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heniareth · 2 years ago

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The Battle of Ostagar

Chapter 1: Making Friends

(Whole chapter on AO3 or continued below)

Wordcount: 5799

WARNINGS:

- fear of dogs - general creepiness and hivemindlike behaviour associated with darkspawn - fantasy racism against elves

Light; rocks; a green sky. A dragon’s maw, malformed, rotten, twisted, bearing down on her.

Astala bolted upright and tried to run. She fell and landed on… grass. Grass and moss, not rocks and stone. The sounds and smells of the army camp rushed towards her. The dogs barked in their kennels. Soldiers marched past her, elven servants and messengers skipped through the ranks, the Chant of Light sounded somewhere above it all. It smelled of wooden benches in the sunlight, swamp flowers and late mornings. She was sitting under the branches of a small grove of fir trees, a group of twenty or thirty tents beyond it and the bedspread she had apparently fallen off next to her.

A nightmare? It had seemed so real.

And there was Ilanlas, in another bedspread. He was breathing. He was alive! And he was snoring slightly.

“Good morning,” somebody greeted her.

Astala looked up and saw Alistair standing above her.

“How’re you feeling?”

Alistair handed her a waterskin and Astala drank greedily.

“There was a dragon,” Astala croaked, then coughed and discovered how dry her throat was. “Do you have water?”

“Ilanlas is alright, by the way,” Alistair said. “We might as well let him sleep. Poor sod needs it. Come, lets get you to meet everyone else.”

Astala took another long draught from the waterskin before she stood up. Alistair started leading her through the tents, but after a few steps he stopped, waiting for her to catch up and then continued walking next to her.

Weird guy.

“So, the dragon you saw was the Archdemon,” Alistair started. “Not the prettiest of fellows. I know I screamed like a little kid when I first saw it. But, that’s why we’re here, right? To make sure it stops popping up in our heads like some kind of diseased mole.”

He stopped talking, evidently waiting for Astala to say something. Astala hadn’t expected him to do that and was left floundering.

“It’ll be fine,” she finally managed with a shrug. Then her stomach growled. Loudly. “So long as I get some food.”

“That’s where we’re headed,” Alistair said and grinned. “Breakfast’s right this way.”

He turned first left, then right. His head almost stuck out above the relatively squat tents. The sound of voices talking got louder, and then they stepped into some sort of a square between the tents: a large, cleared space where the grass had been trampled into the dirt, and where a sizeable group of people were gathered. Most of them were humans. Most of them were men. With a jolt, Astala recognized the uniforms, the faces, the postures. These were the people from last night. The people who had been standing around the stone platform, tightening the circle more and more as Ilanlas fell unconscious, as Daveth choked, as ser Jory bled out. These were the Grey Wardens.

There were about fifty of them, walking around leisurely, talking amongst each other, playing cards, eating food—Astala took note of the large pot hanging over a fire, tended to by a bald man in his fifties. It smelled good. Her stomach growled again. As if nothing had happened the night before.

Alistair turned around, his smile even broader, and lifted his arms. “So, here we are! Introductions will probably have to wait but have some breakfast for now. I think there’s still porridge in Martin’s pot. Make sure you eat a lot, the Joining leaves you hungrier than you’d believe.”

Astala nodded.

Alistair’s smile wavered a bit and he scratched his neck. “Well, I better get back, check on Ilanlas. He’ll want an explanation too.”

Astala nodded.

“Well… See you around!”

Astala nodded again and let Alistair turn around and walk away with a wave.

Just like that, without his broad frame blocking the view, she suddenly felt very visible. And this even though people weren’t staring at her.

Right. Thoughts later. Breakfast first.

Astala gingerly made her way through the crowd and kept an eye out on her surroundings. The only non-human she saw was a dwarf. She was a very pretty young woman with big eyes, chin-length blond hair and a round figure. She was sitting alone on a log. Astala made a mental note, then approached the cook—Martin, Alistair’d said—and cleared her throat.

“Excuse me? Ser Martin?” she said. “I’d like to ask if you still have some food left?”

The cook looked up and gave her a smile and a look of recognition. Had he been at the Joining too?

“Just Martin is fine,” he said with a distinctly Orlesian accent. “It is good to see you awake. How are you feeling?”

“I…” Astala didn’t know what to say.

Martin only nodded. “It is alright. None of us were feeling our best afterwards, especially not when some of our fellow recruits died.”

Astala swallowed. Ser Jory’s dead eyes stared up at her.

“At least you were already tainted before you went through it,” Martin observed while he filled a bowl with porridge. “The voices in your head should not be that new then.”

“They’re not, no,” Astala forced out and accepted the full bowl.

Martin gave her a sad smile. He had quite a lot of sad wrinkles, now that Astala noticed.

“You will find your footing again,” he said. “For now, sister, eat. You will need it.”

Astala thanked him and walked away.

Sister? Oh, that was so weird.

She made her way through the crowd again. Even now, the wardens didn’t stare. There was a passing glance here and there, one or two nods. Nothing more.

Weird.

But what could she expect from people who drank darkspawn juice?

She made her way over to the log on which the dwarven woman sat and pointed at the spot next to her.

“May I?”

The woman looked up and pulled an apologetic face, gesturing at the side of her head.

Astala frowned and couldn’t quite make sense of it. So she tried again. “Is that spot free?”

The dwarven woman’s eyes lighted up in understanding and she nodded. Astala gave her a quick smile and sat down.

The porridge was good. She would’ve put more spices in it, but there was some apple, which was nice. And there was something dark… no plum though. Probably just a bit of burnt oats. But it was good! It was good. Her stomach was happy.

At some point, she noticed that the dwarven woman looking at her. Astala quickly pulled another smile to her face. The woman smiled back. Then she pointed at Astala’s head and gave her a thumbs up. Astala lifted her hand and found her short hair.

“You like it?”

The woman nodded.

“Thank you,” Astala said. “My friend cut it for me.”

Was Ilanlas her friend? She sure hoped he was.

The dwarven woman fiddled with her own, uneven strands. It looked like somebody had chopped off whatever length of hair she’d had before in a hurry. Poor girl.

“What’s your name?” Astala asked in an attempt to make conversation.

The woman, who was scraping the last bits of porridge out of her bowl, didn’t answer.

Astala frowned and leaned into her field of view. “Hey, everything okay?”

The woman jumped up a bit, as if surprised, and gave her another apologetic grimace. Again, she gestured to the side of her head. She was pointing at her ears.

“You… oh!” Understanding dawned on Astala, accompanied by embarrassment driving heat up into her cheeks. How hadn’t she noticed before? “You can’t hear?”

The woman shook her head.

“But you can understand me?” Astala asked.

The woman nodded, gestured around her mouth with her hand in a claw shape, and then to her eyes with two fingers before flicking them over to Astala. Astala moved her hand to her mouth. No, she didn’t have any porridge hanging off there.

Oh, wait, no.

“You can read my lips?” Astala swung one leg over the log on which they were sitting, fully facing the woman. “That’s so cool! And you can understand me well?”

The woman hesitated, then made a pained expression.

Astala bit her lower lip. Her only experience with people who were hard of hearing came from the time she spent following the hahren around the Alienage. Grandma Tinashe had been one of them. What a nice lady. Always worried about who was keeping her hair after her mother had died. She’d even tried to teach Astala some braiding patterns to keep it. The old woman had needed everyone to speak into her left ear and practically shout. But for Alu, a kid from up a few buildings up the street, shouting had made everything worse.

Only one way to find out.

Tentatively, Astala raised her hand with the palm up to illustrate her words. “D’you want me to speak louder?”

The woman frowned and gave her a questioning look.

“Louder,” Astala said. “Do you want me to speak louder?”

She was asked to repeat herself another time before the woman understood. When she did, she shook her head and thought for a moment, studying Astala with an intense look of concentration on her face. Then she brought both her hands up, palms facing Astala, and pushed two times against the air.

Astala looked at her hands, then back at her. The puzzlement had to be clear on her face, because the dwarven woman sighed and looked off into the distance. Suddenly, her face lit up. Astala followed her line of sight and spotted another dwarf: brown-skinned, red hair pulled back in a low ponytail, with a face that managed to be both broad and bony at the same time. And he held the biggest bowl of porridge Astala had ever seen between his hands. Where’d he gotten that?

The woman snapped her fingers at him until he got his attention, then started signing quickly. Her friend—if they were friends—seemed to have no trouble keeping up. He leisurely made his way over to them, sat down on the ground, kept his massive bowl of porridge firmly squished between his knees and answered, also signing. The woman frowned and signed back. The man—who had a dark brand on his cheek in the form of a long-stretched five—held her gaze for a few seconds before he looked away and showed a big spoonful of porridge into his mouth.

“Fe wandf u do fpeak slowa.”

“What?” Astala answered.

The dwarf chewed, swallowed, washed the load of porridge down with a big gulp from his waterskin and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I said: ‘she wants you to speak slower’,” he repeated. His voice was less deep than she would've expected. It kinda matched his build, which was also less broad than she was used to from a dwarf.

“Oh. Thank you.” Astala turned to face the woman and tried again, slower. “Is this better?”

The woman nodded and gave the other dwarf a sweet smile. He returned it with a well-crafted blank look and returned his attention to his porridge. Astala followed his example and thought of a way to continue the conversation.

“What are your names?” she finally asked.

The dwarven woman picked up a stick and scratched something into the dirt. Astala recognized letters.

“Sulri?”

The dwarven woman nodded and stretched out her hand. Astala grinned as she shook it.

“Pleasure to meet you. I’m Astala.”

Sulri asked her to repeat her name and she did until Sulri gave her a satisfied nod.

“And you?” Astala asked, turning to the other dwarf.

“What’s it to you?” the dwarf asked, still bent over his porridge.

Astala frowned. “Well, I’m just getting to know you.”

“That’s great,” the dwarf said flatly. “Making friends. How nice.”

He shoved another load of porridge into his mouth. Sulri tapped Astala’s shoulder and pointed at the ground, where she’d scratched new letters into.

“Ked,” Astala said. “Kheed? How do you pronounce your name?”

The dwarf swallowed. “Khêd. Short ‘e’.”

“Thank you,” Astala said pointedly. Then she turned to Sulri. “Is he always like that?”

Sulri leaned back into the sun, shielding her eyes with one hand, and nodded.

“You two are also Grey Wardens, right?” Astala asked. “I saw you yesterday at the Joining.”

“Your point?” Khêd asked.

Astala shrugged. “I don’t know. Shouldn’t we get along?”

“You planning to stab me in the back?” Khêd asked.

Astala frowned. “No?”

“And in the front?”

“No!”

“Good enough for me.” Khêd turned back to his porridge, which had already disappeared, and scraped the bowl clean. Then he set it to the side. “You going to eat that?”

Before Astala could answer, he’d already lunged forward and grabbed her bowl. Astala just managed to rip it out of his hands.

“What the fuck, man?” she screamed. “That’s my fucking food!”

“The duster can swear,” Khêd chuckled and lifted his hands in surrender. “Don’t get your ears into a twist, you can have your food.”

“What the absolute fuck,” Astala spat and hastily shoved the last bits of porridge into her mouth. When she stood up, she clutched her bowl tightly to herself.

Khêd held his empty bowl up. “If you want to keep your food safe, might as well get me more too.”

Astala raised both eyebrows in a most unimpressed gesture. Then she demonstratively took one long step past Khêd and his bowl. Sulri just managed to tap her leg. When Astala turned towards her, she held her bowl up, head tilted to the side.

Astala switched to a bright smile. “Of course I’ll get you more food!” She raised her voice. “Since you asked so nicely.”

“Sod you.”

“Don’t touch my fucking food.”

She didn’t stay to wait for Khêd’s answer. Astala walked away with long steps, quietly grumbling to herself.

All in all, despite the shem everywhere and Khêd's assault on her breakfast, this was a nice change of pace. Like in the Korcari Wilds, there were no birds here, but the wind was blowing cheerfully through the fir trees and over the Wardens’ tents. It rattled the banner standing in the middle of the group of tents. The silver griffon on blue ground provided a stark contrast to the crown’s yellow and gold. What had Alistair said yesterday before the Joining? Something about standing in the shadows. Fitting. The banner seemed to be made out of the night and moonlight under whose cover she had entered the order.

Somewhere further away in the king’s camp, a horn sounded. The dogs were barking much less, which Astala appreciated. Martin had filled both bowls generously, which did the rest of the wonder needed to improve her mood. Maybe she’d even find it in her heart to forgive Khêd his trespassing once she had a bit more food in her stomach. Then, suddenly, she heard something else. Or felt it more than heard it.

It was like a low rumble—or a pull, she wasn’t quite sure. She did know that it was stuck in her blood; made her skin crawl and her fingers itch in a desire to scratch it away. Before she’d noticed, she was lifting her head and turning south; to her horror, every other Grey Warden, Khêd and Sulri included, was doing the same thing. All of them had stopped in the middle of the sentence, in the middle of the step, in the middle of the gesture, to lift their head, turn and face south. As if something had called to them.

Then it was over. Like a shiver running through the whole group, everybody turned back to what they had been doing. Astala’s shoulders twitched up. There was nothing on the horizon except dark clouds that would probably bring a thunderstorm. Quietly shaking her head, she made the last few steps and sat down. Sulri was busy looking at Khêd, who spoke his signing out loud when Astala sat down.

“This blighted shit should stop already.”

“What was it?” Astala asked.

Khêd shrugged, still signing as he spoke. “I don’t know. Some blighted shit.”

Astala handed Sulri her bowl and stabbed her spoon into the porridge.

“That was the Archdemon.”

Astala left her spoon be.

The one who was divulging that cheerful bit of news was, of course, Alistair. He gave her a smile as he shooed a bleary-eyed Ilanlas towards them.

“You look lovely,” Astala said and couldn’t bite back a grin at the sight of Ilanlas’ frankly impressive bedhead, with strands of hair sticking out at every angle.

Ilanlas let out a quiet grumble but sat down next to her on the grass with his own bowl of porridge. Astala caught him discreetly observing both dwarves. Something was… different about him.

“This is Ilanlas,” Astala said, directing her words at Sulri and pointing at the aforementioned. “Ilanlas, Sulri. She can’t hear, but she can read lips. And that’s Khêd. He steals food.”

“Ha ha,” Khêd grumbled, “very funny.”

“Deserved,” Astala answered.

“Do not touch my food,” Ilanlas said.

“Well, aren’t you two a delight,” Khêd said and crossed his arms. “Are you related?”

Astala lifted her eyebrows high. Next to her, Ilanlas frowned.

“Are you blind? We could not be more different.”

“I might go blind with the sodding thing up there.” Khêd pointed at the sky. “But no. I’ve seen people more different than you two being siblings.”

“Siblings?” Astala looked at Ilanlas. “Are you serious?”

“Hey, I never asked anybody what their parents were up to,” Khêd said and shrugged. “The eyes did throw me off a bit.”

“The eyes,” Ilanlas deadpanned. “Not the different skin colors.”

“Or the different heights,” Astala added.

Ilanlas gave her a dead stare.

Again, Khêd shrugged. “I’ve never seen silver eyes before. That normal up here?”

Astala frowned, then took a closer look at Ilanlas. Were she could’ve sworn had been two brown eyes were now indeed light grey irises. Like those of the soldier they’d found in the Korcari Wilds. The one who'd died on his way to the camp.

“Lady preserve us,” she muttered and turned to Alistair, who’d been quietly following the conversation. “Is that normal?”

Alistair shrugged. “It’s one of the possible side effects of the Joining.”

“Maybe you have gone blind,” Khêd said and shrugged.

Ilanlas’ eyes widened slightly, but he was quick to brush the concern aside. “I can see.”

“Good for you then,” Khêd said and turned to face Alistair. “When’s the screeching thing going to stop?”

“Well… as soon as the Archdemon’s dead?” Alistair scratched his neck again. “The darkspawn are all interconnected, and since we carry their blood in our veins, so are we. That is how we can sense them, and that is how we can hear the Archdemon command its troops.”

“Great,” Khêd said with a big smile. “So we have a blighted dragon poking around our heads. Awesome. How do you stop the night visions?”

“The what?” Alistair asked.

“The night visions,” Khêd insisted. “I keep seeing things while I sleep.”

“Those are called dreams,” Ilanlas said and then he stopped. “Our Keeper told us dwarves do not dream.”

“You mean you do this dream thing often?” Khêd asked.

“Almost every night,” Ilanlas answered.

Khêd made a face as if Ilanlas had told him a horror story. “Sodding ancestors…”

“What do you mean, dwarves don’t dream?” Astala asked. She turned to Sulri. “Do you dream?”

Sulri signed, and Khêd translated. “I see things at night ever since we went through the Joining two nights ago.”

“Can we make it stop?” Khêd added.

“There is no stopping dreams,” Ilanlas answered.

Khêd grumbled, and stood up, holding his bowl like a stuffed animal. “This is a load of sodding bullshit. I need more food.”

The remaining four of them watched him leave. Alistair was the first to break the silence with a sigh.

“You will get used to it,” he said, slowly, with a smile in Sulri’s direction. “It won’t happen every night. And, if the king has his way, the Archdemon will be dead by tomorrow.”

“So the Archdemon is real,” Astala said.

“Very much so,” Alistair said. “This is how we know this is a real Blight.”

They sat around in silence for a good long while. Khêd came back, bowl only filled half with porridge. Either Martin was running out, or Khêd didn’t stand in the cook’s good graces. Maybe he’d tried to steal food from him as well. Alistair spoke up again.

“We can’t go around preaching the end of the world, however. Nobody can know about the Joining, and so nobody can know that we can sense the Archdemon and see it in dreams. The Grey Wardens were exiled once from Ferelden, and we can’t have that happen again. We need support; best not to go around announcing that we share blood with the very monsters we’re fighting.”

Astala thought back to the taste of tainted blood in her mouth and the viscera-laden sculptures they had passed yesterday in the Wilds. Suddenly, she felt sick.

“At any rate, once you are done eating, we should get you prepared for the battle this evening,” Alistair continued. “Ilanlas, you should have everything, but Sulri I think needs new boots and Khêd’s shield is… uh, done with. And you could use a whole new suit of armor if I remember right.”

Astala nodded.

“Alright then,” Alistair said. “As soon as you’re ready, we’ll leave.”

Astala passed the rest of her porridge to Khêd. He looked up, surprised.

“You’re not eating that?”

“Have at it,” Astala said.

Khêd didn’t ask again and promptly scooped the food into his oversized bowl. Astala stood up and dusted her trousers off as she walked away. Her stomach was clamped up. Having a battle looming over her head apparently made her nervous enough to not eat. Go figure.

She went back to the bedroll she had woken up on and retrieved her pack. What had compelled her to leave it there in the first place was beyond her, but everything was still where it should be. She had a ton of scrap metal looted from various darkspawn corpses. Most of it was filthy. Still, with a bucket of water and a day of work, she’d get it into a presentable enough state to make a bit of money off of it. For now, however, she had to keep it somewhere safe while she was away from the bedspread. There was a washed-out hollow under one tree’s roots where it curled over the stone. Astala shoved the bundle of metal under the root and found some big stones. Over that came loose earth, leaves and finally some branches until she stepped back, hands on her hips, and gave her work a critical look. It wasn’t perfect by any means, but there were enough trees around that nobody would venture more than a passing glance through this particular area of the camp. Maybe she could ask Ilanlas for help later to make it more inconspicuous. For now, however, it’d work.

How much of this would she have to give over to the wardens?

You are a warden now, a voice in her head said. They called you sister.

Bloody good that’ll do for any kind of relationship, Astala answered.

The quartermaster was a burly looking human who, of course, mistook her for a servant. While Alistair explained to the man that, no, she was actually a Grey Warden and allowed to carry weapons, Astala looked about the shop. The… clearing between the trees? She hoped the man ferried his ware under some cover every night, or the armor displayed here wouldn’t be worth shit.

It turned out not to be something she’d have to worry about. The quartermaster had no armor that would fit an elf, even one as tall as she was. And for ill-fitting armor thought for humans, she already had her looted suit, thank you very much. She did drag the search out, however, hemmed and hawed over the decision, asked for different makes and builds and wanted to know the price of everything. She’d seen Khêd sneak off somewhere at the beginning of the conversation. If that human was going to mistake her for a servant, he should actually get robbed and also have an eye on her at all times so the suspicion wouldn’t lie on her. The whole plan fell through when the man caught Khêd—and really, hiding behind a box that somebody could open was such a bad idea—and made him return everything in his pockets. Alistair’s face couldn’t have gone redder if he’d tried. Astala kept to the sidelines of that particular argument and then wrapped up the deal quickly. Sulri got her boots. Alistair convinced the quartermaster to very reluctantly furnish Khêd with a suitable shield. Khêd gave the man a pointedly cheerful smile, showing off three missing teeth. The quartermaster frowned back with such an offended look on his face that Astala had to stifle a laugh.

When they were a bit of a ways away, Sulri reappeared next to Khêd and handed him several stolen flasks, pouches with powders and other trinkets.

“And why do I have to carry this?” Khêd grumbled.

Sulri sighed audibly, rolled her eyes, and pulled out some coin.

Khêd sighed and shrugged. “At least I’m getting paid.”

“Really?” Alistair said, voice rising a whole octave. “After he already caught you stealing?”

Khêd crossed his arms. “I can’t steal for shit. He caught me behind a box. If that bothers him that’s his problem.”

“You know exactly what it looked like,” Alistair said and crossed his arms. “The captain warned me about you, you know? You can’t pull these stunts in the king’s camp and drag her into this.” He pointed at Sulri.

“Drag her-?” Khêd looked at him with wide eyes. “This was all her idea!”

Alistair turned to Sulri. Sulri looked up at him with the biggest, most innocent eyes.

“Was it?”

“Oh, sod it all.” Khêd turned around and continued walking. “‘The wardens are different’. ‘Nobody will judge a criminal’. Ancestors’ asses they-”

Loud barking interrupted him mid-rant. Astala whirled around. Barreling towards them at full speed, past tents, soldiers, and Chantry sisters, came a mabari. Astala screamed and drew her blades, staggering backwards, dagger between her and the slobbering beast. Alistair shouted. The mabari slowed down but didn’t stop. Its teeth gleamed white, its large tongue flickered over them as if in anticipation of tasting elven flesh. Astala snarled back. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ilanlas carefully stepping around the dog, an arrow aimed at it.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Alistair said, stepping between them and the dog. “Easy there. No need to hurt anybody, this fellow is probably just-”

“Grey Wardens?”

A man approached, clad in thick leather armor, streaks of dark paint on his face. The dog wore similar markings.

“Are you?” the man asked, grabbing the dog by its collar and hauling it back without any apparent effort. “Are you Grey Wardens?”

“That we are,” Alistair said.

Astala lowered her weapons. She didn’t trust the situation enough to sheathe them, however.

“Thank the Maker.” The man yanked on the mabari’s collar as the dog tried to wriggle itself free. “We’ve got one sick hound. Survived a darkspawn ambush, but he’s showing signs of infection. Can you help him?”

“Of course,” Alistair said, descending into his serious warden voice. “Lead the way.”

The man led them to the dog kennels, steps so large that Khêd and Sulri had to jog to keep up. Khêd was cursing quietly. The sick mabari had apparently lost its owner—a grave tragedy for a mabari, apparently, as they imprinted upon specific people like ducklings. Astala hoped the beast found a new one soon who’d keep it in check. Or that it would grow small, cute and fluffy like an actual duckling. Alistair was explaining to the man that they could slow the spread of the infection, but for the actual cure he would have to talk to his senior wardens. Astala quietly sidled up with Ilanlas, who wasn’t much more comfortable with the pace set than the dwarves.

“You ever seen one of these dogs?” she quietly asked him.

Ilanlas nodded, never slowing his pace. “Once.”

The arrow he had been holding was still at the ready in his hand.

The kennels were at the southern edge of the camp, close to what would’ve been the fortresses’ outer wall when it was still standing. The infirmary was not too far from it either. Why an injured person would want to hear the barking of the dogs day and night was a mystery. And the smell! Shem were weird.

The dogs were all in small paddocks where they could eat, sleep, and roll around in the dirt. Astala wasn’t fooled by the wooden fences. She knew how high those beasts could jump. She sheathed her sword and dagger, however. There were tons of shem about, and if she so much as looked at one of these animals wrong while having her weapons drawn that would be it for her. She doubted even the Grey Wardens would be able to save her from the general outrage if she dared hurt one of these precious mabari.

“Any of you ever handled a mabari?” the man in the leather armor—who’d introduced himself as an Ash warrior—said.

Did watching your cousin almost get his throat ripped out by one count as “handling” a mabari? She didn’t know. Astala opted to shake her head.

“I have,” Alistair said.

“Oh, good.” The man seemed relieved. “I mean, even if none of you had, nothing would happen. Not when I’m here, and the hound is sick. He’ll give you no trouble.”

Yeah, right. At least it looked like Alistair would bear the brunt of the work.

“You might want to go in and muzzle him, then,” the Ash warrior said. “I would do it myself, but-”

“It’s safer if I do it,” Alistair said and nodded.

“And one of your companions could administer the medicine.” The man looked at each of them, until his gaze fell on Astala. “You, maybe? I’m sure you’ve seen a mabari up close, haven’t you?”

Astala bit the insides of her cheeks and looked past the fence. The biggest mabari she’d ever seen lay in there. She could see the whites in its eyes as it peered past the lattices at her.

The Ash warrior looked around once more.

“Don’t look at me,” Khêd grumbled. “I’m not getting in there.”

“Come on,” Alistair said. “You’re a Grey Warden! You’ll let this poor bugger die of the Blight?”

“Insults first and now an appeal to my, what, sense of decency?” Khêd scoffed. “I don’t have one, salroka. Get yourself another volunteer.”

“Well, Sulri can’t do it,” Alistair shot back.

Sulri was evidently not following the conversation. When Khêd translated, however, her expression fell. Astala wouldn’t have thought her capable of such a dark glare as the one she was levelling at Alistair.

“What?” Alistair protested. “You can’t hear the dog if it growls, or us if we want to give you instructions. Or warn you.”

“Fenedhis lasa. I will do it,” Ilanlas said.

“I-” The Ash warrior stepped in. “No offense, uh, Warden, but if the dog wanted to bite, you wouldn’t be more than a mouthful for him.”

The vein growing on Ilanlas’ forehead would’ve been funny if this had happened at any other moment.

“Well?” Alistair asked, giving her a hopeful look. “Shall we?”

Astala sighed. But she nodded. The Ash warrior thanked her, clearly relieved, pressed a health poultice into her hand and opened the door to the kennel. Just like that. Astala only followed Alistair when she’d made sure that the dog wasn’t about to jump out of its cage. Hearing Alistair mutter “here goes nothing” wasn’t encouraging at all.

When they entered the kennel, the dog just barely lifted its head. Astala wasn’t about to be fooled by a momentary display of weakness, but when the big beast didn’t even properly sniff Alistair’s hand, she carefully stepped closer. Now that she was closer to it, the mabari actually looked… sick. Really sick.

“Hey buddy,” Alistair said quietly. “Having a rough time, huh?”

The dog let out a quiet whine and did its best to nudge Alistair’s hand.

“Yeah, me too,” Alistair said with his own sympathetic wince and took a closer look at the dog’s injured side. He let out a low whistle through his teeth. “Well that looks… bad.”

The dog whimpered in agreement.

Astala bent over Alistair’s shoulder to get a closer look. The dog had a big gash on its flank, as if something serrated had ripped through fur, skin and flesh. The edges of the wound, which had been cleaned and bandaged, were weeping dark refuse. Just like the bite wound she had left on Ilanlas’ forearm.

“Definitely tainted,” Alistair said. “Here, can you feel it?”

Astala tried to focus. There, there it was; the faint pull in her blood, looping straight back to the mabari.

The dog yelped and Astala jumped back.

“Easy, easy.” Alistair steadied the dog with a hand on its withers. “Here, I’ll muzzle him. Let’s get you some medicine, hm?”

The dog didn’t even make a move to protest as Alistair secured its mouth shut. He then split some Andraste’s Grace with Astala. They chewed it up, and while Alistair held the dog in place, Astala carefully extended her hand and laid it next to the dog’s wound.

A shiver through its skin was the only reaction she got.

She stayed alert while applying the chewed-up herbs and the health poultice—and it was weird, to go around wasting something like a health poultice on a dog—but the mabari kept absolutely still. Alistair unmuzzled the dog. Astala stowed the empty container of the health potion in her pouch. Surely the Ash warrior wouldn’t need it now, right? Then suddenly something warm and wet brushed over her hand and she flinched back violently, scrambling to her feet and putting Alistair between herself and the dog, whose big red tongue was lolling out of its mouth.

“Aw, he’s just saying thank you!” Alistair said. “Here, if I hold him down again-”

“We’re done here,” Astala said and left the kennel.

Alistair followed. The Ash warrior shut the door to the kennel. Astala wiped her hand on a patch of grass and cast a glance back; the mabari was looking at her. It whined again, sounding almost hopeful, and Astala quickly looked away again.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ilanlas return his arrow to his quiver.