Chapter Text
Daylen’s staff went clattering away, and Daylen grabbed the carta thug’s wrists, levering the dwarf’s daggers out of the way and hauling him off his feet. “Zevran!” The elf turned, daggers coming up and sinking into the thug’s unprotected kidneys as Daylen swung him around. Zevran twisted the blades, severing the dwarf’s spine, before ripping them free. Ignoring the pain screaming through his body, Daylen swung back around, slamming the corpse into another dwarf as the thug ducked out of the way of Sten’s downward swing. The Qunari landed a brutal kick on the dwarf’s face, snapping the thug’s neck and sending him tumbling across the room.
“Crap, he kicked him farther,” Daylen muttered, dropping the corpse and grabbing a mace from the floor. “Come on!” He was moderately talented with a sword, but the skill of hitting someone with a blunt object took little instruction. His first strike smashed a dwarven thug’s crossbow, the second shattered a collarbone, and the third reduced the thug’s skull to fragments. Morrigan parried a sloppy thrust from another thug’s dagger with her staff, before she brained the dwarf with the end and blew his head off with a point-blank bolt of arcane energy.
As more blood spread across the stone floor, Daylen retrieved his staff and tossed the mace aside. “Was that everyone?”
“Please,” a voice croaked from the other end of the room. “Please, stranger, let me out.” The group approached, finding several cells sunk into the walls. One contained a dwarf, ragged and filthy, even for Dust Town. “I see you bear no love for the Carta,” he said. “Please, help me.”
“You know which one had the key?” Daylen asked, surveying the bodies. There were quite a few scattered around the room, some in pieces.
“The jailor had the mace,” the dwarf replied. “He liked to use it on us.”
Daylen flipped the corpse over and fished the key out of the jailor’s pocket, trying not to look at what remained of the face. “What are you in for?”
“Asking stupid questions. Please, let me out of here!” Daylen unlocked the cell, the door hinges grinding from disuse as they opened. “Thank you,” the dwarf said softly. “We’ve been down here…it’s been so long.”
“We?”
The dwarf pointed at a withered corpse in the next cell. “She just stopped eating one day. Wasted away. All this, for a stupid bet…”
“The way’s clear back towards Dust Town,” Daylen said. “Good luck.” The dwarf nodded, leaving without another word.
The group pushed on, finding more tunnels, more thugs, and in one dead end that smelled vaguely corpse-ish, a cluster of giant spiders that found themselves soaked in grease and set alight by a mage screaming obscenities.
Daylen was panting as he hosed down the grease fire with frost magic, quenching the flames. “How much more of this hideout can there be? We’ve killed more dwarves here than I’ve seen in the rest of Orzammar.”
Zevran was working out a sore wrist, wrinkling his nose as the scent of the burning spiders hung in the air. “With so many casteless, it is not surprising that they turn to crime to make ends meet.”
“It’s all they have,” Daylen replied, pulling a lyrium potion from his bandolier and swallowing it down. “They’re not allowed ‘decent’ work. Funneled into crime, so their continued oppression can be justified.”
The tunnels widened into another room, and Daylen spotted a female dwarf ahead, flanked by over a dozen guards. “So, Bhelen finally realized his throne means nothing if he can’t hold it,” she called. “Yet he still doesn’t bother to send his own men.”
“I assume you’re Jarvia? I figured you’d be taller.”
“You picked the wrong side, stranger. It doesn’t matter who’s king, as long as there’s a queen!”
“Awfully cocky for someone whose entire Carta is dead,” Daylen shot back, glancing at the walls and doing a rough estimate of the distance.
“You’ll pay for their deaths a hundred times over,” Jarvia snarled.
“Put it on my bill,” Daylen quipped, silently gathering as much of his available mana as he could. “I’m already up on a long list of charges. As for you? You know what the Silent Sisters do? The tongue thing?” He gestured at his face for emphasis as he formed the spell. “I’m going to do that to your liver.”
“Leave the mouthy one alive,” Jarvia ordered. “I have plans for him.”
Daylen shrugged. “Here goes nothing.” He dropped to one knee, slamming both fists into the ground. A solid wave of frost magic erupted from in front of him, sweeping all the dwarves off their feet and freezing them in place. Several hidden traps in the room went off as the ice triggered them, and the temperature in the room plummeted as ice gathered on every available surface.
Zevran blasphemed in Antivan as the wave of frost splashed against the back wall, leaving every carta member in the room frozen in various positions of surprise, fear, or agony under a thick layer of ice. He took a few steps forward, a layer of frost crunching under his boots. “How…what…” he turned to stare at Daylen. “Why do you not do this all the time?”
Daylen looked up at him, his eyes glazed over. “Wasn’t sure I could, it’s imprecise, only really useful in a narrow room like this, and…” He toppled over, shaking. “Kind of takes a lot out of me,” he slurred.
Zevran was looking at the nearest frozen dwarf in a mix of awe and horror. “Are they…are they dead?”
“Make sure,” Daylen said, curling into a ball. The others set to work smashing and shattering the frozen dwarves as Cupcake kept a protective watch over the mage. The dog grabbed him by the collar, dragging him off the patch of ice and onto the relatively warm floor as the Warden groped for his bandolier. “Good boy.” He flicked the cork out of a vial of lyrium with his thumb, tipping the glowing fluid into his mouth and swallowing roughly. The vial shattered on the floor as he reached for his canteen, swallowing greedily until the container ran empty.
“It is done,” Sten pronounced when the last unwilling statue was destroyed. “Let us move on.”
“Do we have some way of proving Jarvia’s dead?” Daylen asked.
Zevran held up the carta boss’s severed head. “Would this do?” Daylen threw up on the assassin’s boots. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
—ROTG—
“Do you think the tower is ever going to get back to what it was, Wynne?” Alistair asked.
“I don't know,” she admitted. “A great number of people died. It will be difficult to imagine rebuilding with that cloud hanging over everything for many years to come.”
“Do you think you'll be there? To help rebuild, I mean? Once this is all over with?”
“I cannot say. Even if I survive this Blight…” Wynne shrugged. “I am a very old woman, Alistair.”
Alistair snorted. “Why? Because of some grey hair? You are a formidable woman, Wynne. You could see that it happens.”
Wynne was looking increasingly uncomfortable. “I think you overestimate the number of years I have left. But perhaps you are right. Or perhaps the memories of what happened there will be too strong for me to face.”
“I have a hard time believing that,” Alistair shrugged.
“Well, it's good to have someone that believes in me so. Now if I could only feel the same way, myself. That would be something.”
—ROTG—
Leaving the macabre scene behind after looting all they could, the group found an exit tunnel leading upwards from the carta hideout. The tunnel ended abruptly, the end of the tunnel covered by a solid plank of wood. Daylen pushed gently against the board to no effect, and Zevran cleared his throat, pulling a lever nearby. There was an audible click from the exit, and Daylen and Sten put their shoulders to the obstruction, pushing it out of the way.
Their exit opened into a blacksmith’s store, an armor display stand clattering to the floor as the shelf Daylen was shoving against knocked it off-balance. Daylen stumbled forward as the hinges finally gave in and swung open, and Sten caught him by the arm.
The smith jumped at the noise, coming around the corner. “By all the beards of my ancestors! How did you…where did you come from?” He spotted the tunnel behind them and his jaw dropped. “You made a hole in my wall!”
“In my defense, the hole was there to begin with.” Daylen stepped into the shop proper. “It also leads to a tunnel in the Carta’s hideout. You might want to have that fixed.”
The dwarf paled behind his beard. “It…it does? Oh, sod it. If people find out about this, my business will be ruined. They’ll think I have something to do with Jarvia!”
“Good news, then!” Daylen said brightly. “Jarvia’s dead. Along with most of the Carta.”
“Dead? How? Did you…” Daylen stared at the dwarf, and the dwarf groaned. “You did, didn’t you? You killed her! And then you climbed out of there into my shop.”
“If I could have climbed out into a land of free food and soft beds, we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” Daylen snapped. “If the carta knew you were so easily frightened, you’d be working for them right now.”
“Aw, just leave me alone,” the smith whined. “I don’t want anything to do with this. And if anyone comes asking, I’m gonna tell them you did it!”
—ROTG—
“So I am to understand the sister is a follower of this ‘Maker’?” Shale asked.
“Am I the sister?” Leliana said, smiling. “Aw, that’s so cute. It's like you’re my big brother, or sister…or whatever.”
“I am a creature of stone. I doubt that we will be related in any shape or form.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean literally! Don’t you think people can be related in spirit?”
Shale sighed. “I notice that humans tend to believe in a great number of things that are not true, even when given evidence to the contrary.”
“Believing in things when there is no proof is what faith is all about, Shale.”
“Believing in things when there is no proof is what gullibility is all about.”
Leliana arched an eyebrow. “So I am gullible now?”
Shale shrugged. “I, ah, take it we are no longer sisters in spirit?”
—ROTG—
“Well, you’ve simply outdone yourself,” Bhelen said. “They’re talking all over the city about how someone finally went through Dust Town and slaughtered the Carta like genlocks.”
Daylen tossed the still-dripping bag on the floor in front of Bhelen, who merely gave it a dispassionate look even as Gavorn took a surprised step back. “I did what you asked. Killed dozens of people your society forced into a life of crime. Made you look good. Do you have my troops?”
“Not yet,” Bhelen said flatly. Zevran’s eyes narrowed as a quiet growl echoed off the floor, and he glanced over, unsure whether it was coming from Daylen or the dog. “Killing Jarvia brought me greater favor, but to truly displace Harrowmont, we’ll need something dramatic enough to end the debate forever.”
“I sense you have something in mind,” Daylen replied sourly.
Bhelen didn’t seem to recognize the significance of the sudden chill in the air. “What do you know of the Paragon Branka?”
“I’ve picked up bits and pieces from locals, including the man her husband…Oghren, was it?” Bhelen nodded. “They were arguing. Your only Paragon in four generations, a smith who invented some sort of smokeless coal that increased metal production and reduced diseases related to it. Your Assembly made her a Paragon, she was granted her own house, and then two years ago she took her whole house except for her husband and took them into the Deep Roads on a wild goose chase for some ancient artifact. Nobody’s seen any of them since.”
“Wild goose chase?” Bhelen echoed.
“Surfacer term. Means a pointless endeavor.”
“Well, that’s more or less accurate,” Bhelen admitted. “She is the only Paragon in four generations, and she did turn her back on her responsibilities. A Paragon is like an ancestor born in this time. If she returned, her vote would outweigh the entire Assembly. Anyone with her support could take the throne unchallenged.”
“So everything before meant very little, and you’ve just had me running errands for you,” Daylen said, the temperature in the room dropping further. “And you hope to bring her back for her endorsement for king.”
“I hope you will bring her back for her endorsement for king.”
Daylen paused. “Do we need to go over the meaning of that phrase ‘wild goose chase’ again? She’s been in the Deep Roads for two years. The Deep Roads, which until very recently, were full to bursting with darkspawn. Even if they had held out against the darkspawn, unless they managed to take two years of preserved rations with them, we’re going to be finding a corpse, if that much. What makes you think she could possibly still be alive?”
“Harrowmont is looking as well,” Bhelen replied. “It’s too risky to assume she’s dead, with an entire house dedicated to her protection having gone with her. If Harrowmont were to find her first, the credit for it could swing the election his way.”
“That’s not really a deal-breaker for me,” Daylen pointed out. “I get my troops either way. Ignoring the whole ‘can’t feed an entire house for two years in the blasted Deep Roads alone’ problem, do you think she would support you as king?”
“I was hoping you could use your legendary charm to persuade her that the rightful king should take the throne,” Bhelen explained. “However, if the Deep Roads have…addled her wits, then it might be best that she not return before the kingship is decided.”
“So now I’m finding her in the Deep Roads, and then possibly leaving her there, possibly making sure she stays there.” Daylen sighed in defeat. “And this isn’t the most absurd long-shot gambit I’ve pulled off this year…if it gets me my troops, I’ll find her, or whatever’s left. What’s she like?”
“I did not know her personally,” Bhelen admitted. “Two years ago, I was still considered a child, not one to consort with Orzammar’s finest. From what I hear, her intellect was unrivaled, but the social graces were…beneath the notice of one so gifted.”
“Smart but rude, got it,” Daylen replied. “I’m guessing that’s what most of your troops have been looking for out in the Deep Roads all this time, and why I’ve been stuck doing all the work here for you. Do we have any idea of where she went?”
“So far, my men have traced Branka to Caridin’s Cross, an ancient crossroad lost to the darkspawn four centuries ago. Her trail ends there. Perhaps with your Warden’s expertise, you can find what my men could not.”
Daylen grunted noncommittally, not having the heart to tell Bhelen the length of his service. “Where is Caridin’s Cross?”
“Many miles deep into the tunnels. It was once a main thoroughfare, but before Branka, no one had stepped foot there in generations.”
“We’ll have to wait for the rest of my group to return before we leave to find her,” Daylen said. “As it stands, we’ll need time to assemble some supplies and prepare. I assume you’ll be providing those.”
Bhelen nodded. “You have my thanks and what support I can lend. Seek her in Caridin’s Cross. I will try to delay the vote until you return.”
—ROTG—
“Do you miss the life you once had, Shale?” Leliana asked, looking up at the golem. “These centuries of memories you have lost?”
“Does it miss being within its mother’s womb?” Shale replied.
Leliana shrugged. “Well, no. I don’t remember that far back.”
“It is no different. My memory stretches only so far, and what went before is now lost.”
“And you remember nothing at all? Not even a little bit?”
Shale hesitated. “There are…images. Faces who I have no names for. Places I remember being, but not where they are. They are all foreign to me. Without context, I feel only disquiet when I think of them.”
“Like dreams, then,” Leliana concluded. “When you awake all the details have fled.”
“Is that what it is to dream? Then yes. Perhaps it is like that.”
“How very sad,” Leliana said quietly. “To discover your entire life has been a forgotten dream. I am so sorry.”
Shale glanced over. “Why does the bard stare at me so?”
“I was thinking about writing a song about you. ‘The Statue with the Heart of Gold,’ or something like that.”
Shale snorted. “It thinks my heart is made of gold? It is stone, as anything else. Cold stone.”
“I meant that you had…a good heart. It seems to be that you do.”
For an eight-foot-tall anthromorpic block of stone, Shale expressed bafflement surprisingly well. “And they call this having a ‘heart of gold?’ Why?”
Leliana paused as she considered her answer. “Uh…because gold is precious and shiny and…a good heart is just as valuable?”
A beat as Shale stared at her. “Shiny.”
“In a manner of speaking.”
At this point, Wynne and Alistair were exchanging confused glances, silently agreeing to stay out of this one. “My heart does not qualify as shiny,” Shale insisted. “I kill. Frequently, and not without pleasure.”
“You had a difficult life. Deep down, at the center of your being, you are a good person,” Leliana replied. “I believe that.”
“Even though I have never demonstrated this aspect? How peculiar.”
“You aren’t all stone, Shale,” Leliana said confidently. “There is a person inside of you.”
“If so, it is because I ate it.”
—ROTG—
“Well, we’ve got about a day and a half to kill, provided Alistair’s group makes it back on time.”
“Which, considering their leader, is doubtful,” Morrigan remarked.
“Ease up, he’s smarter than he lets on,” Daylen said reproachfully.
Morrigan rolled her eyes. “He could hardly be otherwise. Do you think he knows what he's doing?”
“I wouldn’t go that far, but it’s good practice for him as well,” Daylen continued. “Keep it up, Morrigan, and next time we split up you’ll be in his group.” She glared at him, but fell silent. “As it is, I was thinking Zevran could switch out for Leliana next time.”
“Any particular reason?” the assassin asked.
“You two work together well. Although, now that I think about it, that would be putting most of our ranged combatants in one group, wouldn’t it. Leliana, Morrigan, me…”
“A bit, yes. Leliana is good with her daggers, but…” he broke off as Daylen walked off, the Warden’s eyes narrowing as Cupcake trotted down a hallway. “I suppose it wasn’t important, then.”
The others caught up with the Warden and his dog halfway down the hallway, the dog standing firm in the middle of the hall and growling. “What is it, boy?” Daylen asked, reaching down and scratching the hound behind the ears. “What are you hearing?” The dog continued growling, and there was a rumble audible through the floor, before the wall of the palace blew in. Cast the instant he heard the rumble, Daylen’s barrier sprang up before the fragments reached the party, and the group drew their weapons as smoke and dust flooded the hallway.
“You idiot!” someone said among the smoke. “This isn’t the vault! We have to get out of here!”
“Nobody move!” Daylen bellowed as the air began to clear.
The voice cursed. “Sod it. Witnesses. Kill ‘em!” An unarmored dwarf bounced off Daylen’s barrier, and the Warden signaled his companions, Cupcake bounding forward alongside Sten and Zevran as a half-dozen dwarves emerged from the smoke, drawing their weapons.
With only half of the dwarves even armored, the fight was over in moments. Sten drop-kicked the last one through a solid door, the sounds of bones breaking under the twin impacts audible from across the hall.
The guards responded as the group checked themselves over. “What’s going on!” The lead guard asked. He spotted the hole in the wall and all the dead would-be thieves, and his jaw dropped. “By the ancestors.”
Daylen paused, realizing how the situation could be interpreted and that he was probably already on thin ice with the dwarves. “Er…they broke in.”
“I can see that! Good on you, Warden, you caught them in the act!” The dwarf rolled over one of the corpses. “I guess desperate times drive people to strange things.”
“I think we got them all, but I’ll bet that tunnel leads somewhere interesting.”
“Was planning on that,” the guard replied, issuing orders to his men. “Tell me, any of you lot have any skill with healing?”
“I’m a fair hand at it. Someone injured?”
“Poisoned,” the guard said darkly. “Lady Brodens. Just head towards the private chambers. Ask for Herbalist Widron.”
Daylen found the herbalist and his patient in a side room in the private chambers. The dwarven woman was stretched out on the bed, shaking and sweating. “Fools and their politics,” the herbalist spat. “The poison was probably imported as a king-killer and she got dosed by mistake. I’ve never seen anything this potent.”
Daylen gently took the woman’s pulse in her wrist, wincing as he felt the rapid heartbeat. “You can’t cure it?” He touched her forehead, flinching. “She’s burning up.”
“It’s a very strange toxin,” the herbalist replied. “I know there’s a counter, but the ingredients are so rare in Orzammar, it just doesn’t matter.” The dwarf held out a piece of vellum, and Daylen took the document, examining it. “If you can chase these things down, I’ll thank you, but I won’t get my hopes up.” He looked down at the woman. “The Stone will take her soon.”
“Erm…I happen to have all of these on me,” Daylen said after a beat. “Elfroot is so common on the surface that you can’t sell it in some places, we scrounged up some lifestones before coming here, and this other reagent you have here is a common concentrator agent.” The herbalist stared at him in shock for a moment longer as Daylen fished out the ingredients. “You mix this antidote. We have to get her temperature down.” Weaving a thread of magic, Daylen blew on his hands, a layer of frost forming on them as he put a hand on the poisoned dwarf’s forehead. Another thread of magic, and the dwarf’s temperature dropped noticeably. “I’ve bought us some time, but you need to-” There was crashing and shouting from outside, and Daylen was out the door before the others could follow.
It was easy enough to tell the guards from the nobles at that moment – the guards were running towards the commotion, while the nobles hauled self-important ass away from the perceived danger. Said danger turned out to be a revenant in the palace’s kitchen, the remnants of a glass vial at its feet and several dwarves already critically injured. A pair of dwarven guards were hurriedly backing away, their weapons held in ready guards.
Daylen slid to a stop, taking in the scene. “Sten!”
The warrior charged the revenant, bulling past the Warden as the mage drew his staff. “Katara bas!”
Considering that the revenant used a greatsword in one hand and a heavy targe in the other, a normal warrior would be outmatched in single combat. Luckily, Sten was not a normal warrior, and he had several other seasoned fighters backing him up. In moments, the revenant’s feet were frozen to the floor and it was caught in uncontrollable spasms as lightning arced across its body. The others set about hacking it to pieces, and soon the creature dropped to the floor. Daylen was busily healing the dwarves he could, urging them to stay still as he worked. Morrigan knelt next to him, doing her best to keep the others alive until Daylen could reach them. Out of the six critically injured dwarves, four would live to see another day.
“You saved four of my men,” the chief of the guard said gratefully, putting a hand on Daylen’s arm. “They would have died without your help.”
Daylen shook his head. “If my other companions had been here, we could have saved all of them.”
The dwarf grunted. “Take what victories you can. And…perhaps you can do some good elsewhere in the building. There was an…incident.”
“Of what nature?”
“Diplomatic.” At Daylen’s raised eyebrow, the guard leader shrugged. “A surfacer ambassador was here. At all the commotion, his guard got jumpy, and when our own guards swept the building for further intruders, they attacked. The ambassador and his guards are dead, but some of my men were injured in the fight.”
Daylen and Zevran exchanged a glance. “Ambassador Gainley?” Daylen asked hopefully.
“That’s him,” the dwarf said. “I understand he’s one of yours?”
“Not exactly,” Daylen lied. “His status as an ambassador has been revoked, he was meant to be recalled as he no longer represents Fereldan interests. His violation of your hospitality, attacking your men like that, only proves how unsuited he was for the task. We can certainly look after your men.” The guard nodded, leading them across the palace. “Can I ask how he came to be here, if nobody has been allowed to enter since your king passed?”
“He had been stationed here as the Fereldan ambassador for over two years,” the dwarf answered, nodding to one of his lieutenants as bodies were dragged from one of the chambers. “When King Endrin returned to the Stone, Gainley refused to leave, knowing he would not be allowed back until we elected a new king.”
Healing the dwarven guards’ injuries was simple enough, and Daylen took a moment to check in with the grateful herbalist. “She’ll live,” he said. “I’m not sure what the toxin will have done to her kidneys, but she’ll live. Her temperature is already coming down.”
Daylen was crossing the throne room, headed for the exit, when he heard a loud clunk and felt something shift under his feet. “Huh. Too big to just be a loose floor stone. Hey, Zevran, Morrigan, come have a look at this. I wonder if there are any more…”
—ROTG—
“I am told that it lost a large number of comrades in the battle with the darkspawn.”
Alistair shrugged. “I did. I didn’t know all of them as well as Duncan, however.”
“I am unfamiliar with this name,” the golem confessed.
Alistair waved it off. “It’s not important. You don’t need to know who he was.”
“I cannot remember if I ever had anyone important to me. All I remember is being given orders.”
“That’s unfortunate,” Alistair said quietly. “To not have anyone who mattered to you? I mean, I would gladly be following Duncan’s orders right now, if I could.”
“It enjoys following others?” Alistair nodded. “I find that odd.”
“You wouldn’t understand, I suppose,” Alistair mused. “Don’t worry. I don’t expect you to.” Changing the subject, he went on, “So tell me something. Do you feel pain? When you get hit in combat?”
“This is when it squeals loudly and spurts blood about? This is when it feels pain?”
“Uh…maybe? I’ve seen you take some bad hits. Don’t you feel anything?”
“Anger. Rage, even,” Shale replied. “Perhaps a little distress. Is this pain?”
“I’m not sure,” Alistair admitted. “I don’t think I’d call it distress, exactly. It’s more…” Inhaling, he screamed. Wynne and Leliana both jumped at the noise.
Shale nodded sagely. “For me, it is more…” the golem gave a low growl.
“That sounds more like a bowel movement,” Alistair said, scratching his chin. “I mean that sharp, stabbing…” He gave another scream. “Like that?”
“No,” Shale said as their other companions stared at them in confusion. “Nothing like that.”
“No? Huh. Good to know.”
“I find it very odd,” Shale announced, looking at Alistair.
“Am I an ‘it,’ now, too? I feel honored.”
“For one who professes to be a warrior, I find it remarkably weak-willed and indecisive.”
“Er, thank you?”
“It also likes to hide its many weaknesses behind a veil of jocularity,” Shale commented dryly.
Alistair shrugged. “For a statue, you know a lot of big words.”
“Is there a reason it enjoys following others so much? Especially when it is in a position to lead?”
“Have you ever been responsible for someone else’s life?” Alistair asked pointedly. “Or a lot of other lives? Or an entire nation?”
“Of course not,” the golem scoffed.
Alistair turned, spearing the golem with an icy glare. “Then shut up.”
“I will remember this moment when the birds come.”
“We’re almost back,” Leliana said, glancing at the map. “Hopefully Daylen has made some progress on getting the dwarves to cooperate.”
—ROTG—
“Why is there a blasted dragon locked up in a palace, underground?” Daylen hollered, sprinting across the throne room with said dragon hot on his heels.
—ROTG—
“Wynne, is this yours?” Leliana asked, holding up a satchel.
“Oh, my bag of components!” Wynne accepted it back. “Thank you, dear. I was wondering where it got to.”
“You left it by the fire, the last time we made camp.”
“Oh yes, I remember now.” Wynne shook her head. “How age creeps up on you, and brings with it forgetfulness.”
“You’re a great mage, Wynne, and you’re sharper and wiser than many people I know,” Leliana replied. “Some young ones, too.”
Wynne smiled at the compliment. “Ah, but you should have seen me fifteen, twenty years ago. The fires have dimmed somewhat since then.” She patted the satchel at her side. “But thank you, Leliana, for picking up after this old lady.”
“Didn’t Daylen say you were what, in your forties?” Alistair asked.
—ROTG—
“Well, that was bracing,” Daylen said as the group patched themselves up, the dragon finally dead. Injuries were thankfully limited to minor burns and scrapes. Several dwarven guards were nearby, equally puzzled how a dragon had gotten into the palace.
“Let’s get out of here before you unleash some fresh misery,” Zevran suggested. “I am sure that if these dwarves have a giant sealed away someplace, you will manage to find it and set it free.”
“Not a bad idea. Let’s head to the Provings, we haven’t caused any problems there yet.”
“Do you intend to simply wreak havoc until they agree to supply the troops you need?” Morrigan asked as they left the palace.
“It’s certainly an option,” Daylen admitted. “I have no intention of playing their cheerful messenger boy, but I’m providing an incentive. They give me what I want, I go away.” They emerged from the stairwell, and Daylen spotted a group of armed dwarves up ahead, blocking the path. “This bodes well,” he muttered. “Be ready, I have the feeling we’re about to make some new friends.”
“Who do you support, Warden?” one of the dwarves demanded as his companions blocked the path. “Where do your loyalties lie?”
“We’re politically neutral, we don’t do loyalties like that,” Daylen replied. “But that doesn’t matter to you, does it?”
“Bhelen has corrupted the Warden!” the dwarf shouted. “End this for Harrowmont!”
For a change, the numbers were even – five Harrowmont fanatics against the Warden, his three companions, and his dog. Not that the fight was balanced. It was over rather quickly after Daylen and Morrigan blew most of the dwarves off their feet and Sten and Zevran cut them to pieces.
A nearby guard sprinted up, his weapon drawn. “What happened here?”
“The locals are getting restless,” Daylen snapped, kicking a dead dwarf in the head as he passed by. “You think maybe having packs of dwarves running around in full armor with weapons might be a bad idea?”
“You do not understand our customs,” the guard began, but Daylen cut him off.
“I understand that a diplomatic representative and a Grey Warden has just been attacked in the middle of your city! And that maybe, your city guard should be doing something to stop stuff like that! It reflects rather poorly on Orzammar if your guests can’t walk the streets!”
The guard paled slightly. “Would you like to make an official report?” He stammered.
Daylen shook his head. “Just get your act together. The guard is supposed to prevent these things from happening, not show up afterwards and marvel at the carnage. I don’t mind killing fools, but it shouldn’t be part of just walking around.”
It was a short walk from there to the Proving, where almost immediately the group was set upon by another pack of thugs. “I knew this Shaperate stuff would be risky,” their leader pronounced upon seeing them enter the chamber. “Coin for the man who takes the Warden down!”
Against only four poorly-armored thugs, the fight was over before it began, with three of them frozen and shattered almost immediately and the fourth offhandedly killed by Zevran after he managed to dodge Daylen’s opening burst of frost magic. Daylen fished the missing book off the corpse as another dwarf stood well back, generally failing to appear innocent. “This deal was all their making, Warden,” he insisted. “Technically, I haven’t done anything wrong. We have no business. Well, unless you want to make a few coins. Not that I’m suggesting anything, but you’re holding the prize right now.”
“Don’t care, just going to return this and be done with it,” Daylen replied without even looking at him. “Someone might owe me a favor if I do.”
“I can respect that. How about I keep my nose clean until you’re long gone, then? I’m just a businessman. I merely exploit opportunities. I won’t get in your way.”
Daylen glanced at the corpses on the floor. “Wise decision.”
—ROTG—
“We should be back in Orzammar in just a few hours,” Nevin declared. “I must say, Warden, you’ve made this a very easy trip.”
“We aim to please,” Alistair replied.
“Rare is it that a Deep Roads expedition goes by with no casualties.”
“Thank Wynne. Her healing magic has gotten everybody home alive on many occasions.”
“Well, thank you, Enchanter,” the dwarf said. “When we get back to Orzammar, I’d like to buy you a drink.”
“Don’t bite off more than you can chew, young man,” Wynne replied. “I’ve been hoping to sample dwarven ale.”
The dwarf barked out a laugh. “In that case, I should let you know – every man you healed wants to buy you a drink!”
“Tapsters it is, then!”
“So you know about him and Morrigan, right?” Alistair asked the mage. “You’ve heard?”
“I think everyone has heard, yes,” Wynne said. “They haven’t exactly been shy about their relationship.”
“And you agree with it? You don’t think that it’s…dangerous?”
“Dangerous for whom?” Wynne asked pointedly. “Her? Or him?”
“Anyone,” Alistair replied darkly. “She’s rotten to the core. How can he even…this can’t be a good idea. She can’t be a good influence on him.”
“I will admit that the thought did cross my mind, several times. But look at it another way,” Wynne suggested. “Perhaps he will be a good influence on her.”
Alistair sighed. “You know, you are just too understanding about stuff like this. Can’t you be more judgmental? I’m trying to rant, here.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. You go ahead and rant, dear, and I’ll just nod my head if you like.”
“Far be it from me to defend her,” Leliana chimed in, “but I find it hard to believe that any of us could truly change either of their minds, if they did not desire it.”
Alistair paused. “That…is a very good point. He does have a habit of talking everyone around into following him, doesn’t he?”
“Alistair, we’re standing in the Deep Roads, an extremely dangerous and hostile place, having fought our way here and planning to fight our way back, as a favor to him. We aren’t even getting paid for this. Don’t ask me how, but that lunatic has somehow won our loyalties.”
—ROTG—
Looking at the thick mattress, Daylen whistled. “Oh, my, a real bed.” Running his fingers along the thick quilt, he groaned. “Hello, bed! We’ve never met! I’m Daylen Amell. Can you hear me, bed? I’m coming in!” He collapsed onto the bed, exhaustion setting in quickly.
“We’re back!” Alistair announced, coming through the door.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Daylen groaned into the quilt.
“Something wrong?” Alistair asked.
Daylen sat up, rubbing at his face. “No, no, it’s all right.” He stretched, a spark of rejuvenation magic bringing him back to full alertness. “How did it go?”
“No problems, Lord Dace promised to switch to Bhelen’s camp,” Alistair reported. “We found some salvage, including something I think you and Morrigan ought to look at. Looks like demon parts. I thought it was dead, but it…twitches, a bit. I figured you two could figure out how to kill it for real.” Daylen shrugged. “How were things here?”
“Well, we kicked in a few doors, destroyed the carta, took out some fanatics who attacked us in the street, and found out what our next move is going to have to be,” Daylen replied. “Bit of a story, so I’ll tell you once we get everyone in the same room. We also killed some thieves in the palace, along with a revenant and a bloody dragon.”
“A dragon?” Alistair echoed. “Had you been drinking?”
Daylen snorted. “I wish. Not another high dragon, thankfully, but it was a male, fully grown. Nothing to sneeze at. We also cured a poisoned noble, found that book that was missing from the Shaperate, and the ambassador that Ignacio wanted dead is no longer a problem.”
“You killed a diplomat?” Alistair asked in alarm.
“No, the guards did,” Daylen said soothingly. “Was awfully convenient. Get everyone together, I’ll tell you what the state of things is.” He stepped outside, tugging his boots and gauntlets back on and running his fingers through his hair. “Leliana, did you find your new friend?”
“I did!” Leliana was holding the squeaking nug.
Alistair stared at the creature. “Is that…”
“It’s one of those subterranean bunny-pigs!” Leliana cheered. “Ohh, look at him…”
“Careful, he nips,” Daylen warned.
“He’s probably just hungry,” Leliana cooed. “Oh, he’s snuffling me! Snuffle, snuffle!” She giggled. “Thank you so much. You’ve made my day.”
Once everyone was gathered in the same room, Daylen addressed his companions. “All right, first off, I want to say I appreciate all the work you’ve done. But despite all we’ve done so far for Bhelen, the Assembly is still close enough to a deadlock that Bhelen’s unsure of whether he could win, and until he is, he won’t call for a vote. Couldn’t even be bothered to pay us for the assistance. Annoying for us, but makes sense for him. So we’ve got a new task. You remember that Paragon that everyone talked about, Branka?”
“The loon who ran off into the Deep Roads with her entire house?” Alistair asked.
“That’s the one,” Daylen confirmed, his expression sour. “We’ve been tasked with finding her. Or rather, finding whatever’s left of her before Harrowmont’s expeditions do. Neither side knows whether she’s alive, and having been in the Deep Roads with no supplies for two years, I can’t see how she could be, even if the Deep Roads weren’t full of darkspawn. But we’re going in after her.” Daylen laid out the rough map of the Deep Roads that Bhelen had provided them. “We’ve a lot of ground to cover, but we know that the expeditions have traced her as far as Caridin’s Cross, an old crossroads.” He tapped the mark on the map. “Now, this place was lost to the darkspawn back in the Exalted Age – that’s four hundred years ago, if you’re counting – so information is limited.” He paused. “Don’t know why Orzammar doesn’t have complete maps, especially if it was already the seat of power. You’d think that’d be something to preserve.” He frowned. “Unless it was deliberately lost.”
“Why would they do that?” Alistair asked.
“Bodahn mentioned that casteless go to lost or abandoned thaigs and recover artifacts to sell. The nobles whose families used to live there still regard it as theirs. What better way to keep your ancestors’ goodies from being taken than by making sure nobody can find it?”
Alistair sighed. “It’s always about money, isn’t it?”
“A prince who cares nothing for wealth,” Zevran remarked. “Fascinating.”
“But from there, we’ll need to start searching,” Daylen went on as Alistair shot Zevran a glare. “We do know that the Deep Roads should be clear of the majority of darkspawn, considering that they’re above us in Ferelden.”
“Will we have dwarven support?” Alistair asked. “The expeditionary unit that accompanied us to Aeducan Thaig was a great help.”
Daylen shook his head. “At this point, almost all Bhelen’s forces are committed, and the unrest in Orzammar itself is growing. If things come to a head, he’ll need the troops he has left here to maintain order and protect his own holdings. If we encounter any expeditions out in the Deep Roads, we’ll be able to link up with them and maybe narrow the search area, but beyond that, we’re on our own. If anyone has any equipment problems, worn boots, cracked blades, damaged armor, anything, be sure to bring it up before we leave. We’ll need supplies, preserved rations, since we won’t be able to catch much in the way of game down there.”
“When do we leave?” Alistair asked.
“Soon as possible. We’ve spent too much time here already.”
—ROTG—
The caste system in Orzammar includes many groups of privilege--the nobility and the warriors above all others, but to a lesser degree the merchants and the smiths and the miners. Tradition establishes a clear hierarchy. But as in any culture with an upper class, there is also a clear underclass. These unfortunates, the so-called “casteless,” are believed to be descendants of criminals and other undesirables. They have been looked down upon since Orzammar's foundation. They have taken up residence in a place called “Dust Town,” a crumbling ruin on the fringe of Orzammar's common areas.
Orzammar society considers these casteless lower than even the Servant Caste (indeed, the casteless are not allowed to become servants, as it is too honorable a position). They are seen as little better than animals, their faces branded at birth to mark them as the bastard children of the kingdom. Their home district, little more than a slum, is a haven for crime, organized and otherwise. Orzammar's guards seemingly cannot be bothered to patrol its streets. The best that most casteless dwarves can hope for is a life at the whim of a local crime lord, ended abruptly by violence or an overabundance of toxic lichen ale.
Even so, there is some hope for the casteless, a dangling rope that offers a way up into greater Orzammar society. Since a dwarf's caste is determined by the parent of the same sex, the male child of a nobleman is part of that noble's house and caste. Strangely, it is acceptable for casteless women to train in the arts of courtly romance to woo nobles and warriors; they are known as “noble hunters.” Any male born from such a union is considered a joyous event, considering the low rate of dwarven fertility. The mother and entire family are then taken in by the father's house, although they retain their caste.
The dwarves we know on the surface are also considered casteless once they leave Orzammar, although this is only relevant to those who return--if they are allowed to return at all. Dwarves who leave for the surface (the “sun-touched,” as they're often called behind their backs) lose their connection to the Stone and the favor of the ancestors, and thus are worthy of little more than pity, for upon dying they are said to be lost to the Stone forever. Put that way, it seems a sad existence indeed.
-- "The Casteless," From Stone Halls of the Dwarves by Brother Genitivi, Chantry scholar