Origins

[Dipper]

There had been a saying among Templars many years ago. 'Trust not a witch, even if she does offer you a nice meal.'

Alistair had figured that it had some profound meaning he just wasn't getting; that it pertained to something beyond the ken of the nine year old he'd been. Witches were Mage myths bounced around the barracks in hushed whispers, meant to scare the new kids before the hazing began. He'd taken part in the storytelling many times, he'd know. But now, faced with not one, but two Witches of the Wild, he was beginning to realize the intended warning in the phrase.

And now here he was, being aided by said witches for reasons he didn't quite understand yet. The warning rang true when the younger witch, the one with scant clothing, had mentioned something to eat. If that didn't set off every alarm bell in his head, nothing would.

Regardless, now wasn't the time to act skittish. His fellow Warden had taken an arrow and needed at least a day of recuperation before they... figured things out.

He grumbled and rubbed at the grime on his gauntlets. There was still darkspawn blood coating the thin layer between the gauntlet and his hand, thick and oily and an entirely awful sensation. He'd considered using the pond, but he hadn't the heart to leave his companion long enough to clean them out, especially not with a couple of witches to keep her company.

Alistair looked back at the hut, brows furrowed in thought. Calliope had been out for some time, now. How lucky he was, that he'd managed to get out with only a bruise behind his left shoulder blade that ached something awful whenever he looked at his sword.

The hut's door creaked, and a sudden wave of relief almost overtook him when it opened.

@elieglory

 

[elieglory]

Before Jowan had led her through forbidden parts of the Tower, Calliope had never needed to know how to fight. She knew attack magic, of course, could get ablaze and freeze them if needed, but to even suggest learning how to defend against a sword or arrows? It was nearly grounds to be made Tranquil. A lot of things changed when Jowan tricked her into helping him, Cal found. She had hoped, as she finally left the Circle and years of bad memories alike, that it would bring good changes.

And then Loghain left them to die and the horde overtook them. When she awoke, full of questions and fear, the Witch -- Morrigan, she said her name was -- had told her that her mother had saved them. For what purpose, Cal couldn't fathom. Panic gripped her after the initial gratitude had faded; of every Grey Warden, Flemeth had saved the two youngest members. With a Blight quickly approaching.

Cal allowed the information to process before she even thought about moving. According to Morrigan, a day had passed already while she recovered. An arrow had lodged itself in her shoulder, the worst of her injuries, and the magic and herbs they used took time. It still ached something awful, but as the young elf moved her arm, she found it was manageable.

It had to be. She didn't have a choice, anymore. The Witch gave her privacy to slip on a fresh pair of clothes -- from where's Cal didn't want to know -- before leaving the small hut so she could find Alistair. He wasn't far, and even though Morrigan had told her he wasn't hurt, she couldn't help the relief that flooded through her at the sight.

"You're alright," Cal said, going to him as quick as she could. She was unsteady on her feet, but if an arrow wasn't going to stop her, neither would that. The elf cleared her throat, running a hand through her messy hair. "You are, aren't you?"

"Ah, here's the other Grey Warden!" Cal turned, surprised to see Flemeth standing not far away. She had a sort of twinkle in her eyes that the elf couldn't quite place, but after some thought, she wasn't sure she wanted to know. "I told you you were worrying too much, boy."

Cal fidgeted a little, wishing for...well, she wasn't sure what. The battle to have gone differently? "Sorry I worried you," she said after a second, shrugging a little. "What happened back there?"

 

[Dipper]

There was a snarky retort waiting patiently to be voiced. It was a bitter thing to swallow down in favor of focusing on his fellow Warden. She didn't look too worse for wear, at least.

"They're... gone. The King, the Wardens, Duncan..." he drifted into a quiet, pensive murmur. It was a hard event to process with the order for them to light to beacon still doing rounds in his head, chanting in Duncan's voice over and over. He hadn't been able to get much rest since arriving at the hut, either, and now exhaustion was beginning to set in. His shoulders sagged and, sighing, Alistair shook his head. "Just gone."

Perhaps that was more blunt than was wise, but how else was he to word it? Every single Warden in Ferelden, dead. It had happened so fast, and then Calliope had almost died, and if she'd died, he'd be alone--

Alistair tried to focus his attention on the grime on his gauntlets instead. He smiled. "I'm glad you're alive. Glad we both are. But now we have to figure out what to do next. What do you say?"

If he was trying to distract himself, it wasn't working. He'd rubbed a part of his gauntlet shiny with the pad of his thumb and yet still his worries were coming to a boil. Alistair had never gone so much as a day without some authority figure assuring him and telling him what to do. Now, he was at a loss, with just him and the rookie left alive.

As much as it pained him, he didn't know what to do. He hadn't a clue.

"I guess that means you should probably..." he paused, "think of... something?"


He was no leader. Figuring she might have better luck, he passed on the reigns to her easily, glad that carrying the weight wouldn't be his responsibility. He just... couldn't. Alistair cast a furtive glance at the old witch-- Maker, he had burns from her glare.

 

[elieglory]

"All of them?" Cal repeated softly, feeling her chest compress. Morrigan had said as much, but the elf hadn't wanted to fully believe it. But if even Alistair was saying it... "This doesn't feel real," she added, shaking her head as if that would magically make it different. "I can't believe they're all just...gone."

She allowed herself a moment to let the news truly sink in, as well as forcing down the looming panic attack. This was no time to panic, Cal told herself, there was too much to take care of. She looked back up, trying to take some small comfort in Alistair's smile, but his next words put a stop to any calm. He wanted her to lead? She didn't know how to lead, she had joined the Order hours ago! She was an elf, a mage, nothing so worthy of a leader.

Before she could stumble out an excuse, the older Witch cleared her throat. "You're both awake, thanks to my magic," she said, watching them both. "Not a single word of gratitude?"

"Of course," Cal said, turning properly towards the Witch. "We owe you our lives, thank you." She nodded smugly. "Not to sound...anything less than truly grateful, but why save us?" Why not Duncan, why not the King? Why her?

The elf watched her raise an eyebrow up, hands crossing against her chest. "Well, we can't have all the Grey Wardens dying at once, can we?" she asked with a short laugh. "Someone has to deal with these darkspawn. It's always been the Grey Wardens' duty to unite the lands against the Blight. Or did that change when I wasn't looking?"

Not entirely the question she had meant, but the elf nodded numbly. Maker, the only ones left to deal with the darkspawn were the two of them. Cal looked up at Alistair again, thrilled that someone else had survived alongside her. That, if nothing else, was a comfort. "We have...to unite the people, don't we?" she guessed uncertainly, reaching up to fiddle with the darkspawn blood hanging around her neck. "I-I don't know, I'm sorry. We don't even know your name."

"Names are pretty, but useless. The Chasind folk call me Flemeth, you may address me as that if it so pleases you."

 

[Dipper]

"Flemeth? The Flemeth?"


He wasn't feeling too good. It wasn't so much a sudden illness as it was a realization, tempered by the knowledge that these witches had saved his life and nursed his fellow Warden back to health. Part of him was appropriately thankful for the aid, while the rest of him itched nervously in the old woman's presence. He let his hand drift away from the hilt of his sword and flexed his fingers around the grip. Habit.


Regardless, if Cal was ready to get a move on, he was more than happy to leave this place behind as soon as possible. He'd hold off on the goodbyes, too. What did he know? Saying farewell to a witch might get him cursed, and he's had enough experience on the wrong end of a mage's spell in the past. He'd pass, thank you very much.

Swallowing, he offered a response that tumbled out rather clumsily, to his shame. "I... thank you. I think..."

The last part was quiet, as he'd drifted off into a murmur. What was proper etiquette around witches? 'Don't make a deal, but chat them up all you want?' There had never been any lectures on the subject beyond a few words of warning. Thanking her seemed safe enough.

"There's not some kind of repayment you're expecting, is there? Because," he ran his hands down his sides, where the seams of his armor met, "Oh, would you look at that. I don't have anything." Nothing of value, anyway. Another important Templar word of wisdom; never carry your important belongings on expeditions. Witches will steal them.

Alistair glanced furtively at Cal. He lifted one hand to shield his words from the old witch. "We should go."

 

[elieglory]

Curiously, the young elf looked between Alistair and the older Witch. The name Flemeth did not ring any particular chords, but she had read legends of the infamous Witch of the Wilds before. Most suggested caution, if not total avoidance, but Cal could not -- would not -- ignore the women that had saved both her life and Alistair's.

But what could they have to offer her? Cal chewed her lip, watching as her companion pretended to dig in his pockets for what he no doubt knew he did not have. A smile threatened to come to her face, but she resisted, not wishing to seem rude to Flemeth. "Where should we go?" she asked, voice small. The blonde fidgeted a little, hands nervously pawing at her necklace. "Two Grey Wardens aren't much a match for an entire horde of darkspawn."

Cal hated to sound the pessimist, but she wasn't sure there was anything that they could do. Find the Orlesian Wardens, like they had discussed? That could take months, time they didn't have. The elf could feel the anxiety bubbling up, constricting painfully in her chest and she looked away before the panic could show in her eyes. "Maybe not," the Witch said. "Do the Grey Wardens have no allies these days?"

When she looked back, the elf was surprised to find Flemeth watching her expectantly. "I - I don't know," she said again, frowning. "We gathered those treaties for Duncan, before, perhaps they could help?"

Flemeth laughed. "I suppose that's as good a place to start as any! Sounds like two lowly Wardens can gather an army after all," she told them. Cal exhaled shakily, feeling the compression begin to loosen against her chest. Perhaps they could do this. Gather forces to fight the darkspawn. She thanked her, wishing there was something more they could offer, but the Witch waved it away. "I should be thank you, Grey Wardens. Now, before you go, there is one thing I may yet offer you."

"The stew is bubbling, mother," Morrigan called, stepping out from the hut. "Shall we have two guests for the eve, or none?"

"The Grey Wardens are leaving soon, and you will be joining them."

Cal felt her eyes widen. Flemeth wanted them to take Morrigan along as well? Her own daughter, to the middle of a war? Nervously, she glanced up at Alistair again, hoping he might offer some advice on the subject.

@Dipper