would be strangers, shems at that. Who could say how they would treat her?

Her fears were somewhat assuaged when, upon her approach, she caught sight of something that transformed her misgivings into curiosity. No, not the saucy looking elf, she'd heard tales of elves who lived in cities and scraped by like slaves. No, she was instantly fascinated by the man who could only have been qunari. A passing dwarf merchant had told her a tale of a qunari who took out a whole contingent of human guards by himself and emerged victorious. It was the horns that sealed the deal for her. "Like a ram," the dwarf had said with awe. It was all that she could do to stop herself from walking straight up to him and only because she had no idea what she would say if she did.

Rooted in place with eyes the size of saucers, it dawned on her that she was most certainly staring. Biting her lip, she began to walk again, determined to pass them without another look. She would have hated it if someone were to stare at her, afterall. But she wanted to see the horns up close. Would they feel like the antlers of a halla? The idea of qunari keeping the carved horns of ancestors as decorative items in their homes crossed her mind. What she would give to ask...
 
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Ser Ethan Urbain Rose | Chevalier
To some Ferelden was a beautiful country, but to others like Ethan it was nothing but a drab slab of land with grey skies and a looming sadness over it. Orlais was vibrant, bursting with life and color and hid the realities of life so well from the world behind masks of Grand Balls and political parties. Ferelden seemed quite the opposite with looming skies and beggars littering the streets. Grey walls and brown coloured armor with no signs of life in the eyes of the people, besides fear of every day and trying to make it to the next. Ethan had been called to this dreadful country, because they needed aid with an expedition. Empress Viktoria was the one who gave the Command and it was because of his position with the Empress. He was the Empress's Champion and her protector in the capital Val Royeaux in Orlais. One of the best Chevaliers, and now he was away from his Empress with whispers of another usurping on the tongues. He needed to be back in Val Royeaux, not wandering in the backwater bayou of Ferelden.

The letter that arrived to his Empress's hands called for Ethan directly to attend this expedition because of his prowess as a warrior and duelist, and political savvy. He had known some parts of the Expedition from the letter, as Empress Viktoria would not send him away because Ferelden requested it, but because the Blight was becoming an issue again and no Grey Wardens could be found.

Traveling to Denerim from Val Royeaux was a journey on its own, one that took weeks to complete before the Chevalier finally reached the heart of Ferelden, Denerim. A group of travelers had already made way towards the gates of the Palace, waiting for Prince Fergus to address the group about their tasks and where they would be headed and what they would be doing.

He glanced upon the grey walls of Denerim's Palace, the steely grey gates blocking them from entering as two Qunariy, two Elves and a Dwarf stood waiting. They must of been the 'hand' selected ones fit for the journey ahead of them. It was an interesting cast of characters, ones that seemed sketchy already because of their backgrounds on race, but he had to give them a chance if they were going anywhere with this Expedition. He wasn't a racist, not at all, but Qunari were known to be Tal or members of the Qun, and members of the Qun were nuts to deal with. It depended on the Elf, and one was clearly a Dalish Elf and not a City Elf by the clothing. The Dwarf, looked like another Dwarf to him.

Ethan didn't wear his Chevalier Armor, but he was wearing the De Chalon Heraldry on the center chest piece of his armor. It signified that he was the Champion of Empress Viktoria De Chalon, but not a part of that family even though he bore their heraldry upon his chest. His hair, had grown wild from his travels to Denerim, was cut and shaved back down low to his head, and shaved, earlier in the day. He had stopped by a barber to get it done, not wanting to show up to greet the Royalty of Ferelden looking like a savage.
 
It took a good while before Asaara was able to pry his eyes off of what was the Royal Palace. His fingers twitching anxiously; he'd never had a good experience with nobility and couldn't shake his instinctual feeling of wariness. Just standing inside the gate made Asaara nervous. He almost expected to hear the familiar exclamation of, 'HEY! What are you stealing!?'. Instead he was snapped out of his reverie by a substantially less accusatory voice.

“I thought Qunari men are supposed to be ugly.”

Asaara turned towards Imryll; noting the size difference between them, as he dwarfed over her slimmer frame. This fact intimidated most people, but if Imryll cared she sure didn't show it; earning an almost imperceptible smirk from Asaara. He must have missed her arrival while lost in thought. He rolled his eyes, grinning, "Well aren't you the charmer. Do you tell that to all the Qunari you come across, or am I just special?" As Asaara spoke, he would make a show of giving the elf a once over. His eyes would settle on the 'appropriate' places before giving a low approving whistle. "Anyway, to answer your question I've no idea. Never saw any other Qunari save for my parents -- and now her." With a glance over his shoulder, he'd hitch a thumb in the Famished's direction, who at the moment seemed content with muttering to themselves.

"So . . . are you flirting with me? Because if you are, you're off to a great start." As he spoke he felt the familiar presence of eyes on his back. As the only Qunari growing up in the slums of Lowtown, stares were nothing new, and Asaara could feel them from leagues away; glancing out the corner of his eye, Asaara caught sight of another elf woman, except now she was obviously trying her hardest not to stare. Asaara bit his lip for a moment, a small internal conflict taking place before appearing to come to a decision. He would raise his voice just loud enough for Solavir to hear. "Hey, Come 'ere, we don't bite." As if to immediately disprove his statement, Asaara would flash a wolfish grin at Solavir, beckoning her over with a flick of his head.
 
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Old habits die hard, for Imryll rose her chin just as to let the Qunari know that she didn't find him intimidating enough. She'd learned enough on her younger days and knew that appearance was it all for the way others looked at oneself.

“Of course I don't,” Imryll said, nose wrinkling in disgust. She scowled at him, not liking his scrutinizing look. “Hey, I've made others pay for less than that, so don't.” And that wasn't an actual threat.

The next question caught her off-guard. Imryll even took a step away from Asaara, raising a brow at him.

"What?" She let out an exasperated sigh. "Man, I didn't mean it the wrong way, okay? It's just that... you guys are fugly"—she leaned over, though the height difference made it all for naught—"and strange." She pointed toward The Famished.

As the Qunari male started to divert his attention from her, Imryll took the opportunity to make her not-so-grand exit. Tiny steps led her away from the overwhelming attention the Qunari gave her. That was supposed to happen, of course. Still, she took that interaction as a mental note so as not to forget to take care of her words around tho—

"Hey, Come 'ere, we don't bite."

A malicious grin formed on Imryll's lips.

"Don't let him lie to you, beautiful." Her voice rose, directing a brief glance at Solavir. "He doesn't bite, but he'll make you puke rainbows; and I do bite from time to time."

Yeah. Old habits die hard.
 
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Irritation.

Idle banter was if shrieks of an abomination, needles puncturing the ear-drums. The Famished found a modicum of peace through dragging her nails across bloody scabs on her arms, gritting her teeth in sheer annoyance. The other Qunari, distasteful. The loud elf, torturous. Would that these fools followed the lead of the quiet one, he of stout form and meager height – or perhaps the young one, gawking, but blissfully silent. Still, the Famished found her mind conjuring up imagery of each and every one of them wreathed in flames, taken by the rapture of an explosion.

The other Qunari was not like her. His facility with the ‘common’ language indicated that he had been born of this foreign land. He did not hold himself like one who came from Par Vollen, from Seheron. The demeanor, the posture, his intonation – crude, undisciplined. The Famished spit upon the ground, utter contempt for the Vashoth, and something entirely more venomous for the elf, who spoke like one who simply did not know her place.

“Do not point at me, do not gesture at me.” She snarled, face contorting in almost feral ways. “You, elf, you talk far too much. It grates. I bite also. I should like to dine upon the flesh of your neck should you persist with this babble. And you…”

She turned her attention to the Vashoth.

“… are a fool to speak of flirtations with one such as this. Unless you should prove shamefully meager, she would not survive the coupling.”

From her periphery, she noted the old dwarf, expression suddenly furrowed in disapproval.
 
Though it couldn't be called a shock that the qunari had noticed her staring, Solavir still jumped a little at his sudden address. It was worded kindly, though, something that she was glad to hear regardless but especially after having been caught gaping. She approached the pair slowly, her expression still one of barely constrained awe as she neared him. She held her tongue, still unsure of what to say and cognizant of the fact that a flood of questions about his horns would likely come off as rude.

It was only the words of the other elvish woman at his side that managed to break her attention away from the thoughts bouncing around in her head. Unused to such plain speaking and more than a little flustered by the flurry of events, Solavir's cheeks had warmed and she raised a hand to conceal her expression. Before she had to come up with a reply, however, another qunari joined into the group.

This qunari woman's words were also blunt with little ornamentation but where the others had been direct and made her shy, this woman's observations were all harsh. This was easier to deal with and gave Solavir a welcome reprieve to consider her thoughts. The blush was quick to dissipate and she could look amongst the others more carefully now that she had approached nearly to their sides.

There was a dwarf, an old one by the looks of it, though with dwarves it was hard to say just how old was old. At any rate, he seemed the part of a seasoned traveler and she appreciated his presence already. Perhaps some of his well-traveled experience might balance out the fact that she'd but heard stories of places like the Free Marches. As for the others, she didn't quite know what to make of them yet. The other elf woman seemed as much Solavir's opposite as night to day but she was also absolutely fascinatingly fiery. The qunari man radiated vitality. The qunari woman was coarse but she didn't sound the same as the man. Different dialects? The woman had horns too. Absolutely incredible.

"I'm Solavir. It is a pleasure to meet you" she said at last, brightly disregarding how abrupt it sounded after the qunari's tirade. She continued to peer around at them all, trying to guess what sort of combatant they all were. None of them felt magical to her in the slightest but that was about as much as she could say for certain.
 
Oh boy.

Asaara's merriment died almost instantly, although a warm smile remained plastered on his face; a mask to hide the complicated emotions running through him. The Qun. This woman was from the Qun. From the way she spoke, to how she carried herself (minus the appalling scab scraping) screamed trouble. His parents' voices echoing in his head to 'stay away' from the Qun. He took another look at her, noticing the bloodshot eyes, anxious body language, coupled with her haggard appearance, a feeling of immense pity washing over him.

He wasn't threatened by her presence; after all, at the end of the day she would be fighting alongside him. It would only make sense to make peace with the Qunari . . . or he could continue showing the same total disregard as usual. Barely holding back a laugh he'd nudge Imryll, flashing an impish grin while echoing The Famished. "Sorry, but you would not survive the coupling."

Turning his attention towards Solavir, he'd flash his brightest smile, sticking out a large, callused hand for her to take. "Solavir. A beautiful name for a beautiful lady. I am Asaara Imekari . . ."

Asaara would begin to gesture towards The Famished before stopping himself.

"My name has it's own meaning in the Qunlat, her -- technically our language. Sadly it doesn't have anything to do with making someone puke rainbows, but I'm sure if you asked that kind Qunari woman over there nicely enough she'd translate for you."

At this point, Asaara would drop his great sword from his shoulder, burying the tip of the sword with the weight of his body as he leaned against the cross guard casually. "So why don't we all get introduced . . .", he would say, turning slightly towards Imryll.

"And you are?"
 
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Ser Ethan Urbain Rose | Chevalier
Ethan stood a distance away from the group so he wasn't in their line of sight so they wouldn't pester him as his eyes washed over them for a moment as he began to read each one's different body language to gauge the tensity of the current situation they were in and all seemed to be tad anxious. Except for the dwarf that stood there, like stone unmoving as the group of individuals conversed with one another more openly now in his line of view. Honestly the dwarf just might be asleep while standing and no one would even notice. Fixing the position of the sword strapped to his side, Ethan cleared his throat and gave out a small little sigh as he didn't want to address these people at all. Perhaps you could call him a xenophobe, but he didn't want to address them because they were a different race but it was because they were in Ferelden and Orlesians were despised here in Ferelden. He wasn't going to make himself anymore lovable to Ferelden's inhabitants because he wasn't going to put a filter on his mouth towards these barbaric savages that lived in meek colors, shacks and a life as a whole compared to an average Orlesian. "Where is the Prince already. Surely someone would have noted the arrival of a small party at the gates and went to alert the Prince about his guests." That would only make logical sense, but why would a barbarian be in a hurry to get something so 'dire' under way? The royal family should of opened their doors and invited the group inside for a drink and something to eat while discussing their travel plans and what exactly they were undertaking and where they were going. Instead they were treated with the Ferelden hospitality of being left out in the damp Ferelden air, with locked gates barring their path.

It would be wise of him to introduce himself to his new 'comrades' in arms on this journey, but he just couldn't bring himself to walk over to the group at the moment and speak to them. Instead he watched as some moved closer and others away, and all he could gather from the conversation was body language because he wasn't in range to hear them talking actually.

Mulling the idea once more in his head, the Chevalier gave up on the idea of avoiding them as long as possible and began to walk forward from his spot and towards the group. Everyone seemed to be getting acquainted with one another, and it seemed the Qunari male was the chattiest one of the group so far. "Ser Ethan Rose, at your services." Ethan addressed himself to the group after the speaking had stopped between the group of his arrival. His title, and ranking was of no concern to them. While he held great authority and reputation in Orlais and other parts of Thedas, here in Ferelden--especially with a bunch of common dogs on this expedition, wouldn't understand how to give respect to one of his standings.

Just the small sentence he spoke to them was laced with his Orlesian accent. If his accent didn't give away his origins, then surely his appearance and yellow flower would unless they were uneducated heathens that had never heard of the greatest nation to ever exist, Orlais. "I don't need or want the gold and riches that come with this journey." Only a noble could become a Chevalier, so he was already wealthy and didn't need anymore. His family was raised to higher levels of expectations and prosperity due to his role of being the Empress's Champion. He was well off in life and he wasn't being charitable to the group before him by giving over his share of the expeditions treasures--nor did he want to go through the hassle of hauling it back home to Orlais. Carrying large amounts of treasure without the proper escort begged for trouble and while Ethan was one of the deadliest Chevaliers in Orlais to live at the moment, it didn't mean that he was always actively seeking out to put his life in danger and look for a fight with a group of common bandits that could barely tell which way to hold an axe and swing.
 

“You, elf, you talk far too much. It grates. I bite also. I should like to dine upon the flesh of your neck should you persist with this babble."

The first reaction she got was totally expected. The female Qunari was a total feral sight, the kind she was accustomed to poke around. Of course she didn't intend to get a retort—in total honesty, she was begging for it—but when she got one, well, her lips wouldn't have let her try to work around that lie, if it were to be spoken out loud. She was, in fact, about to speak, only to be interrupted.

"And you… are a fool to speak of flirtations with one such as this. Unless you should prove shamefully meager, she would not survive the coupling.”

Imryll's laugh echoed Asaara's, but was stopped midway as the nudge almost made her trip, forcing a whimper out her throat. It had hurt. A hand went to stroke the area in pain as her eyes, once more, gave Asaara a not so amiable look.

Dammit all. She really needed to stay away from those beasts.

She cleared her throat, putting a couple of feet between herself and the possible danger a.k.a. Asaara 'The Brute'.

"You don't bite." She stared at The Famished, the shadow of a smile tugging at her lips.

How did that saying go? "All you are is bark, aren't you, Qunari woman?" Close enough.

Still, truthfully speaking, that woman from the Qun had something that Imryll didn't like at all. And she had learned not to ever underestimate her intuition. That's why she kept a certain distance from her too.

A melodious voice broke the horrible atmosphere and Imryll couldn't suppress the profound sigh of relief which made her shoulders slump, relaxed.

"Solavir!"

She intended to ignore whichever reply the Qunari woman would have come through. What if she did bite? She'll keep her neck, thank you very much.

"You're the best thing this day has brought!"

She positioned herself before the other elf, taking her hands into her own, impeding Solavir from taking Asaara's offered palm. She kinda felt like she had to protect her—at least for the time being. Imryll certainly felt much more in sync with fellow elves. After all, she was raised by two of them and lived a grand part of her years in a place filled with pointy-ears comrades.

Imryll opened her mouth so as to speak, but The Brute took this new verbal diarrhea as his task. She pursed her lips and gave the Qunari man a sidelong glance.

". . . but I'm sure if you asked that kind Qunari woman over there nicely enough she'd translate for you."

Her mouth had formed into a pout by now. She turned all her attention towards Asaara, slowly letting go of Solavir.

"So why don't we all get introduced . . ."

The Brute's suggestion made her laugh out loud, for the second time. She forgot the reason of her irritation, which easily rose into the air, disappearing and leaving her body behind.

"We should!" She eyed the all-too-passive dwarf and the human. "This group seems to be friendly enough!" Another laugh made her shoulders shake.

Her attention turned towards the human who now seemed not too 'shy' about the interaction.

"Well, hello, Sir." A quick inspection told her everything she needed, and wanted, to know: He was as wealthy as she was poor. And she didn't like him. Not that Imryll ever liked anyone. "I'm Imryll. Call me as you wish," she said to no one in particular.

"I don't need or want the gold and riches that come with this journey."

"Because you are as rich as you can get, right?" she said, nodding a couple times before turning her attention to the Chevalier. "Doing this for glory? No. Lemme guess. For honor!" She raised her hands, fists shaking, gaze to the horizon. "Oh. Sweet virtue." Arms dropped, all of a sudden, before inhaling a profound breath. Her face came down, gaze fixated on Ethan. "Hope we were all as fair as you, Sir. But we're not. I'm sorry, and very sorry I am, to tell you that we're not as honorous"—her chest inflated, proud of being able to remember a word like that, which she had never used before—"as you are."

She shrugged and then faced the others, equally.

"So. Let's recount." She pointed towards Solavir. "You're Sol." Finger traveled toward Asaara. "The Brute, sorrydidn'tcaughtyournamewastoobusygawkingatSol'sbeauty." She gestured to Ethan. "Sir," Imryll gave him an understanding and almost ceremonial nod. Her gaze went toward The Famished. Imryll smiled before dramatically turning her body and finger to the Qunari woman. "You." She paused. "Yeah. 'You'. Aaand. . ."

She turned to the dwarf, who had been quiet since the beginning. He deserved a name too, didn't he?

Gwah! Gwah!
Gwah!


"Gwah." Oh, that word had a story behind itself; and also the fact that every dwarf Imryll encountered made her mind scream that expression for ages. "Ah. Brings up memories." She patted her cheeks. "Okay. Focus."

Turning toward the group, Imryll flashed a big smile.

"Be glad, lads! We seem to be walking the righteous path and I can foresee great relationships in this." She gave The Famished a wary look. "All which do not include not surviving the coupling. Happy?"
 
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l THE WITCH, HER AGENT, AND THE WARDEN l COURTESY SYSTEM l
Damn her mother and damn the Blight, Isadora thought with a dramatic roll of her amber eyes as she waited nonchalantly near the top of the gate. It was a pain in the ass but every great wicked grace player went into a game with a plan -- Isadora's in particular required some preemptive measures but now that the expedition members had gathered below it was time for her to make the first move.


Nimbly evading the guards who patrolled the castle walls, Isadora made her way from rooftop to rooftop until she found the inner courtyard where a certain gold clad prince stood alongside the spymaster. She watched with curious eyes as he interacted with Valora and a wicked smile found her lips when she saw the red head pass the prince a case of lyrium vials. The spymaster left and Isadora noted how the prince's eyes followed her into the hall and how they lingered where she once stood.

"Greetings, young prince." The witch then called out from her spot in the roof . She stood straight with one hand rested lightly against her hip. The prince turned quickly in response, clearly flustered due to the thoughts he was having in what he believed was a private moment. His expression immediately shifted from unsettled to cautious however as the situation set in -- for some odd reason there was a scantily clad intruder on the roof of the courtyard.

"Who are you?" Fergus asked calmly while one hand rested defensively on the grip of his blade. She laughed lightly before jumping down to join him in the courtyard. The prince's posture tensed and while his eyes might have fixated into a cold cautionary glare, he did not attack. She rose her hands in the air as a sign of well-meaning but her pompous smile remained plastered on colored lips.

"An ally for the time being -- you may call me Isadora if it pleases you. I'm here to join your little expediton." She answered, her tone as as sweet as it was poisonous. She cocked her head playfully after Fergus stood straight a moment later, removing his hand from the grip of his blade. "Well well...aren't you quick to trust?"

"If you wished to caused me harm, you would've already done it by now." Fergus replied with utmost seriousness, clearly not amused by the theatrics the raven haired woman was trying. "Your clothes and demeanor tell me what you are Witch. I know your kind wish to reclaim the Wilds just as badly as I wish to protect Ferelden."

"Your expedition members have completed gathering outside as I'm sure your spymaster has told you. I'll join them shortly but I wanted to offer some advice to you before we go do the impossible." Isadora said as the corners of her lips rose once more. She was surprised by his deductive response, perhaps even impressed but she didn't let it show.

"What is it then?" He asked after taking a moment to think over the circumstances.

"There remains a Grey Warden in Ferelden who's yet to have disappeared with the rest of his order." Isadora revealed, turning away from him to look off towards the gate. Her tone became serious and reflected the gravity of what she was implying. "He's was cursed and was asleep for years. His slumber has spared him from whatever drew the rest of his Order to obscurity and I woke him up with the help of a Tevinter. It would be smart to gather them in the south before we depart Ferelden."

"You swoop in here from Maker knows where and expect me to trust you?" Fergus retorted sternly. He shifted weight onto one of his legs and crossed his arms while his face assumed an incredibly skeptical expression "I mean - you're a Witch of the Wilds for the Maker's sake! Most of your kind either disappeared or died along with the Wardens and now you expect me to believe that there's not only two of you willing to pledge your aid but a Vint is involved as well?"

Isadora laughed once more at his exasperated tone, once again amused and somewhat impressed to see the Prince using his brain to think critically. "I don't expect anything from you. What you do with the information I've given you is your choice. Twas simply my suggestion."

"...Where do you think you are going?" He asked irritably as the Witch began to saunter off.

"I simply wish to wait along the others at the gate. Don't worry prince, regardless of where you decide to go after this I'll lend my powers to your cause." Isadora explained calmly before turning around and offering him a wink. "For now."

A spontaneous light consumed her form and Fergus winced. Where the beautiful woman once stood was now a crow. It turned to its side to meet the Prince's bewildered stare. Isadora cawed at him -- her goodbye of sorts -- and took of to join the other members of the expedition with her own brand of subtlety.

 
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l THE WITCH, HER AGENT, AND THE WARDEN l
Fergus rubbed the back of his head as the crow flew off. It was a lot to take in. He didn't trust the witch but if there was a slim chance that what she spoke of was true he had to take it. Finding a grey warden was worth the price that would come from a detour. Fergus sighed before his eyes trailed down to the box of lyrium vials that his spymaster had given him earlier. The prince scowled remembering he also had this whole situation to worry about.


"Give them to her sparingly; use it only to reign her in when she pulls on the ropes too hard."
Valora had told him that as coldly as if it was something as routine as sharpening his blade. Fergus still wasn't sure how he let the spymaster convince him it was a good idea to bring the crazy qunari on. Still, there was little point in doubting now his band of misfits and more waited for him at the gates.

As he approached the gates Fergus took a moment to clear his throat. He wasn't particularly gifted at the art of speaking publicly and the prince could admit that there was a traces of nervousness running through him the closer he got. He took one more deep breath and stepped out onto the top of the steps. His eyes scanned the individuals before he offered them a charming if not somewhat campy grin.

"Greetings! I see you are the men and women who passed Valora's trials, well met." He said as he made his way down the steps, his shiny armor clanking with each movement. "Fergus Alexander Theirin, the younger brother of Queen Alexandria and leader of this expedition -- such as it is"

He paused for a moment as he joined them on the ground. He looked for Isadora and found her off to the side staring at him creepily the ways crows do. He held back a frown at her prescence before continuing his address to the others. "I hope you guys don't mind if I keep this a bit simple as I've never been a fan of big speeches. I am simply taking this moment to welcome you all as equals in arms. I'm sure in the past week Valora has informed you guys of the danger and difficulty of the task ahead of us. It's going to be tough, uncomfortable, hell on earth even."

He paused once more to make sure he still held everyone's attention, resuming once he realized he did. "But as you all know, we don't have much choice. Whatever your intentions may be for joining the expedition the Blight intends to consume us all and everything that we live for."

"We will be journeying into the harsh and unexplored lands of the Anderfels in search of the long lost Grey Warden Order." He continued, his eyebrows furrowing as he moved past the majority of the group and approached the crow perched silently behind them. With his back turned on the other members he shot down a glare at Isadora. "But before we leave Ferelden we have something we must pick up -- so if you would witch -- lead the way."

But nothing happened and Fergus simply looked like a mad man speaking to a bird. He cleared his throat in the awkward silence that followed but was ultimately relieved to be suddenly blinded as Isadora finally chose to show her true form. The raven haired beauty stood there with a cheeky smile. She offered no explanation to the confused adventurers behind Fergus before turning on her heel and walking away.

"Come then. If any of you get left behind tis' not my problem."

The group of eight then headed south and out of Denerim, travelling along the road and meeting little resistance before the witch had them enter the Brecillian forest. Upon entering the woods it quickly became harder to follow Isadora who constantly twisted and turned throughout throughout the vast greenery. For hours they encountered packs of wolves and navigated between the roots and maze-like structure of the forest but soon enough exhaustion was beginning to set in. The sun was setting as they finally reached a clearing where they could lay their feet on even ground but the two leaders remained divided on the next course of action.

Isadora was determined to keep moving -- warning everyone that the Dalish in this forest were hardly as meek as the one in their group. Fergus favored the idea of setting up camp and drafting a watch rotation in case of an ambush, insistent on his opinion that they could handle the threat.

When the two realized that neither would back down from their suggestion they turned and asked for a vote from the six following them.
 
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It was all quite a lot to take in for Solavir, who had of course listened eagerly to every story about the Queen of Ferelden but had admittedly not been much acquainted with her younger brother. She felt the energy around him and wondered if the reason for that was that he was a mage. He certainly didn't look one, but the energy from that direction was irrefutable.

Considering him as he spoke, Solavir wondered if he was even close to prepared to handle and lead the chaos that he had summoned to him. She thought back to the female Qunari and quietly ticked off the "probably not" box next to that question. He seemed the all right sort, though, and she got the impression from him that he was not one to spit at her and call her any of the names she'd heard along the way so that was something. Killing for the sake of killing was a waste but the punishment meted out to those who thought she was an escaped alienage elf had been, quite frankly, pretty proportional.

Realizing that she had let her attention wander, she flicked her gaze back to the prince in time for him to explain that they were headed to the Anderfels. "Unexplored" was just the sort of thing she liked to hear. So much to learn, so many new things to see. When she returned to her clan, she would have stories to tell them for years. The knowledge of the outside world would enrich all of her people and she would make the keeper proud. She shook her head, having lost focus again. She thought that she had missed something terribly important as the prince addressed a bird sitting near him.

Less than a second before the woman shifted, apprehension dawned on Solavir and she was almost instantly gratified to see that the bird was the magically inclined of the two. She was briefly disappointed, she had been quite hoping that the prince was a mage. New prospects quickly overcame the disappointment though and she wondered if the woman could turn into anything else. Crow only? Other birds? How had she learned to turn into a bird? Where did the clothes go? When she was in the fade, was she a bird or a woman? At some point in this journey, Solavir would ask her.

For a time, though, the questions had to be set aside as they began to walk again. There had been a rest, if one could call it that, between the long journey to Ferelden and this moment, but the trials that the spymaster had put them through were not a vacation even if they were a respite from the mind-numbing weariness of crossing fields for hours on end. If it was to toughen them in preparation, it was off to an exhausting start.

To Solavir's pleasant surprise, they headed south into the forests. Making their way through dense growth and navigating watchful wildlife was grueling work. Even she was out of breath too often to even pose questions. Still, the feeling of a forest was different from the feeling of a field, a welcome change. Solavir felt at ease surrounded by the sweetly whispering leaves, no matter if it was home or not. The forest was an unyielding mother who offered all her children needed to survive if only they earned it with their blood and sweat... but she did provide. More than could be said for the innocently swaying grass fields that gave no protection and no nourishment.

The suggestion that Solavir was meek made her bristle in response but she had no rejoinder. It was but boasting to make claims with no way of proving them. She would soothe herself with the thought of making the witch eat her words should things come to trouble. For now, Solavir was too tired to engage in anything strenuous in any case and would rather spend her energies on making camp than bickering. Besides, she wanted the woman to answer her questions still.

A clearing to make camp was so welcome a sight that Solavir greeted the space with a contented sigh. It felt like so long already since she had slept beneath boughs. She leaned against a tree and closed her eyes to listen to the hum of life surrounding her.

"You want a fire, do you not? I can gather wood, then, unless you'd rather I do something else?"
 
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Ser Ethan Urbain Rose | Chevalier
While Ethan wanted to give a retort the snobbish Elf that responded back to him. His jaw shut like steel when the gate opened and the Prince stepped out to address the group that had gathered before him. Ethan had never met the Prince, even though Viktoria had sent an invite for Fergus and his sister many times, but in return Valora was the one who showed up every time. It was a sign of disrespect, but his Empress paid it no mind and accepted Valora the first time the Elven Spymaster showed in place of the Prince and Queen.

Short and too the point it appeared as the Prince commented on his own inability to give a speech. What the Prince did give was just a bare set of facts that most already knew and importantly the Prince surely didn't instill any form of morality within the ranks. A long journey was indeed ahead of Ethan as he gave a small sigh of disbelief underneath his breath, but not saying a word. He was in foreign land, enemies on all sides.

"A witch. How pleasant." Ethan made a side comment when the crow transformed into a woman before the group. A witch would be leading the group? How awry this day continued to unfold before him.

The group had followed the witch and Fergus south, into a dense looking forest known as the Brecillian Forest. Ethan was on alert, eyes and ears listening and watching everything that could be gathered before him. He hated forests, especially dense ones such like these. This would be a perfect time for someone, or something to ambush them without giving any sign until they were on top of the group.

The mention of a Dalish Clan being in the forest piqued the interest of Ethan when Isadora had made a comment about Solavir being a meek Dalish Elf compared to the ones here. Reasons that would stay his own on why he was interested in the Dalish, had his mind running about where they could possibly be and if he could find them. He wasn't afraid of the Dalish or Elves in general, but he had to find the clan for his own purpose and agenda.

As the sun began to set, Fergus opted for a vote on making camp for the night and having a watch set so no one would be able to sneak up on them. It would be a shame if a creature that lurked in this forest found the group with their guard dropped and attack at their weakest time, sleeping. Approaching the witch, Isadora he wanted some information because it appeared that while everyone was in the dark about this forest she seemed to know a great many things. "Do you know where these Dalish are?" He asked the witch, but no sign of fear was laced in his voice but instead it seemed important to him, almost desperate.

He was young, and he did something stupid and he was trying to fix what he had done, but the trail he had been following had gone cold. Now he was just grasping at straws.
 
In Vamaro’s former line of work, he had taken to absorbing knowledge like a sponge held over a basin. Make sure what was most pertinent and relevant was deeply engraved, and listening attentively enough for the rest to be available for recollection. Fergus, of course, was known to the dwarf by repute alone. Handsome, and with enough youthful charm to pass as true royalty. Still, even Vamaro’s wary eyes could spot the ticks that betrayed his liege’s anxieties and nerves. Doubtlessly there would be growing pains involved in the early goings of the expedition.

Nonetheless, he was of a fine lineage, and Vamaro trusted that he’d be able to help him along, however silently.

The Chevalier was Orlais through and through. Vamaro had seen several of his ilk – had even done battle with one of their Order. Doubtlessly he would serve brilliantly as a man-at-arms, surpassing his own weathered self by a country mile. The dwarf had done his best to take the Orlesian’s measure a few more times during their trek into the forest. Vamaro concluded that he’d likely last a few passes against the Chevalier – perhaps even landed a blow upon flesh if his more daring maneuvers succeeded – and then be summarily dealt with. A lovely death it would be.

The giant and the giantess were an interesting contrast. Asaara was obviously not of the Qun. Young. One of the giant folk from Kirkwall, perhaps. Maybe even the offspring of mercenary Tal-Vashoth. Either way, a fine addition; the men of his race often held a level of strength that rendered skill and technique utterly pointless. The other female Qunari was likely to have been of the Qun, but Vamaro surmised that she had long since been removed of whatever mission she had been sent here for.

This land had not been kind to her, to be certain. Vamaro had no time to discern the manner of the tragedy that befell her, but immediately identified her as problematic; if she was as unstable as her manner suggested, then she was a liability, not an asset.

The two elves were also a fascinating case study unto themselves. One was a city elf, her diatribes had made that much obvious. Vamaro hoped that for the Famished’s sake that Imrynn was not taken lightly – a city elf in such a position only had such fire and gall if their weapon hand was faster than their tongue.

And her tongue was very fast.


So fast, in fact, that Vamaro worried if he'd be GWAH forever.

The other was unused to all this, that much was certain. One of the Dalish, perhaps? Purest of blood, keepers of lore. Woefully ignorant of many other things. She was a worry, even if she could hold her own in combat – Vamaro had found that many of her ilk were a contradiction unto themselves, wise in certain regards, with a degree of naivete.

Finally, the witch.

There had been a job once, to shuffle one of the Ladies of the Wilds from the mortal coil. Vamaro had been young and untested back then, and thusly refused the calling due to fear of the unknown. Most others refused because they were eminently aware of just how much they didn’t know. The one who accepted… Vamaro never knew what became of him.

She, above the elf, above the giantess, was going to be an issue.

This was the type of thinking Vamaro engaged in as the fellowship made their way to the clearing. He allowed himself to sit upon solid ground, easing the torture upon his troubled legs.

“Might as well give me first watch, I’ve found it hard to fall asleep in my old age. Don’t worry, my eyes are better than you’d expect.”
 

Imryll hadn't really thought about what the expedition would bring upon her. The only possible reason as to why she let that happen was the limited intellect she destined to analyze the situation and possible difficulties they would encounter. Well, she was becoming rich, right? What else mattered?

Wrong.
Oh. She was so wrong.

After the (boring) talk, which only added to the time it took for her to become richer, they were finally moving. But her tiny mind didn't actually think of the journey and, certainly, didn't have consider the thought of a stroll through the forest. There was a reason why she lived in the cities. She HATED the forest, with all her might. She had to live in one for some time. Hard times. Not so good memories.

She was able to follow along, of course, but she also made it clear to everyone how much she dreaded the place. There wasn't a thing she didn't complain about. It was her job to be loud, after all, for everyone who didn't have it in them to talk about it.

As the minutes passed and transformed into hours, her rantings became less frequent. All thoughts of hatred directed to the trees, plants, insects and tiny bruises, disappeared as her head directed the attention to other things.

"I'm so tired," she finally said, as they stopped.

Imryll found her way to a big root, where she took seat. She rumaged through her sack, finding some beef jerky which she munched on as she reached for a round and red apple. She squashed an insect crawling up her right leg.

"We need to be strong, man." She slapped her neck, trying to stop an itch. "I don't really like it here, but I don't really think it'll be good to keep going in the dark."

The idea of some Dalish elves creeping about wasn't certainly reassuring, but they could be dealt with if they were properly rested and fed.

"A fire in the woods is an inviting sight for unwanted guests," she recited one of the first words she learned while living in the woods. "Unless we want them to come?"
 
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While Imryll found the need to complain after every step, Asaara basked in the forest air, laughing at her minor misfortunes while grinning like a child. He enjoyed the feeling of the forest; the air was still and mostly silent, save for their footsteps. It was nothing like Lowtown's dusty alleys. During their trek he'd even spotted a pack of wolves, wanting to tame one of them with his bare hands. And he would have done it too -- but much to his disappointment their mission currently had no place for wolf taming. Instead they pressed onward. As they walked Asaara took the time to mentally categorize the comrade's he'd had the least interaction with.

First up was Isadora, the witch. With very little interaction between them it was hard to form an opinion of her. She was mysterious; and her ability to transform into animals made him strangely giddy as his mind filled with possible applications. She interested him that was for sure. The Dwarf, (or 'Gwah' as dubbed by Imryll) Asaara had conflicting feelings about. Asaara couldn't take his eyes off the little guy; and he was sure the dwarf was aware of it. He was constantly fighting the urge to lift the small man like a child and swing him around.

As for the Orlesian, Asaara's interest in him was simple. He wanted to fight him. The idea got his blood pumping, although he was convinced the human would find him "too crude" a sparring partner. After all, he was one of those Champion things, which meant he was supposed to be more than decent with a blade.

The Prince was . . . well he was fairly plain. With his first introduction, he wasted no time grandstanding. He simply stated their purpose, and they were off. He didn't exude any feelings of royalty when Asaara studied him. A fact that Asaara found that he appreciated. Made the man much more relatable.

Before he even knew it the sun was hanging low in the sky, and his weary companions were voting to set up camp. Personally Asaara would have kept going well into the night -- but he had to take the rest of the group into consideration. "Unless you want to sleep in the dark. Anyway we haven't seen a single Dalish so far, if they haven't bothered us yet I think we'll be fine."
 
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