From the Ashes: Spark of Rebellion (ch. 17) (Patreon)

Duncan could taste blood upon his tongue, and he found it tasted sweet instead of like iron, while his hands clutched a crude sword and a shield made of a wagon wheel as he mindlessly hacked at the corpse of a man, sending up rivets of blood with each swing. His body was covered in gore, blood dripping from him in rivers, before he looked up to the sky above and belted out a monstrous roar of domination.

More of his ilk emerged from the woods at his primitive signal, their forms as twisted and as monstrous as his own. Their skin was stark white, the kind of pale of those that had never once seen the sun. Veins filled with vile black could easily be seen underneath their molten and disfigured skin, as if the flesh and been boiled, rotted, and stitched back on. They wore a hodgepodge of armor, some rusted to the point they were unrecognizable to pieces that had once belonged to high nobility, both dwarven and human.

Many were without lips, the flesh having rotted off to reveal needle-like teeth in their gaping maws as they surged from the trees, the sounds of panic emerging from the forest around them.

Duncan strode forward, his body heaving with each step. His body hummed with a power that was known to him. A singing in his ears that bade him to sprint towards the encampment. The walls were made out of wood -- felled trees that were buried in the thick muck, roped together for security. There was only one entrance to the fortification, but it was already theirs.

He caught sight of the human warrior that rushed out to face his band -- tall, broad shoulders, bare chested with his arms and torso covered in tattoos. Some painted on. He readied an arrow, pulling it back, his eyes shining with fear and determination before the arrow-

…

Duncan woke with a gasp, jerking up into a sitting position in his bed. His heart pounded in his chest, his skin clammy with a cold sweat that dripped from him. His eyes darted around, taking in his surroundings -- stone walls, a bed tucked in the corner, and an armor rack as well, with little decorations to be seen. He was in the Grey Warden compound in Denerim. Not out in the wilds with a band of darkspawn.

“I should have recruited more,” Duncan breathed, dragging a hand over his face before he reached for his dream journal. The taint in his veins connected him -- all Grey Wardens -- to the darkspawn. Usually, it meant bad dreams of the Deep Roads, but during a Blight, things became very different. The song of the taint became louder as a composer took the stand -- the Archdemon. It directed the darkspawn, guided them, and elevated them to be more than mindless monsters that could do nothing else but dig, eat their own, and raid the surface for women.

Taking in a slow breath, Duncan composed himself, grabbing a quill and lighting the candle stick to quickly scribble down what he had seen. The dreams came nightly now. At first, he had thought that it was his Calling -- he was the right age for it. Most Wardens only had about thirty years before the taint in their blood eventually claimed them.

He wished it was just his Calling. It had been four hundred years since the last Blight, and the location of the fifth so happened to be the nation that their order had been expelled from until about twenty years ago. A deliberate choice? Archdemons were capable of strategy according to the records. The taint drove the old gods insane, but they didn’t need to be hyper-intelligent and masterful tacticians to be a dangerous threat.

Once Duncan was done, he wiped himself off with a damp rag before he began to dress himself in his attire. Drab gray armor marked with a griffon, dark blue cloth that dripped down to his ankles as a skirt. He armed himself with his silverite longsword and his old trusty daggers, which had given him decades of service. He wasn’t expecting a fight as he stepped out of his quarters, but their weight was familiar and a comfort.

Duncan sensed the rest of the Grey Wardens in the compound. Twenty of them. So few. So terribly few. After four hundred years, the Grey Wardens were a relic of the past. Most people believed that the darkspawn were all dead, completely oblivious to the threat beneath their feet in the Deep Roads, the highways to the long-since dead Dwarven empire. If he knew there would be a Blight, he would have been far more aggressive with his dwindling supplies of ingredients needed to make more Grey Wardens.

Darkspawn blood and lyrium were easy enough to get ahold of. The final and most important ingredient, far less so.

“Tough night?” Duncan was greeted by the sight of Gregior, a gruff-looking human with a thick red beard and a dense mane of red hair. His eyes were bloodshot, telling Duncan that he wasn’t the only one plagued by Fade dreams of the darkspawn horde.

“No more so than recently,” Duncan said as he entered the common room. He took a seat across from Gregior, who nursed a tankard of ale before he slid it over to him across a short table. Duncan took it gladly, the spiced and sweet ale rushing down his throat, and it was only then he realized how thirsty he had been. “Did you see the Archdemon?”

“Aye. Ugly fucker,” Gregior answered. “Still in the Deep Roads. Couldn’t tell you where, though. You?”

“I was conducting a raid against tribesmen. Have you ever seen anything like this before?” Duncan questioned, drawing the tattoos he saw in his dream. The sketchings were rough but identifiable. He needed to know kind of tattoo it was. Avvar?

“That’s Chasind. Only find them in the Korcari Wilds way down in the south,” Gregior voiced, thumping the tattoo before handing his journal back to him. “Was it just a band or the horde?” He asked, and that was the question.

Duncan swallowed a sigh, “The horde.” He answered, his tone grim. He had felt it. Through the taint that sang in his veins, he had felt his brethren all around him. Thousands. Tens of thousands.

Gregior scowled at that. “You need to tell the King then,” he voiced, taking his half-empty mug of ale back. Duncan opened his mouth to respond, only to hear someone cry out. They both looked in the direction of muffled whimpering and shouting before it suddenly stopped. “Poor lad. Well, once this Blight is over and done with, he won’t think nothin’ of regular dreams.”

Duncan swallowed a sigh. Moments later, a bleary eyed Alistair stumbled into the common room. He was a young lad, younger than Duncan preferred to recruit at twenty years old. He was handsome, like his father, with short dirty blonde hair and light brown eyes. Every time Duncan looked at the young man, Duncan wondered if he did the right thing by conscripting him.

Becoming Lyrium addled at seventy was certainly much better than dying at fifty. However, his mother wouldn’t have wanted him to become a Templar. And, from all the griping he had heard, Alistair hadn’t wanted to be one either.

“Maker help me, I swear I can taste rot in my mouth,” Alistair said, not at all surprised to see them, though he did raise an eyebrow at Duncan’s full attire. “Going to sneak out to slay some darkspawn without me?” He asked, gratefully accepting the mug from Gregior.

“Did you learn anything useful?” Duncan questioned as Alistair took a seat, scratching at an unshaven cheek.

“Not particularly. Just that genlocks take one look at rotting deerstalker corpses and think ‘yum.’ But… I don’t know. I think I was feeling an urge to go… south? Maybe up?” Alistair looked to them, clearly hoping that they had more answers. He was young, and only recently became a Grey Warden, but he had taken to it rather well.

Duncan nodded, “It lines up with what we know. Gregior, you are correct. I do need to speak with the King, but time is short. We need recruits,” he voiced, earning a nod from the gruff man.

“Aye, we do,” he agreed. Twenty wasn’t enough. A Grey Warden must be the one to strike the Archdemon down, and that was no easy task. It would take an army to cut through the horde and with each Grey Warden they had, they had an additional chance to strike the final blow. “You’ll be going off then?”

Duncan considered it before nodding, “I shall. I’ll send all of you with the King’s army while I search for recruits. We don’t have many doses left.”

Alistar shifted, “How many do we have, exactly?”

Duncan wanted to sigh again, “Enough for three Grey Wardens.” Of which, it wasn’t certain that they would survive the Joining. Weisshaupt hadn’t been generous with the already thinning amounts of blood, seeing Ferelden as the ass end of the world. The First Warden, the leader of the Grey Wardens, decided that the bulk of the allocation would go to Orlais, Nevarra, and Tevinter.

It wasn’t an unreasonable course of action, but in hindsight, it was a damning one.

“We have sent a letter to the First Warden requesting more vials, but it is too early to tell how many he will part with. For now, we must act with the numbers we have,” Duncan said, standing up. He would need to start finding recruits and quickly. There were a number he had his eye on throughout the years, but he never went through with it because there wasn’t a need. Grey Wardens needed to be exceptional, but if there wasn’t a Blight, there was no point in cutting a life short when it didn’t need to be.

To that end, Duncan made a note to visit the Alienage. Adaia had been a terror with a short sword and her daughter Kallian was likely just as fearsome, if not more so.

…

“So, it is a Blight then?” King Cailan voiced, unable to keep the boyish excitement out of his voice, his eyes sparkling with wonder. They stood in the throne room, King Cailan dressed in fine clothing that was embroidered with mabari dogs and dragons, his light blonde hair pulled back into an over braid, similar to his father, King Maric. Cailan did favor his father -- handsome with a strong jawline, broad shoulders, and despite his boyish enthusiasm, Duncan knew that he was a fine warrior that favored a great sword.

Contrasted to the King, Queen Anora seemed worried. She hid it well, but Duncan had a talent for reading people and the young queen was certainly worried. As she should be. Queen Anora was a beautiful woman in her late twenties -- light blonde hair, bright blue eyes, carefully applied makeup, with her hair tied up in two ornate buns. She sat on a lounge chair, her dark blue gown unwrinkled and finely stitched. She was the spitting image of what a queen should look like.

"That's terrible news," she breathed, her lips thinning and Duncan saw her mind racing. "Here? In Ferelden? Are you certain?" She pressed, clearly hoping that it was a mistake.

"I'm afraid that I am," Duncan admitted. "A darkspawn horde has been spotted south in the Korcari Wilds harassing bands of Chasind. The Grey Wardens are certain that an Archdemon is behind it," he voiced. King Cailan was practically vibrating with excitement as he leapt up from his lounge chair to walk over to a cupboard. "The horde is small now, comparatively, but it will grow as more darkspawn emerge from the Deep Roads. My contacts in Orzammar state that the Deep Roads are as clear as they have ever been-"

King Cailan unfurled a map of Ferelden and set it up on the table. A highly detailed one. Queen Anora made a sound of protest before she sighed, knowing that it was already too late to roll the map back up. Duncan got the impression that it was for royal eyes only.

"Did your scouts say where the darkspawn horde was spotted?" King Cailan questioned, needing no other evidence beyond Duncan's say so. The young King of twenty five years of age was… excitable. It was a convenient trait that, to Duncan's shame, he had taken advantage of before. And he would do so again because the King was taking action against the Blight.

Duncan drew a circle with his finger in the heart of the Korcari Wilds. It was the estimated position based on a number of facts -- the dreams of the Grey Wardens, as well as his own scouts that he sent to investigate. He would not stand before the royal family of Ferelden armed with nothing more than dreams. "It's their estimated position, but there will be roaming bands that branch out from the main horde."

"As scouts?" King Cailan questioned, overlooking the map.

"In a manner of speaking. They are looking for people, your Majesty. Where they find them, they will attack. If they find a number more than their primitive instincts believe they can handle, they'll wait for reinforcements." Duncan answered before the young king jabbed a finger at something just north of the Korcari Wilds. A fortress called Ostagar.

"We shall take to the field here," King Cailan decided, his tone certain, his eyes alight with passion that only the young possessed. "It's a ruin from the days of Tiventer, but we can rebuild it."

"Rebuild?" Queen Anora questioned, her tone sharp. "Denerim is half a ruin itself, Cailan," she reminded. As she implied, it would be expensive to restore a ruin to its forever glory.

"Well, we won't make more money overrun by darkspawn now will we, Anora?" King Cailan questioned and while Duncan did agree with the sentiment, the delivery could have used some work. "Stop counting coppers. Our kingdom is under threat! We shall divert resources to Ostagar so it can house an army. Send a missive to Arl Leonas Bryland of South Reach, and Arl Neruda of Stenhold ordering them to muster their men as quickly as possible. They shall be the ones at most risk," King Cailan stated, taking decisive action.

Queen Anora didn't at all look pleased at the dismissal of her very real concerns. A hard lesson that Duncan learned was that petty concerns will always interfere with larger ones, no matter how foolish it might be. While Ferelden wouldn't bankrupt itself restoring the fortress, Duncan understood that a very large sum of money had disappeared from Ferelden's coffers in the past year. How strained the kingdom’s finances were, Duncan couldn't claim to know. However, it was enough so that Queen Anora was annoyed of the idea that such a great deal of stone and money would go into a fortress that would… well… wouldn't be used on Ferelden's oldest enemy.

"A fine plan, your majesty. While my order's numbers are few in Ferelden, there are thousands more across Thedas-" Duncan began, and it was only then that the third man, who had been utterly silent until now, decided to speak.

"No," Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, the Hero of River Dane, uttered. Teyrn Loghain was a hard man a decade older than Duncan -- his eyes so dark brown that they seemed black, his hair black as night, with a strong jawline and a stubborn chin. Duncan had known the man for twenty years and not once had he seen the Teyrn without his silverite armor -- the same armor he had worn thirty years ago when he forced the Orlesians out of Ferelden. The fact the armor still fit told Duncan that under it, Teyrn Loghain had not let himself weaken despite being in his fifties.

King Cailan's face instantly became cross, but Teyrn Loghain continued despite the impudence of telling a king no. "Cailan, you can't summon Ferelden's armies with a snap of your fingers. Marching them all south would invite our neighbors in," he spoke, turning to Duncan and narrowing his eyes. Duncan was well used to the ire that Teyrn Loghain had for his order. In his youth, Duncan had been dragged into a plot regarding sentient darkspawn, mages, and Orlesians. And when Teyrn Loghain stumbled across them in Kinloch Hold, saving their lives, Loghain found the conspiring with the Orlesians the most disagreeable.

"The Orlesians won't invade. A Blight concerns them as well, Loghain," King Cailan pointed out. Rightly so, but, again, while Duncan agreed with the sentiment, the delivery was poor. Especially to a man who would trust a darkspawn hurlock over an Orlesian Chevalier.

"We don't even know if this is a true Blight. It could merely be a large raid on the surface. They have happened before. More than that -- we don't know their numbers, where they are, or if this is merely a feint by the darkspawn to disposition our armies if this is in fact a Blight!" Teyrn Loghain stated, crossing his arms over his armored chest and pinning a sharp look at King Cailan. "We cannot afford to over-commit. Nor should we flagrantly allow foreign armies within our borders without at first examining the situation."

Queen Anora was quick to support her father's point, "Father is right in this, Cailan. Your thought on fighting the darkspawn is the right one, but let us not invite disaster when we needn't." Duncan swallowed a sigh, seeing King Cailan's lips thin, clearly unhappy.

However, he nodded, "I see your point. However," he added the moment both Loghain and Anora began to look relieved, "I shall march with the army myself!" There was a smile in his voice as he clenched his fists, looking off into the distance at something only he could see. "It'll be a story for the ages! Duncan, you and the Grey Wardens shall fight by my side!" He decided and Duncan was grateful that he wasn't the one that had to explain why that was a horrible idea.

"No. Absolutely not! Your duty is here, Cailan. Let me go down south to fight this so-called horde. I'm an old man with his best days behind him. Should I fall, it will not bereave Ferelden as much as it would if it lost its King. A King with no heir," Teryn Loghain stated, his tone frank and unyielding. Cailan rolled his eyes hard, dismissing the Teyrn's concerns out of hand.

"I'm going, Loghain. That is final. If it bothers you so, then you can come with me," King Cailan stated, treating the legendary tactician as if he were a burden rather than an asset. While Duncan did admire the young King's eagerness, it was increasingly clear that he was not taking the Blight seriously. While Duncan would prefer it if Ferelden committed all of its armies to combating the Blight, as well as welcoming others, he understood the Teyrn's concerns.

However, Duncan's concerns were the Blight and slaying the Archdemon. If it meant that the world wouldn't be ravaged by darkspawn for decades, sentencing hundreds of thousands of people to horrible fates, poisoning the land itself… Duncan would trade Ferelden's independence for a short end to the Blight in a heartbeat. Unfortunately, Teyrn Loghain knew it.

"Fine. A delayed response. We martial Stenhold, South Reach, Western Hills, and Denerim's levies. Call in every mercenary band available to us. We march south to Ostagar with the Grey Wardens and measure the threat. If this is a Blight, then we call for reinforcements from the rest of Ferelden."

"And we accept the help of others! We don't have to fight this battle alone, Loghain," King Cailan voiced, his smile widening. Teyrn Loghain made a face as if he bit into something sour but he offered a small curt nod.

As a first response to the Blight, it was not ideal, but Duncan knew it was likely the best he would get. "Before I join you, your Majesty, my order is in a dire need of recruits. With your permission, I will recruit some men of merit."

King Cailan's eyes sparkled, "Of course! Just don't dally too long, Duncan, or you'll miss out on me slaying the Archdemon," he said, telling Duncan that he already decided the ending of the Blight himself.

The King didn't know the truth. Why it had to be a Grey Warden to deliver the final blow. Given how new the order was to Ferelden, and how Teyrn Loghain hated them, it was decided unwise to inform them. That decision had been made before the Blight due to the fact that the Grey Wardens being once again expelled from Ferelden would be a poor image for their order. Duncan decided to rectify that the moment they had solid evidence of the Archdemon.

When Teyrn Loghain and King Cailan knew that this was a Blight, they would understand why the Grey Wardens took the taint into themselves.

"Where shall you go? You're welcome to pick out anyone in my royal guard. I'm sure they'd be honored," King Cailan decided, and the glare that Duncan received from over his shoulder told him that he wasn't welcomed.

Duncan offered a small smile and a bow to the King, "I believe I will go to Redcliffe first -- there is a tourney being held there, if I am not mistaken," Duncan decided. Recruiting from personal guards and knights was a very fast way to wear out the Grey Warden's welcome. It was a lesson well learned throughout his order's history. Better to recruit those of low status but with remarkable ability or means. A tourney was perfect because it attracted hedge knights and warriors that had the desire to be recognized.

"Highever just had one as well," King Cailan informed, earning a blink from Duncan, and the King smiled broadly at his surprise. "If you depart now, I expect you could recruit from those that lingered," he voiced, and that was true. Highever was on the coast, meaning that it would attract those from Orlais as well as the Free Marches.

Duncan bowed again, "An excellent suggestion your majesty. I believe I'll do exactly that," he decided. Highever, Redcliff… and he would see if Adaia or her daughter could be a Warden.

"I'll send a letter to note your arrival," King Cailan decided before he looked down at the map, a content sigh escaping him. "A Blight. Just like the stories," he muttered to himself.

Duncan chose to say nothing and took the dismissal for what it was.

…

"Are… you sure this is the alienage?" Alistair questioned as they neared. While Duncan didn't respond, he held similar sentiments. The alienage, the last time he entered it, was a place of squalor and refuse. A poor and underserving fate, but one Duncan could do little about except for recruiting talented elves into the Wardens. It wouldn't change the fate of all elven kind, but it would give them the chance to prove that they are equals to humans and dwarves.

As they entered the alienage, Duncan was uncertain if he was even in the right place. The entire alienage was made of stone -- from the buildings to the streets. The only wood to be found was from the Vhenadahl tree and the strong doors reinforced with iron as entry to the buildings. Their entrance was not unnoticed, and it was clear that they were not welcome. Duncan saw no less than thirty different sets of eyes on them, the elves' expressions unfriendly as they rested hands upon their weapons.

The Rabbits, Duncan assumed. He had been in the Deep Roads investigating them for signs of the Blight when they rose to prominence. He had heard that they were put to the sword a year ago, but Duncan knew that was not the truth. Not when he found a branch of the Rabbits in seemingly every hold throughout Ferelden, some more ruthless and well off than others, but they were a known quality to Duncan. Elves willing to raise their hands to humans were rare and the Rabbits were exclusively full of them if he believed the rumors.

"Perhaps it would be best to ask for directions," Duncan decided, his gaze flickering to the eyes in the shadows. He felt like an intruder in someone else's home and it seemed the griffon on his chest wasn’t putting anyone at ease.

“I’m sure they’ll tell us where the exit is,” Alistair remarked, falling in step behind him. Duncan’s lips twitched at the jape -- Alistair really did have his father’s sense of humor. They entered deeper into the alienage, Duncan’s eyes drifting around, marveling at the radical change. He hadn’t entered the alienage in near five years. That was the last time he had been in Denerim. It was incredible how much had changed in so little time.

Though, not all things changed.

Duncan spotted a familiar face near the Vhenadahl tree, sitting on a bench underneath it as a band of children were sitting in front of him. Valendrian had gotten older since the last time Duncan had seen him, but the old Hahren to the alienage seemed as strong as he ever did. Perhaps stronger as he recounted old tales and stories to a group of enraptured children. The sound of their armor warned them of their approach and Valendrian looked to him, his eyes widening for a moment before a smile graced his lips.

“And, it would seem that we have guests' children. Meet Duncan, a Grey Warden,” Valendrian introduced him, and all of the children whipped around so quickly that he worried they’d injure themselves.

“Like Garahel?!” One child cried out, his eyes dancing with the same delight that King Cailan had. Though, perhaps that was an unkind comparison to make. “Have you met ‘em?”

Duncan smiled down at the eager children. This was what he was protecting, Duncan reminded himself. He hadn’t become a Grey Warden out of desire, but he had long since accepted his role and duty. “I’m afraid that I haven’t had the pleasure. Though, I did once see his armor in the Warden Headquarters in Weisshaupt.” The child didn’t understand that Garahel was long dead, striking down an Archdemon and Duncan didn’t have the heart to tell him.

“Can I pet your griffon?” Another child asked, speaking of the Grey Warden’s legendary mounts. A breed of giant birds that, unfortunately, went extinct following the fourth Blight.

“Children, I’m sure our guest is here on important business,” Valendrian voiced and Duncan gave him a small nod.

“Warden Alistair will be delighted to answer your questions,” Duncan volunteered the young man, who blinked owlishly in response.

“I will? Oh, uh, I will,” Alistair agreed easily enough, though he did seem to regret that decision a moment later when he was immediately barraged with an assault of questions about Garahel, griffons, and darkspawn.

Duncan took a seat next to Valendrian, who watched him with a knowing look in his eye. “It is good to see you again, Duncan. It's been many years.”

“Too many,” Duncan agreed. Valendrian was one of the few men whom Duncan had genuine respect for. Life dealt him a harsh hand, but he found peace and wisdom with it, and he used that peace and wisdom to advise younger men and children to avoid foolhardy paths. Duncan imagined his life would have been very different if he had someone like the Hahren in his life as a much younger man.

“You look like you haven’t been sleeping well. I take it you’re here on business then?” Valendrian voiced, his gaze searching Duncan’s face.

Duncan offered a small nod. “There is a Blight,” he told his friend bluntly, making his face go white as the words sank in. “In the south. I’m recruiting Grey Wardens to face it. The King is marshaling the Arlings in the south as well as his personal levy. I imagine you’ll be hearing about it soon enough.”

“Thank you for the warning, Duncan,” Valendrian said, watching the children pester Alistair and demanding to let them play with his sword and shield. “But, I’m afraid if you’re here for Adaia, then you’re too late. She and her daughter Kallian were killed in the purge before last.”

Duncan had long since grown used to losing friends. It was an old pain. He closed his eyes and allowed himself a moment to mourn Adaia’s loss. She had been a fierce fighter, a quick hand, and the only things sharper than her blade were her wits and tongue. “I am sorry, my friend. I didn’t know.”

Valendrian nodded, “The alienage is lesser without them.” He agreed, his tone solemn. “If you’re looking for recruits, then you’ll have luck. The alienage has changed a great deal in the past few years.”

“I’ve noticed,” Duncan remarked, his gaze sliding to an elf watching him from a window. A crossbow in hand. A blatant and brazen threat. “I take it that the rumors are true then?”

“The Rabbits are vicious, Duncan,” Valendrian told him. “And cruel. Every horrid rumor that you’ve heard about them is likely true, and the truth is they’re probably worse. But, they protect us. Provide for us. Last week they tore a building down because the owners wouldn’t let an elf inside,” Valendrian spoke, making Duncan’s eyebrows rise. That was… rather incredible, really. “So, if you want killers? They’re your best bet.”

Interesting. Very interesting.

“And the leader of the gang?” Duncan questioned, earning a sharp look from Valendrian, who was shaking his head, trying to dissuade him from a foolish path.

“Don’t, Duncan. Azoth Surana is mad as a hatter,” Valendrian told him, his tone low but harsh. “People have taken to blaming the fire on the Queen since she did away with the Arldom of Denerim, but the truth of the matter is that Azoth was responsible. Burnt down half of the city over a street gang rivalry.”

Interesting. “You sound like you fear him,” Duncan noted, making Valendrian’s lips thin in thought. Duncan took the time to look at the alienage. The buildings were plain, but they were made of stone. The streets were paved with cobblestone. It would be a shab and plain place anywhere else in the world, but in Ferelden, the alienage was one of the finest parts of the city now. And humans just didn’t know it.

“Azoth wouldn’t do nothing to hurt us intentionally, but he would indirectly. He brought a purge onto the alienage, Duncan. And he’s ruthless. He cut out a lad's eyes and sent them to his father to make a point to the man,” Valendrian stated, pain in his voice. “He used to be a good lad. A kind one. Spent all day chasing after Kallian, head over heels for the girl, and everyone saw it. When his family was killed with Kallian, something in the boy just broke. There is nothing he won’t do, Duncan. Azoth is capable of anything under the sun and everything that never sees the light of day.”

“Where can I find him?” Duncan asked, earning a long sigh from Valendrian. “We’re facing a Blight, my friend. The tales remember the valor of the Grey Wardens while memories forget that we burn farms to force refugees to flee the horde or assassinate obstinate nobles that get in our way. I cannot say I shall recruit him, but I would like to meet him at the least. If he accomplished this, then he is a man of means, and his contacts would be useful to combat the Blight.”

Duncan grew up a thief before he was a Grey Warden. Port cities thrived off of smuggling as much as they did trade. The Rabbits controlled the docks, meaning they controlled most of the smuggling. Good for evacuating refugees and smuggling in Grey Wardens if needed.

Valendrian let out another sigh, “The Blushing Maid. A brothel around the bend. You won’t be able to miss it.” As Duncan stood up, patting his old friend on the shoulder, “I hope you know what you’re doing. I appreciate Azoth, but the young man scares me. And I’m an elf,” he pointed out.

Duncan offered him a nod, his expression serious. Valendrian saw it and was satisfied that he wouldn’t be walking into this blind. Turning to the children, he called out, “Come, children. Say goodbye to the Grey Wardens. They’re on business for the King,” he said, and despite the Hahren’s words, the boys and girls clung to Alistair, uncaring of the prospect of treason if it meant more stories.

However, with some difficulty, Alistair extracted himself from their iron grips, waving goodbye as they left the alienage. “So… not judging on who you’re recruiting -- you did conscript me after all -- but… a street king? Really?” Alistair questioned as they rounded the bend and… ah. Duncan saw what Valendrian meant. You really couldn’t miss it, even without seeing a sign.

“Origin and occupation mean nothing to the Grey Wardens, Alistair,” Duncan reminded, thinking that the young man might not be ready for the harsher truths of the Grey Wardens. While he was a far cry from having the King’s fantastical view of the Order, Alistair still had an ideal of what the Wardens were. “And we will do anything to combat the Blight. Remember that, Alistair. To see the Archdemon struck down, working with criminals is the least that we shall do.”

“Right. Objection withdrawn,” Alistair responded, chastised. Duncan swallowed a sigh.

“Alistair, stop there. Tell me, what do you see?” Duncan said, pulling Alistair to the side of the road that gave them a clear viewing of the Blushing Maid. Alistair seemed caught off guard, but he diligently looked out at the crowd that passed through the streets. The people may blame Queen Anora for the fire, but signs already pointed to a glorious recovery for Denerim. Duncan suspected that when the reconstruction was done, Denerim would be more than a backwater city at the ass end of the world.

Alistair was quiet for a long few seconds, not really sure what he was looking for. “I see… people? A big fancy building. Oh, someone just got their pocket picked,” Alistair muttered, catching sight as a young man darted away, weaving through the crowd. The guards quickly gave chase, grabbing him, and when the guard raised a fist to pummel him, the young man flipped his hood back, revealing that he was an elf. The guard froze with indecision -- with fear -- and the elf ripped his arm out of his grasp before continuing on. “That was… weird.”

“That was fear, Alistair,” Duncan told him. “The elves have been oppressed since before the Dales fell. Near a thousand years at this point. And those guardsmen were afraid. Not of that elf, but the idea that he could be a Rabbit and what would happen to them if they brought him in.” Duncan explained, admiring the view. “The guards in front of the ‘fancy building’ as you put it? It’s illegal for elves to possess a knife longer than their palms.”

Alistair was starting to see. “Those are certainly longer than their palms,” he noted, looking at the elven guards. They wore steel plate, carrying swords at their hips, as they glared at anyone that neared without ears tapered to a point.

“The guard is ignoring them,” Duncan stated, resuming his walk to the Blushing Maid. “Regardless of what he is, Azoth Surana has gone against near a thousand years of oppression and made human guardsmen so afraid of elves that they don’t dare raise a hand to a single one of them.”

“Point taken, Duncan, but… if he could do that…” Alistair trailed off, not sure how to make his point, but Duncan understood.

“What else could he do?” Duncan finished for him as they made their way through the stream of foot traffic. “That is precisely what I intend to find out.” That, and if he was willing to do it for the Grey Wardens.

The guardsmen caught a glimpse of them and were on alert as he and Alistair neared. Duncan greeted the elf that stepped forward, standing half a foot shorter than him, but the elf glowered up at him all the same. “No weapons are allowed within the Blushing Maid, and it’s fifteen silver.”

Duncan raised an eyebrow at the extortionate sum, “Fifteen silvers for entry?” Duncan echoed, making the elf smile.

“Each,” he added. As he did so, an elf passed by Duncan and Alistair. While another guard patted him down, he was sent in without paying such a fee. Duncan rose an eyebrow, giving the man a questioning look. “It’s fifteen silver for humans to enter the Blushing Maid. Prices for drink and food are doubled and whores are tripled. You want to wet your wick, fuck off to the Pearl or some back alley strumpet, shem. We don’t want your kind here.”

The lack of fear was apparent. The elven warrior was ready and willing to kill him if he pressed the issue. A very stark contrast to what Duncan was used to and he admired it all the more. Things had changed so drastically in Denerim that elves were able to discriminate against humans instead of the other way around. Duncan wasn’t sure if the word progress should be used, but it was certainly a change.

“We aren’t here for… for that,” Alistair stated with blushing cheeks. “We’re Grey Wardens. We’re here to speak to your boss.”

Duncan inclined his head, “As my junior warden says, we aren’t here for pleasure. This is a matter of business. We will relinquish our weapons,” Duncan decided, handing over his silverite sword as well as his two most obvious daggers, along with a hidden one in his boot. For that reason, they didn’t check him, or they would have found another three knives scattered across his body. Alistair did as bid, handing over his red steel sword and Grey Warden kite shield.

The elven guards shrugged their shoulders before one of them headed in to warn the boss. Duncan and Alistair were forced to wait outside until the elf came back, giving them a nod. The door opened for them, letting them into the Blushing Maid…

“Oh, Maker, what is this place?” Alistair breathed, his eyes so wide they could fall out of his head. Duncan realized that it was likely the first time he had ever been in a brothel. Duncan looked around and thought it was equal to the ones he found in Val Royeaux, which meant it stood head and shoulders over the likes of the Pearl. The walls were covered in painted mosaics of sensual art, while ribbons of silk hung from the ceiling. The floor was long and clean, sterling white marble.

And, despite never laying eyes on him before, Duncan knew exactly who Azoth Surana was.

He stood behind the bar across the hall, a statue of an elven woman behind him that doubled as a staircase. His hair was stark white, as were his eyebrows. He was handsome rather than pretty like most elves tended to be, his eyes were dark purple, the same shade of amethysts. He stood a bit tall for an elf at 5’7, his build showing a clear amount of muscle.

Across his neck was a pale white scar that indicated that his throat had been slashed, fatally so. Combined with his eyes, there was no doubt in Duncan’s mind that the young elf that didn’t seem to have entered his twentieth year was Azoth Surana. While the color of his eyes were unique, what made them so striking was the glare he wore -- his gaze was like a naked blade. Something that was fundamentally dangerous and sharp.

“Warden Commander Duncan,” Azoth greeted him as he neared, his voice so polite that Duncan wondered for a moment if he had mistaken the danger in his gaze. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” He questioned, smiling lightly even as his gaze was as sharp as a knife that cut right through Duncan.

Duncan glanced to the Rivaini woman, who was eying him up with amusement and a seductive smolder. Human. Interesting.

“It is a matter of some delicacy. May we speak in private?” Duncan requested as Azoth poured a small glass of rum based on the bottle. The Rivaini woman took it, but didn’t leave.

“Everyone, stop listening to our conversation,” Azoth spoke, setting up two more glasses on the bar. In response, a handful of elves that had been ready to jump in if it became a fight looked away, some simply turned their backs while others walked off. “Private enough for you?”

No. Not at all. Duncan approached the counter, accepting a small glass of rum. “There’s a Blight and it’s originated in Ferelden,” Duncan informed Azoth, watching him carefully. The young elf who couldn’t even have seen his twentieth year froze. As did the Rivaini woman.

Azoth’s gaze snapped to him, searching for any sign of deceit. “A Blight? Here? Now?” He stressed, working his jaw for a moment, anger blazing in his eyes. He seemed to take the Blight as a personal insult of sorts. “After four hundred sodding years!?”

“Indeed,” Duncan stated, taking the drink of rum and knocking it back with well-practiced ease. Ale was his drink of choice, but you could never go wrong with Antivan rum.

“And the Maker shits in my dinner once again,” Azoth muttered, setting the bottle of rum down. He really was taking the Blight personally. However, Duncan could see the young man rapidly thinking, turning over the situation and finding ways to turn it to his advantage. It was that kind of adaptive thinking that made him thrive in a very hostile environment. Duncan wanted him to use it against the darkspawn. “Which brings you here for what exactly?”

Duncan set his glass on the table, meeting his gaze. “To recruit you into the Grey Wardens,” Duncan informed him bluntly and with no room for misunderstanding.

Azoth returned the favor.

“I refuse.”