By the Campfire - True Stories.

((Anyone can take part in this thread, if they please: after a disturbed sleep, Sophia's in a storytelling mood. Come along and listen if you wish! ^_^))

"It was her choice, and her choice alone. The Harrowing does not destroy prospective mages: it merely presents them with tests, obstacles..."
Grinning, wide, fartoowide.
"... choices. And as with any choice, there is a right choice, and a wrong choice."
Leaning forward, looming in. Thousands upon thousands of teeth in a mouth yawning almost to the filth-spattered floor, each one barbed, tortured, screaming- screaming- screaming-
"She made the wrong choice. Just as you did. Just as you continue to do. You should have waited. You should have let the blades of the Templars, the fangs of the spider, the dust of the ages, the weight of the stories, swallow you whole! Swallow you whole! SWALLOW YOU WHOLE!"
-screaming teeth but teeth can't scream only scream if they aren't teeth but I can scream scream as they rip into me blood flowing bones cracking eyes popping mindnoooooOOOOOOOO-

The sleeping silence of the Warden Camp was cracked by a muffled cry. Staggering, stumbling, almost tripping over the guide ropes of her own tent, a disheveled mound of tangled hair and clothing half-rolled, half-ran towards the nearby forest, shedding blankets as she went. Luckily, Sophia made it to the clump of gorse before she vomited, barely noticing how green and lush the plant was becoming after so many nights of constant visits.
The nightmares were getting worse.
Before, it had been easy enough to smile and ignore the phantom attentions of the... thing's impossible maw. But when she could feel the teeth gouging loving scars across her face...
A careless thought sent a ribbon-wrapped finger trembling towards her cheek, touching... slick, warm, flowing, blood? NO! No, no, it couldn't be... sweat and flecks of whatever herb Garroll had mixed into that atrocious rabbit they had been forced to endure. Perhaps if she washed her face...?

There were still a few water barrels free-standing around the camp, used for washing: dishes, clothes, armpits. Sophia chose the one closest to the campfire: as the cooking pans were washed every night, the water was changed just as frequently. Cool, sweet and oil-free, almost as wonderful as an Orlesian bathtub, full of scents and spices. In fact, if she closed her eyes just so... Mmm. Strawberries. One splash, two splashes, three splashes: there. All gone. She prayed. She hoped. Still shivering, the willowy mage settled down by the still-smouldering ashes of the fire, stirring them into new life with a softly-spoken spell. There was no question of going back to sleep now. The fire... her fire... was warm and peaceful. Hugging her knees to her chest, Sophia settled down to stare into the flames, using every inch of her perpetual smile to hold back her tears, waiting for the dawn to come. So many nightmares to remember. So many stories.

Two pairs of curious eyes watched silently while Sophia ran in her desperation to vomit somewhere apart from the main camp. Iced blue eyes looked into dark green ones, and both of they owners shrugged. As if nightmares were something strange for them.

Bowen stood up when they saw Sophia coming back, and he left without saying anything. Calliara, still on her watch and staring in the shadows, observed while the other woman sat down, obviously looking puzzled even if she was trying hard to hide it. But Calliara knew a thing or two about hiding her own feelings, when she was sad, desperate or simply frightened, and recognized the signs.

She moved a bit so the fire light would let her white hair shine in the darkness, checking the arrows in her quiver methodically.

''So, I take it that you don't sleep well either. What a surprise'' The Dalish herself was looking pale and serious, but her voice was calm and gentle as ever.

"No." Sophia smiled up at the Dalish. "I can't remember the last time I slept without dreaming. Before coming to serve the Mistress, certainly. Maybe even before I left the Circle." She glanced away to tend to the fire, a different sort of warmth washing over her shivering shoulders, calming them. It was wonderful, how quickly the concern of another could shoo the shadows away, even the concern of someone as austere as the White Wolf. Even the soft clicking of the elf's arrows in her quiver was a pleasant sound: a sign that she was ready for anything. The White Wolf protecting her cubs... Sophia's cloudy eyes softened, beaming with an unspoken gratitude. For an instant, the urge to hug Calliara was almost painful.

But she managed to hold herself back. Calliara was a Dalish, after all, the Mistress's lieutenant: Sophia was simply an errant mage who happened to materialise out of the Fade one fine spring afternoon. For all she knew, those arrows could just as easily be meant for her: a tincture to 'heal' the heart of a possible Abomination. Not that she was an Abomination, of course. But Calliara might not know that, and it would be best not to risk possibly lethal retaliation for a simple hug. Sophia offered a delicate sigh. Oh well. There would be other opportunities. Maybe when the watch changed.

"I have heard that it is the same for the Wardens... nightmares of Darkspawn and Archdemons alike, as well as echoes of the mundane traumas you have to suffer... the loss of friends and family... loved ones, in your case." A nod to her snowy-haired companion. "I once tried to copy them, you know: the nightmares of The Joining. Just to see what enduring them would be like." A faint laugh. "I failed obviously. At the time, I didn't know whether to be disappointed or relieved. I knew that, more then likely, I wouldn't be able to cope with the force of those dreams, and yet... those dreams are what make up the essence of any Warden's story: their connection to the Darkspawn and their unique gifts. It's an old adage: in order to understand something, one must understand it in it's most pure and basic form. I wanted to know what being a Warden was like so badly... the stories that drive them, their reasons for taking on such a burden... living their dreams seemed to be the quickest way."

Ribbon-wrapped fingers moved, extracting and laying out a panopaly of objects that gleamed silver in the firelight: a teapot, with matching strainer, and several silver pots stuffed full of fragrant leaves.

"Please... will you sit with me for a while? Let me make you some tea... oh, do you like stories?" Another glance up at her companion, full of warmth. "Let me tell you a story. The snow in your cheeks tells me that neither of us will be sleeping much tonight, so let me chase the nighttime away. It's the least that I can do to repay you, Calliara."

Calliara listened calmly to Sophia's soft words, eyes focused in her quiver while checking her arrows and repairing one or two feathers, or breaking anyone that looked wrong so she could mend it later properly. From time to time she nodded, the blue tattoos on her skin glowing lightly in the almost darkness. Also, from time to time she looked at the tent she shared with Drake, and a tender gaze softened her eyes, but it was just a second. Maybe two. For now, she was listening even if her senses were focused in all the surroundings just in case.

''I do like stories. I am a bard after all, even if I think about myself as a ranger'' The Dalish almost smirked.

Bowen chose that very moment to return with some mugs and a jar full of something that smelt sweet and hot. Chocolate. The enormous Nevarran placed one of the mugs next to the Dalish and offered another one to Sophia, noticing then the teapot and the herbs.

''It seems we think alike'' He smiled gently, with his usual badass, and incredibly handsome smirk. ''Here's some chocolate if it pleases you. You look very cold''

Gently, the Nevarran took a blanket that he also was carrying on his arm and wrapped Sophia's shaking shoulders with it. Then he went to sat down beside Calliara, and the Dalish leaned her back to his side as if it was an usual position for both of them.

''I hope you won't mind if I stay here. It's our turn on watch and I don't feel like leaving two lovely ladies all alone''

The Dalish chuckled when the Nevarran wrapped his arm around her own shoulders and looked to Sophia briefly.

''We are all ears''

Caterina wasn't typically a heavy sleeper. The nightmares she'd had since her induction into the Grey Warden order had lessened since the death of the Archdemon, but by now she was used to never sleeping through the night. Sometimes she'd spend her time sharpening her knives, or oiling her leather armor. Recently, she spent some of her nights with Bowen, either simply talking or - well, she simply rather enjoyed the man's company. She wondered, sometimes, if she should bother getting attached - she'd never gotten attached to partners, in the past - but something about him simply made her want to stay. It would have been disconcerting if it hadn't given her such a warm feeling.

She knew that he was out on watch with his elven friend, the lovely Calliara, tonight, and she felt oddly at home just knowing that they were out there. She'd never had a real home, before. The orphanage had only ever been a place to stay, and though she'd loved the children and caretakers, people were always coming and leaving, and it had been hard to get attached to any one person. The Wardens were like a family, which was something she had never had the privileged of having.

There was a loud rustling from one of the tents, and Caterina's ears picked up the faint sound of someone being sick. She cringed inwardly, and heard hushed voiced coming from outside - most likely Calliara, speaking to whoever the unfortunate ill camper was. She pushed a whet stone up the side of her knife once more, still paying more attention to the noises outside, and then she pushed back the flap to her tent, sticking her head out to see what was going on.

Calliara and the new woman - a mage, from the look of her - were sitting by the fire. The new woman - a very pretty, slight thing - was shaking ever so slightly, probably more from the body's natural reaction to vomiting than anything else. She seemed at ease, at least. The Antivan woman slowly stepped out of her tent, rubbing a cloth against the blade in her hand absently as she took a few slow steps towards the fire.

"Is everything alright, here?" She asked, her question hesitant. Her eyes flicked towards Bowen and she gave him a small smile as he approached the fire. He must have gotten up to let Calliara speak to the mage alone, and was now returning with a steaming jug of something that smelled heavenly. Chocolate, she placed after a moment - Caterina had not had chocolate since she was a girl.

It was true that Wardens slept fitfully, except when they slept Death's sleep. Griffinhart was no exception. He had awakened only dozens of minutes before Sophia did in her night-terror, plagued with his own stories - stories he was not equipped to tell.

It didn't matter at the moment he woke up, though. He woke up like he always did: eyes shot open in the darkness, hand clenched around a knife, the Fade enshrouding him as reflexively as his consciousness kicking into motion. His body was trained to Dream even as he was shaking dreams out of his head.

He assessed the situation in the beat between seconds and rose, corpse-like, from his place at the edge of the camp, and began to rove around in a seemingly-random pattern. The warrior had, in essence, begun a patrol. It was an old habit, and a good one, though it took its toll on his body; instead of attending to rest and healing, the swordsman would make his own private rounds, separate from that of any scheduled watch or guard, as a back-up. With time, it was something that he no longer forced himself to do, but did out of a response to his insomnia.

Loathe as he was to admit it, Griffinhart was a creature of habit and programmed response routines; predictable, even as he performed in a purposefully unpredictable nature.

And it was out of this randomized habit that he stumbled upon the Princess' congregation, not knowing any of the faces in a familiar way - he recognized them as people tolerated by the Commander, and nothing else. No, wait - there, in the gloom of a shadow, sat the one woman... Caterina. Not the most welcoming visage, but a recognizable one.

But it was of more concern that so many people were up for the night. Concern enough that Griffinhart spoke. "What is the matter?"

He guarded himself, in his mind and motion, taking quiet, subtle stances. Betrayal here lurked, screamed a voice in his mind. It was a voice he heeded well in many moments such as this one. It hadn't led him wrong yet.

[OOC: I apologize for the poor writing quality. I'm in a rush to go.]

Bowen smiled when he saw Caterina, and motioned to her to make her aproach them.

''I have another comfy side ready for you, preciosa'' The tall Nevarran chuckled, more than pleased with the idea of having both ladies, Caterina and Calliara, using his chest as an improvised pillow. Calliara just smiled briefly at Caterina and nodded before looking again at Sophia, and then at Griffinhart when he came around.

"What is the matter?"

The Dalish shrugged a bit, with a tiny, tired smile. ''Bowen and I are on watch. Sophia had bad dreams and came to accompany us, and then Caterina smelled the chocolate and came as well. Take a sit with us, brother, there's place for you''

Bowen nodded to his sister's words, watching carefully Griffinhart's reaction towards the Dalish. With all the movement and problems since Raphael joined the merry band, they hadn't an opportunity to meet properly each other, even if they knew each other since Weisshaupt. In any case, an amused Bowen wondered what reaction the beautiful Dalish would get from the stoic warrior.

He offered a chocolate mug to Caterina and another one to Griffinhart, with a friendly smile.

''Ten eyes see more than just four it seems. Take a sit with us, brother''

Caterina smiled slightly, absently nodding at the elegant Dalish elf as she pulled her traveling cloak tighter around her arms and came nearer to the campfire. The flames warmed her face as she stepped forward, and it was all she could do to stop from leaning in towards the warmth. Even if she'd been able to sleep through the night without nightmares, the dreadful Ferelden cold seemed to seep into her bones, preventing her from getting any sort of real rest. As a soldier, she'd had to learn how to compensate for what was often an over-tired mind from lack of sleep - one might have thought that, after a month in Ferelden, she'd have gotten used to it.

A movement caught her eye from the edge of the camp as she moved to sit down, and she lifted her curious gaze for the 'intruder.' As far as rounds went, no one else should have been awake at this time of night, though she knew full well that she wasn't the only night-owl among the camp. The slight tension that had built up in her shoulders abated as the figure came into the light, and she offered the soldier a quick but unmistakably friendly smile before finally settling down. Griffinhart had arrived at the camp after she had, but he was still a familiar face. Like many of her other comrades, she'd need more time to really get to know him, if he was so inclined. It was generally a good thing - at the very least, from a tactical standpoint - to know one's companions. A life might very well depend on it, as time went on.

It was easy to settle into the warmth at Bowen's side, and she thankfully accepted the steaming mug he handed her. She considered giving him a quick kiss as further thanks, but in front of all of their comrades, it would have seemed terribly out of place. As open as she liked to be, there were still certain courtesies and protocols that a soldier had to exercise. Instead, she settled on snuggling a bit further into his space. In ten minutes she'd be frying with all the heat around her - the fire, the body warmth, and the heated drink - but right now, the almost sweltering temperature was blessedly welcome.

Finally comfortable, Caterina took a moment to look around the camp, her knees drawn up as she gaze around the mug held to her lips. Bowen was present, of course, a solid and sturdy at her side. His dear friend - "sister" she had heard Bowen call her at times - the elf, Calliara, was sitting nearest to the young woman who had caused the initial, if brief, commotion. Calliara seemed to have done a neat job of calming her, which really did fit with everything Caterina knew about the white-haired beauty - gentle but firm, like a mother and sister and friend all combined into one person. She was almost embarrassed to think like that, especially since she didn't really know Calliara very well, but she would make the effort to reach out to her. If nothing else, she owed it to Bowen.

The mabari pup rested near to Calliara, curled up not unlike a cat by the fire. Such a cute and tiny thing. Caterina felt herself smiling as she looked at him. It was likely that, in no more than one or two short months, he would be a full grown, powerful fighter, but for now, he really was very cuddly. His ears had just barely perked at the arrival of Griffinhart, who had not yet moved to join them or walk away. It was difficult to say much about him without knowing much about him, she knew, but in general, he confused Caterina. She supposed that that wasn't necessarily a bad thing, nor was it a really negative feeling, it just simply was. She might have been frustrated if he didn't appear to confuse everyone else a little, too. It simply provided her with more incentive to get to know him.

Finally, the warrior, in turn, was looking at the slight woman tending to the fire. It was strange that it immediately set into her mind that the woman was 'small.' She was taller than Caterina, as it was, but she was slender and graceful, even in such a simple act as prodding at the logs. If Caterina was all hips and chest with muscle, then the mage woman was like a wisp, a flower bending but never breaking. Her face almost heated at the poetic turn her thoughts took, but it was true - something about her inspired such thoughts. It made her wonder what had driven her so violently from sleep that she'd had to relieve her stomach. If it was anything at all like the dreams Caterina had had during the Blight, then she could sympathize, even if she didn't understand.

"Ten eyes looking at the same place see only one thing," rebutted Griffinhart. It was not in a hostile tone - again, his neutral voice made it a statement of fact, if anything. There was no judgment, no condemnation of the gathering.

He waved his hand at the proffered drink - paranoid as always - but nonetheless moved to a seat by the fire. Once more, in an act of self-betrayal - an act of self-weakening, an act that screamed of trust - the taciturn warrior removed his helmet. A mane-like fall of white hair dropped to his shoulders, tinged with the light of the fire, and dead eyes, as blue as a frozen corpse, peered briefly into the communal flame before turning back to the quiet darkness. Despite being a warrior, his face was relatively unmarred, but for a line that ran vertically over his right eye. The orb itself was still functional, for the depth of his brow had saved his sight.

Pentaghast, a confident, properly distrustful warrior. If Griffinhart knew what it was to like another, he would've liked Pentaghast. As things were, he approved of the way the Nevarran had treated him when they first met, but did not know what to think of his continued advances at friendliness. The man was skilled with a blade and shield. Griffinhart would have to take care if they fought; few darkspawn were intelligent enough to properly fight with sword and board, for they were too aggressive - but a proper human foe would only have to hunker down and wait out the storm. There would be challenge in finding a vulnerability in a proper defense...

Caelestis - hers was a voice of disapproval. And yet, it was not something that mattered to him. He did not understand how she could not understand his methods - after all, were not efficiency and excellency things that all humans strove for? But if she could not understand because of his (entirely inadequate) words, then perhaps, with time, she could understand through observing his actions. He had observed her moving, before, when they had met on the road. She was a shadow, and well-aware. Speed and surprise would take precedence if he and she crossed weapons; the faster killer would come out at a much greater advantage. Griffinhart resolved that, if it came to blows, he would have to strike first, and strike fastest, and strike hardest.

The other two women, he had no familiarity with at all. The Dalish elf was vaguely familiar by sight, for her white hair would have stood out - much like his own - in the halls of Weisshaupt. She had an elegance to her form, and he did not doubt that that elegance had saved her life before. The well-worn hands belied her skill with a bow - he would have to take care and not let her gain distance on him, for even falling into the Fade would not make him invulnerable indefinitely.

And the last woman... Sophia, he presumed. She did not bear the wear and tear of a soldier, of a front-line fighter. Her willowy form and manner of dress suggested, in a Warden group, a much more powerful, and much more dangerous, occupation. She was, he did not doubt, a mage - or at least, someone well attuned enough to the Fade to be able to wield it as a weapon - like he did. And mages were an unpredictable lot. Of course any Chantry-bound mage knew certain rites and rotes that all Chantry mages picked up, or knew of in theory, if not practice - but those were only Chantry mages. Mages shackled and bound by Templars. Mages that Griffinhart had first learned from, and then surpassed in combat applications (if not in practical). She did not... smell like a Chantry mage. And Fade-magic was an unpredictable, changing thing in the hands of someone who was not trained to cast from memory, but to cast from adaptation and improvisation.

All in all, he knew well that he was out-matched if they were to fight here and now; and yet, without even consciously realizing it, his body had tensed and his mind had turned to prepare for such a battle. Old habits didn't die hard; they never died.

Chocolate...?
"Thank you very much... Bowen, was it?" She took a sip, at first to be polite, but couldn't hold back a gasp as the drink's intoxicating sweetness flooded down her throat, suffusing her entire body with warmth. It was... it was like... drinking sunlight..? No, even that descriptor seemed trite. It was roses, sugar, milk, all warm as love and just as thrilling, mixed together with just a touch of firelit laughter. How was it possible that she had never drunk something like this before? Chocolate? No! This was rapture in an earthenware jug! Even the springs of liquid hope one could sometimes find in the Fade were nothing compared to the dark beauty clasped in her hands. Sophia stammered, for once in her life completely lost for words. She would have to be careful. Too much of this 'chocolate' could usurp her life-long love of tea in an instant.
"... amazing... this is amazing... if we speak of nothing else during our time together with the Mistress, you must tell me how to prepare this..." Sophia blinked, noticing that the crowd around the fire had swelled somewhat... the White Wolf had become the centre of an impromptu pack. Bowen, an alpha, with that swaggering smile, nestled up against Calliara herself (ice-blue eyes a-waiting,) and... Catarina, was it? Cloudy eyes sharpened, glittering through the firelight. So much showed, even through a simple twist of her tanned hands... muscled, yes, but light, with graceful fingers... a thief? Thief of riches, thief of hearts, thief of dreams and fallen stars-
Sophia blushed slightly, swiftly hiding her flushing cheeks with a shake of her faithful hair. She hadn't meant to stare, but the stories, hidden just beneath the faces of these amazing people... something told her that Catarina had a special tale to tell.

Like Griffinhart. The perfect warrior, seemingly frozen: a statue of ice and blood and bone, going through the motions. Stories, stories, everywhere... Sophia set down her chocolate-cup, the vessel's 'clink' as piercing as a dinner bell. Or the first few notes of a bard's harp. Which story would she tell tonight?

"When I tell my tales, it is my custom to ask for a story in return." Sophia said quietly, her hands clasped in her lap. "This one, however, is free, my small thank you for sharing the night with me. Please, believe me or not as you will, but my promise is this: every story that I tell you is true." Leaning forward towards her audience, bathing in the warmth of their companionship, Sophia's perpetual smile blossomed into a genuine beam of contentment, soft voice weaving the first notes of her story:

"Long, long ago, on the border between Ferelden and Orlais, there lived a human Girl in a Manor-House with her Mother. They lived far away from anyone who might have wanted to pay them a visit, but despite this, the Mother still dreamed of one day hosting a large party for her long forgotten friends. This dream dominated every aspect of her daughter's life: from the moment she woke up in the morning until the moment she went to sleep at night, the manor house would be filled with the bustle of her Mother's servants, constantly cleaning, cooking, sewing and practicing for the party that would never arrive. It was enough to drive anyone with the vision to look beyond endless miles of silk bunting utterly mad, and if it wasn't for the elven family who catered to her Mother's every whim, the Daughter might very well have succumbed. As it was, after the manor had gone to sleep for the night, the Girl snuck down to the stables where the servants slept, to listen to tales about a world she couldn't have otherwise imagined.

"The father told her stories about the Dales, about shapeshifters and barbarians, Witches of the Wild and Dragons sleeping deep beneath the ground. His partner revealed ancient romances that set her young heart thrilling, and knowledge of herbs and teas to calm the body and strengthen the mind. And together, they brought forth a young Son, gifting the Girl with a playmate. Soon the Manor-House echoed with the sound of gleeful laughter, disrupting the endless preparations and setting the Girl's mother wailing. They tore silks, tripped servants, chased pets... and grew up together. Soon, as happens between young hearts, they felt a warmth between each other that had little to do with friendship: they began sharing the same dreams, the same thoughts. The same desires. Each longed to leave the Manor-House and see the world that they had only heard of in tales. But the World did not share their desire.

"Like all Shadows, it crept up on Girl and Son alike before either realised it. The Girl saw it first: noticed it in the way the Son glanced over his shoulder, or suddenly dropped a bucket he was carrying out in the fields. Once, watching for him from her bedroom window, she witnessed him fleeing for his life, ducking and dodging across the grassy plains away from a pursuer she could not see. Concerned, she asked why he was so afraid. The Son, swearing her to secrecy, told her that his dreams were following him home. Even under the midday sun, he could see them out of the corner of his eye: mountains of twisted rock that screamed and writhed, utopias of glass full of razor-sharp flowers that shattered to dust and reformed in moments... impossible landscapes, inhabited by shining knights and flaming horrors who watched him with hungry eyes. 'And always, in the distance, I can see the black city. I want to explore it, but no matter how hard I try, I can't get any closer to it.'

The Girl was horrified, for she knew from the elf-father's stories that what the Son was looking into was the demon-realm of the Fade. Frightened by his lack of caution, she urged him to tell his parents what he had seen, but he shook his head. 'I don't have to, you see,' he said. 'Whenever the Dreams come too close, all I have to do is shut my right eye to make them go away. You'll see. I'll find my way to the black city, and then you and I can explore it together.' That night, the Girl slept uneasily. She knew that the Son's link to the fade could only bring him pain, but she had no idea how to help him. Whether she was desperate or simply despairing, we will never know, but she threw open her bedroom window, whispering her troubles to the night winds outside. The Shadow heard her and whispered a reply: 'He sees the Fade with his right eye. Close it forever, and he need not fear nightmares ever again.' What else could her young heart do but obey? Surprising the Son as he slept, she scooped out his eye with a kitchen knife and left it to wither.

Did she save his life, or rob him of his dreams, or both? She never told me. But as I left her in the lightless hovel she had chosen for her home, I saw her face in the moonlight that crept in through the open door. I saw the ruins where -her- eyes used to be. And, in the moment just after I closed the door behind me, I thought I could hear the tap-tap-tap of shadows on her rickety walls, begging to be let in."

The night wore on uneventfully. There was so much work to be done as the Tamassran observed his companions over the past few days and took notes. On occasion he would speak with Jezarine and ask her opinions of those they traveled with. The Tamassran had to pair companions who would produce the most optimal offspring so he could raise them to follow the Qun. Even though Jezarine was saarebas, he respected her intellect and curiosity of the ways of the Qun.

This Sophia Nider character who had arrived before the Tamassran did was a mystery to him. She was a mage, and yet not. It was confusing. And then there were those eyes. Black pools that showed wisdom far beyond her years. It unnerved the Tamassran. But he did take note of her as well. Her offspring would be powerful indeed. If it didn't inherit magical power, it would most definately be a powerful warrior. Perhaps paired with Griffinhart? Garoll? Hm... the combinations.

He listened to the story from a distance, but close enough to feel some of the fire's warmth against the chill of the night air. His golden eyes regarded the others gathered. The elf, Calliara; her sickness apparent but a fine Warden if ever there was one. For a woman. Bowen, the big human who was cuddled close to Caterina. He would have to keep those two seperate for spawning offspring. Love has no place in creating life. That did not mean the Tamassran did not approve of their feelings for each other. On the contrary, love could add a powerful incentive to protect in combat. Camaraderie was key.

Griffinhart. Cold and silent. The man seemed to have the emotional capacity of a brick. The Tamassran applauded the man's dedication to his work, as that is what all who follow the Qun strive for. He just lacked... feeling. Remorse. Honor.

"An interesting story. You spin a tale well, saarebas, but the brother's tongue should have been cut out if he was summoning demons."

He had sounded the qunari in the darkness with enough time and space to stand and draw steel - had he stood and drawn steel. But the story was going, and it captivated the Weisshaupt Warden in a way that prevented him from interrupting it, even as he looked away from Sophia and into the night, in the direction that the tall humanoid came from. But when the so-called Tamassran spoke, Griffinhart was compelled to rebuke the statement.

"No." Griffinhart was riled, and showed his anger with the same cold calculation that he fought with. With a controlled flatness in his voice now, the warrior spoke. "He should have tamed his demons, or died trying." He looked from the qunari that had appeared from the shadows back to the fire, and continued. "And he should not have trusted the girl. He trusted her, and was betrayed for it." Was the swordsman passing "impartial" judgment as a third party, or was he speaking in retrospect? The answer laid in his eyes, as they darted - for only a moment, in only an instant - to the ground; and it laid in his hands, as his left thumb rubbed, but once - a solitary, almost invisible pass - over the right eye opening; and it laid in the words he strangled to death in his mind: trust is a weakness. Some things were better left unsaid.

Some things could not be said.

Caterina had been so absorbed by the tale - she had, since childhood, always possessed a fondness for storytelling - that she had almost forgotten where she was near the end of it. Sometime during the bard's narration she had curled closer to Bowen, clutching at him as if he were her giant, personal teddy bear, never mind that she was doing it in front of everyone else to see. Ah, but it had been such a sad tale! And then, almost a frightening one. She suppressed a shiver as the words slowed to their end, feeling the weight of the young girl's plight as if in her very bones.

She shot a look of irritation towards the Qunari man, but held her tongue. It was foolish, she had often heard, to challenge a Qunari their personal views. Stubborn as oxen, and twice as likely to gut you if offended. She had never met a Qunari in person before meeting the man called the "Tamassran," and so far, he was proving her mental image quite correct. In Antiva, it was considered the height of rudeness to question a storyteller's work - it would have been as insulting a man's honored wife, or some other terrible slight of respect. She understood that Orlesians were even more strict - a bard could very likely kill you for speaking out of turn as a story was being spun.

Of course, where she would hold her tongue, Griffinhart freely gave his. The man was chatty by no stretch of the imagination, but Caterina had well noticed that he was quite adamant bout giving his opinions, whether they be wanted or not. Thankfully, Caterina couldn't bring herself to object to his input, even if she did not agree. At the very least, taming his own fears seemed far more productive towards the boy's growth than cutting his tongue out might have been. For a moment, she felt a quick flash of concern for the downcast look of his eyes - she was no fool, and she could see experience speaking when it did. But the moment passed, and she knew that the proud man would only see her concern as little more than misplaced compassion, or weakness, and she was not fond of being so thoroughly rebuked. She did have her own pride to consider, after all.

Sophia had been as absorbed at Caterina. As she spoke, she no longer saw the crackling campfire or the faces of her audience. Instead, the busy world of the Manor-House arose before her, painted on the night sky with every word that she spoke. She felt the Mother's anxiety and her heroine's curiosity. The boy's fear clutched at her stomach with icy claws, and when the Girl sliced out his eye, she was hard-pressed to keep herself from crying. Lost in her memories, Sophia barely noticed when the Tamassran ghosted out of the darkness to join them. His words, harsh, critical and full of Qunari conviction, brought her back to Thedas with such a bump that it almost knocked the wind from her. No-one had ever questioned one of her tales before... at least, not in terms of 'shoulds.' The Willowy Mage was quite used to her listeners laughing off her tales as fables, and it didn't bother her in the slightest: she knew that her stories were true, and her belief was conviction enough. But to have someone, and a Qunari at that, re-write her precious songs was almost more then she could bear.

"I..."

But Griffinhart's voice emerged in place of hers, strident... angry? Griffinhart, angry? Why would he be angry? Her own discomfort quickly forgotten, Sophia tilted her head to one side, to see if the man's outburst would make more sense from a different angle. Something stirred beneath the frozen Warden's normally lifeless eyes, but it vanished before she could get a closer look. Sophia's smile twitched, her heart fluttering. She had to see it again. To know more, to understand more! As she spoke, other stories were beginning to weave: she could almost taste them, hanging unwritten in the air.

Perhaps one more tale would draw them out?

And Caterina... oh, if eyes could speak! Sophia would have asked her volumes:

Did you understand the moral behind the story, thief of hearts...? I hope you do. if only you could read my mind, forsake your pride, tell me. You, of all people, with your arms around your own Boy, should understand.

Outwardly, she simply blushed.

Be careful. You may already have fallen in love with another, but I may grow to love you, if you continue to listen to me so avidly.

"She gave up everything for the one she loved the most... without knowing why, without knowing if it would work... only that she had to save him." A whisper, barely audible above the crackling flames. " 'Shoulds' have no place in what she did. All we can do is remember it, learn from it, and know that it actually happened. There are still those in this world willing to sacrifice themselves to shadows just for that feeling." She smiled softly. "Personally, I find it beautiful. But, if that story wasn't to your liking, I have many more tales that I could tell."

One more Caterina found herself frowning as she turned to look at Sophia, their story-spinner for the night. It seemed wrong that she should concede to the men's words, saying that she might give them a "better" story when the one she'd already told had been haunting and beautiful and everything a story should be. It may have been even more than that, if it true, what the bard had said, that the tale was set in fact.

Without being able to help it, her expression softened as the details of the story came to mind. "I thought it was beautiful, narradora," she enthused, stressing the 'I' to make it perfectly clear that she thought it needed no change, no alteration to make it fit the Qunari or Griffinhart's skewed ideas of human nature. True stories could not be molded into what 'should be' and what 'shouldn't be' - only what 'had been.' "A lover cannot help but do whatever they can for the person they love, no matter what the 'wiser' choice may be. The Girl consorted with shadows and hurt the boy a little in order to save something much more precious. If she should have confronted the boy about it, well, love is also selfish. She did not wish to lose what she had to some nameless, invisible daemon." But the bard didn't need her telling her that, and her face heated a moment in embarrassment that she'd gotten so carried away.

Caterina did not think she had any true experience with love. Partners had come and gone, in Antiva, and she care for only one or two enough that she would even bat an eyelash at seeing them gutted in the street. Back then, all she had ever done, she had done only for her personal pleasure. She had stolen, robbed, killed, 'loved' and left. It wasn't until she'd become a Grey Warden that she'd experienced any sort of humility or respect for others. It seemed strange, what she had with Bowen. She didn't know if it was love - if she felt love, she wouldn't know how to identify it - but the story had helped. Affection, protectiveness, selfishness - the love that people actually felt was not the silly, 'pure' emotion that so many other storytellers sang the praises of. It was dirty, and frightening, and came with nearly as many negative emotions as it did positive.

Suddenly, she wished she'd had a story of her own to offer. Their mistress for the night had said that her tale was a free one, with none expected in return, but Caterina wished she had one interesting enough, anyway. She knew from experience that she had no gift for storytelling; the children at the orphanage had often interrupted her words to tell her just how bad they had been (earning themselves a slap or two on the rump from her hand), and even if she could string a few words together, it would not be the emotional tempest that that story had been. Smiling ever so slightly to herself, Caterina resolved to spend the next few days on the road trying to piece together a half-way decent story, and she would give it to Sophia as thanks for tonight.

''In some way, I agree with Raphael'' Calliara said calmly, still with her arrows. ''He should have tamed his own demons or died trying, and not involving others. Alas. Even if she did betray him, she did it with a reason. Love can make us do the strangest things, but she should have talked to him about her own ideas''

She never looked at the others, as if she were far away from everyone even if she was still resting her back to Bowen's side, with Fenrir asleep on her lap.

''There are still those in this world willing to sacrifice themselves to shadows just for that feeling."

''There are still those in this world that sacrifice themselves to shadows just because is the right thing, no matter love, sadness, pain or sorrow. There are still those in this world that feel that losing their own life to a doubt, a 'perhaps' is better than vanish in the shadows to never return, like the light of a candle. Some of us... There are still those in this world that are determined to not disappear, even if the process would kill them with a death infinitely more painful and scary, because the other choice is worse. I liked your story, Sophia. I give you my thanks''

A sacrifice made in vain is no sacrifice made at all. But, like so many others, Griffinhart did not voice the thought, and abided the alien words the women spoke on love and things incomprehensible. Was it not enough that they - or at least, the Wardens amongst them - had sworn oaths to a cause greater than any nation? Was it not enough that they had sacrificed their lives in advance, so that the rest of the world, humans and elves and dwarves and even qunari, could continue on living? Love was not a part of the battle, not a factor in the fight. They cheapened his duty with their talk of "love, sadness, pain," and "sorrow."

What more did they want of him? What more could he give? Did they want him to love, as well? Do the impossible, and cherish every living thing, so that he would die a death every time something he loved died? Everything that he was, belonged now to the Grey Wardens. Had always belonged to the Grey Wardens.

"Look at what they make us give."

The shadow shifted in its place, almost as if to leave - but only moved closer to the flame, closer to the storyteller on the other side of the flickering veil, silently consenting to another story; perhaps even consenting to the company of others. Griffinhart didn't care what the others thought it meant; he simply knew that he had no reason to leave the fire. After all, this was still a late-night congregation of too many people, and he had to beware of betrayal -

Or so went the lie he told himself. For a moment, as he stared into the flame, he simply wanted another story. Another of her stories.

The Tamassran was a little off-put by all the hostility towards his simple logical observation on how the story would have been had the players been Qunari. He was baffled by their defensiveness over the petite female with the ribbons around her arms. She was one of those saarebas who were a danger to everyone around them. His golden eyes glinted dangerously but as he was no warrior, he had no need to raise an arm towards her. The Tamassran instead heaved a sigh. "I said it was an interesting story. Yet many of you put words in my mouth." he glared at Griffinhart and anyone else who looked at him as if he had ruined the story.

The hurt look on Sophia's face caused the big Qunari to relent though. Folding his arms over his barrel chest, he shook his head. "When demons are involved, the best thing is to simply cut them off at the source; the mage who summoned them. It may be hard, but it must be done to preserve the lives of those around you. Love is selfish and causes one to dismiss reason over passion.

"Whether the story is true or not. The girl made a mistake by not killing the boy." he concluded, then went back to jotting down his notes. There was much rearranging to be made now because of this tale.

A tiny, shy smile.
"... thank you, Caterina."
And that was all it took. Something in her breast flipped over, as if to leap forward over the fire, and Sophia was forced to bury her nose in her chocolate-cup to hide her swiftly melting composure. Not now. She couldn't, not now. Not while there was still an audience to listen to her... all of them, still listening. Griffinhart, something more peering out from the faintest cracks in his frozen face. Calliara, as distant as always, draped in sleeping mabari and her own mysterious judgement. Bowen, watching, yet to say anything. The Tamassran...
"... don't be offended, Teacher. We grow to love stories as we hear them, as I'm sure you know. Your Qun could be seen as a story, one with many listeners... one that I would personally love to know more about one day." She offered the Qunari a smile, just for him. "I am glad that you found it interesting. Actually... I would be interested to hear what you, all of you, have to say about my next tale. Tell me..." Another shift forward, her nose almost touching the flames.
"... what would you say, if I told you that I carried with me the bones of a God?"
It only took a moment. A brief flicker of the Fade, as if the willowy mage had dissolved into the shadows of the fire and re-invented herself. The only change? The instrument that lay across her lap: an almost heart-shaped box of wood that flickered red and gold as curious shadows played across its surface.
"Before I came to you, I used to travel from tavern to tavern, searching for stories hidden in mugs of ale and drunken dreams. A strange place to look, I know... there is so much babble, turned to slush by drink, but in the muck you can sometimes find tales that burn brightly enough to be remembered. Like this one."
With a soft click, a section of the wood slid up and back, revealing a crescent-shaped slice of countless rectangular segments that shimmered rainbows in the gloom. The ribbon-wrapped fingers began to dance, coaxing forth a strange, echoing melody. The fire took up a harmony line: an owl in a nearby tree boomed a dark, intermittent bass. And in between, Sophia's voice began to weave, binding the tale together:

"The old man had no idea where the seed had come from. Perhaps it had been blown into his mountain clearing by a curious wind, or a bird had lost its grip while lost in turn, somewhere in a faraway cloud. But, origins aside, a seed was a seed, and the old man was lonely. Nothing else existed in the clearing, save for a tiny spring, which quenched his thirst, a few berry-vines which served to sate his withered appetite, and a shallow cave, which shielded him from the weather. While he did not mind being so impoverished, he missed the long-ago days when he had been able to talk to something other then the wind and rocks. At the sight of the seed, he realised how much he hungered for that long-lost art... conversation. And, despite what the firmer part of his mind told him, he knew that plants could talk by catching the wind in their leaves, or by turning the soil with their roots. So the old man dug a hole in the very centre of his clearing, dropping the seed inside, and from then on devoted his life to caring for it. He cleared snow away from it during the winter, carried water from his spring to it in summer. At night he lay over his charge, warming it with his body heat, by day he stood over it with a wooden sword, warning off the birds that watched the seed with hungry eyes. And so the years passed, until, one day, the old man awoke to find that the seed had sprouted.

At first, the plant was nothing but a little shrub, which did nothing but rustle when the old man addressed it. But as the days turned to weeks and the weeks to months, the little shrub grew at a speed that surprised the occassional bird that still visited the clearing, until the entire clearing found itself wrapped in the shady embrace of a great tree, clad all in red-gold bark and crowned in leaves of shining gold. Under its shade, birds and beasts came to the clearing in great numbers, eager to sample the delicious fruit that dripped from its branches. Other plants began to grow, carpeting the clearing in layer upon layer of green velvet, fit for a king. Life... blossomed. And through it all came the one thing that the old man had missed: conversation.
For the people came to hunt the beasts, and instead found a paradise watched over by an old man who, tears of happiness in his eyes, flung himself at their feet, begging for them to talk to him. They did so, and discovered the story of the great tree and its caretaker. The elves among them were amazed.
'Surely this place is blessed,' they said, and the humans among them could not help but agree. They built houses around the tree, living off its fruit and the beasts that came to live alongside them. Young men and women were raised knowing nothing but the benevolence of the tree, and some, like the old men before them, devoted their lives to caring for it. Some carved weapons from its branches and patrolled the edges of the grove, determined to protect the tree with their lives. As generations passed, the tree ceased to be a tree, becoming something more: protector, guardian... oh, if only those people had known what it meant to call something a deity! For those who knew how to listen, the tree talked to them in the language of the earth, revealing wisdoms many and deep. Those lucky few learned how to armour themselves in stone and earth and heard the whispers of the land in their dreams, so as better to guide their people. Many took the forms of great beasts, as majestic and wild as the tree itself, and under their guidance the people loved and prospered. Was it a paradise? They thought so. And so did the old man as he rested in his cave, bathed in the sound of eternal conversation.

But some youngsters grew disillusioned with the wisdom of the tree. They descended out of the mountains, to see what lay beyond, and discovered a land full of barking monsters, who followed a mysterious Maker and his mortal bride. Terrified, they fled back to the safety of their home, but following their trail was a man dressed in silver armour, who called himself Templar. When he came to the place of the tree, he did not see the beauty of the clearing or the peaceful harmony fostered by the tree's embrace. All he saw were the children who had received the wisdom of the tree. 'They are unclean!' He spat. 'They have no idea how to control their magics, and they will destroy all that they touch. Give them to me, or you risk your own lives.'
Of course, the people intended to do no such thing. They could control their wisdoms perfectly well: the tree had taught them how. This silver man had no right to take their babies away, and they told him so. 'Andraste gives me my right.' He sneered. But who was Andraste? 'The bride of the Maker.' Who was the Maker? No matter what the Templar said, the people of the tree shook their heads in confusion. They had never heard of the Maker, so, to them, he did not exist.

The Templar made the Maker exist. He returned to the clearing with many of his kind, and ordered the tree felled. Despite the efforts of the young men who had pledged to guard the tree and the wisdoms of the young women who took the forms of beasts, the Templar pressed on, capturing those he could and killing those he could not. It is said that, when he finally took an axe to the side of the tree, every one of those people screamed as blade bit into bark, and by the time it fell to the forest floor, those who had lived in its shade had perished, tears streaming down their faces. Shaken, the Templar recalled the tears that the faithful had cried at Andraste's death, and all at once he saw what he had so foolishly destroyed. Dropping his axe, he never moved from that place again, broken by the knowledge of what he had done to these innocents in the name of his Maker. And that would have been the end of it, had not one lived on to tell the tale.

The old man still lived on in his shallow cave. How, not even he knew. All he knew was that, when he came to investigate the sudden halt in the conversations that wafted from his clearing, the tree, his friend, who had brought him so much, lay dead on the earth, its killer frozen beside it. Stunned, all the old man could think of was that he was alone again, and that in time, he would be the only one who would remember what the clearing had once been. 'I cannot let it be forgotten.' He said. 'All the wonderful things that happened here... I cannot let them fade away." So he too, took an axe to the tree, carving strange and wonderful creations from its fallen wood: statues of majestic beasts that blazed red and gold in the sun, bowls in which water seemed to sparkle like wine... and instruments in boxes shaped like his broken heart, instruments with strings woven from the hairs of those young men and women who had seen the tree as their guardian. He still wanders Thedas today, giving his wares to all that ask with a sad smile on his face. 'Remember,' he said to me from the bottom of his mug of ale. 'Listen to what I have given you. Talk with her. And through the conversations you have, you will remember what we once had: our lives under the eves of the tree that became our Maker and who led us not to a Golden City, but to the wild embrace of life itself."

Caterina could not help it - by the time the tale had reached its end, quiet tears had already been falling down her face for some time. She had managed to keep her composure fairly well, besides, because no matter her feelings, it really wouldn't do to appear so weak in front of the others (and the Tamassran and Griffinhart, in particular). The story had touched her, and she didn't quite know why. It was not as if anything her life at all related to it, so it was not a personal matter - perhaps it was because it had been a true story, the proof of the words lying in Sophia's delicate hands.

She sniffed as discretely as she could, glancing away to rub at her eye, before looking back at Sophia, and then at the warm glow of the fire. Maybe she did understand how the people in the story had felt. Once, she had been at home in the safety of the orphanage - now, she found that her heart lay with the Grey Wardens. She knew, without even thinking about it, that she would lose both one day - she had already lost the orphanage, by leaving Antiva behind her for good, and she didn't have to be cynical to know that her current lifestyle was not kind to friends and loved ones. But that didn't mean that the orphanage didn't matter anymore, and it didn't mean that the Grey Wardens would be forgotten. Being remembered, as heartbreaking as it was for the rememberer, was the most wonderful form of immortality there was.

"He gave you that?" She asked shyly, almost afraid to speak for fear that her tears might have choked her voice. She cleared her throat, because it had been worked tight by her emotion, and spoke again, trying to keep her tone casual as she sniffed again. "The old man from the story? That is the wood of their god-tree?" It seemed silly to actually think of it as a god, but then, Caterina had never been a Maker-fearing woman, and didn't place much stock in religion, anyway. She did believe, however, in the power that devotion could give to things, especially magic and Fade-touched things. In that sense, god or not, if its people had treated it as a deity, then it deserved to at least be called as such.

And truly, god-made or not, the box was a beautiful thing. It seemed at once new and old, and even though Caterina did not know what it was, exactly, she understood that it was something of value. She gazed at with an appreciative, wondering eye. "It is beautiful," she breathed, and wondered if whatever magic was still left in it was affecting her, or if it was only the residual emotion of the story. Her fingers itched to touch it, but knew she could not separate such a precious item from its owner.

He understood the loss on a logical level, even if he could not understand it on an emotional level. The people valued their Fade-touched tree; and they had lost their Fade-touched tree, to which they had all been attuned. Griffinhart knew he could not fathom the exact pain, but Sophia's words, even if they were embellished, told well enough. The old man... he had not died because... because... was it because he had never been attuned to the tree in the same manner? That the backlash from the tree's sundering had not affected him because he had not been affected by the tree? There was a lesson here, somewhere; Griffinhart filed the story away into his memory for later consideration.

The tale moved him - not to tears, and not in the same, sane way as it would most others - and had he not carved out his heart one cold winter night, his chest would have tightened like a vise, a painful crush that would have incapacitated him as a warrior and as a man. But no such organ existed any more in his body, not in the figurative sense. Possibly not even in the literal sense. Instead, Griffinhart leaned back from the flame and looked into the darkness, ever-watchful, ever-wary. And that look became a glance, and that glance became a stare, and that stare became a glare.

BETRAYAL

The tree had been betrayed by its... worshipers? Betrayed by young men and women, restless in their complacency. Griffinhart had seen it before, and had stopped it before... once. Once was all it took, and everything would - could - did - come crashing down around their ears. A single moment of dissent, and everything was undone. That was the fundamental flaw in any system.

Were all of her stories of betrayal? A fire sparked for a moment in his throat, quenched by an avalanche of reason. No - it was not all of her stories that were of betrayal. All stories were of betrayal. They would not be stories if someone hadn't told the tale in the first place.

But just because a story was about betrayal did not mean it could be about more than just that; the man had implored her to remember. Remember something that she had not experienced herself? How could one remember something like that? The word "remember" itself meant to recall a previous experience. There was no "remembering" something that had never happened.

From the darkness, the fire lashed out and snarled his arm, a snake of fire coiling around the limb, searing the flesh; the scent of burning meat filled his nostrils. Steel glittered in the moonlight and cleaved the flame in half, cutting the silence as he charged onwards, speaking muffled words to nurse the pain and heal the flesh, even as it crackled and smoked.

He was a blizzard in the blizzard, a whirlwind of cold blood and colder steel, kicking up flurries of snow as his swords lashed out into the darkness, cutting away oily black strips as he fought deeper into this nightmare - as he fought to save a life that he never believed would need saving. Razor lashes flayed the flesh from his other arm, coloring the white snow a dark red; mortal steam rose into the air, reaching for the eternal moon; but he fought in the silence between blows, and uttered no sound.

What he saw stopped the blowing of the wind, the glittering of the stars, the turning of the world, the passing of time. What he saw stole the breath from his lungs, the scream from his throat. What he saw broke his heart and laid him low, disarmed him and killed him where he stood. What he saw...

"Look at what they make us give."

That had never happened, but he remembered it nonetheless.

Bowen was pleased to just listen in silence. He was a man of action after all - he acted, so now he was just happy to listen and let them banter while sipping his chocolate and offering the others from time to time.

When the tales were finished he nodded his approval and offered a smile to Sophia, but he said nothing. What he thought, he kept it for himself, and stayed there, with Calliara to his side and Caterina cuddled under his arm and under his cloak, that he placed over her to keep her warm.

A moment of silence. The fire, burning low, mumbled softly under its logs. The ever-watchful owl ghosted from her perch into the darkness drifting into the campsite. And Sophia flowed to her feet, carrying the box with her.
"Here." She slid the box gently onto Caterina's lap, folding open the lid to reveal those mother-of-pearl keys.
"Yes. This is one of the original boxes, made just after the tree was felled."
The ribbon-wrapped arms descended around Caterina's shoulders from behind, white hands guiding tanned ones.
"See? For every key you touch..."
A warm, liquid 'ting' shimmered from the depth of the instrument.
"... you can create a new note. Watch carefully, now. Bowen, Calliana, you'd best watch too."
It was as if Sophia were playing the instrument herself, replacing rainbow keys with tan ones. Caterina's fingers picked out a sequence of notes, bittersweet, nostalgic: a waltz, beautiful on its own but somehow lacking. A melody without a harmony. Once, twice, three times...
The Smiling Princess quietly stood and moved back to her place, leaving her touch behind to guide her new player. No, players... three listeners, two adherents. Griffinhart's cracks were widening, strange signs flickering through the gaps. Memories? Or stories of his own? With one more story of her own...
"Dawn is almost here. And as the sun rises, I wish to leave you with one final tale. A song that my sister used to sing, long ago."
No embellishment, no harmonies. No music but for the one-sided waltz. Sophia's voice, so soft that the guttering fire almost swallowed it, somehow still managed to echo. As if it were coming from a far-away vault. One, perhaps, that she would have rather forgotten.

"There is ice around this heart of mine, although you cannot see
This ice around this heart of mine was born from you and me.
Though once there beside me, I know that you'll hide from me,
Smile for me, my darling one, don't cry.

I promise not to harm you, though love, it always hurts.
I promise not to lie to you, though truths may go unheard.
Don't run so far without me. Do you hate, or doubt me?
Please smile for me, my darling one, don't cry.

Now see what I have made for you, our castles in the sky,
Where we can sit and watch the world from Maker's-perch on high,
Let me hear you singing, together voices ringing,
Smile for me, my darling one, don't cry.

I wish I could forget you, but this ice won't let me sleep,
So I shall wander restlessly, your footprints by my feet.
One day will you save me? Let me return the heart you gave me...?"

A soft, bitter laugh.

"I'll always smile, my darling one... through tears, lies, lives, for you... I'll cry."

Caterina stared at the keys with fascination, concentration screwing up her still-tear-stained cheeks as she tried to keep track of the keys Sophia was leader her fingers to. Soon enough, she was able to recognize the patter, and though she kept the tempo slow, she was determined not to miss a note. After a time, it became almost hypnotizing - she lost herself in staring at the iridescent, alabaster keys. Soon enough, she began to hum along to the tune she was plucking out, low and soft like she was singing her own lullaby.

How comforting could this be - the warmth of the fire, the sad, beautiful melancholy of the song, a company she treasured more than she ever dreamed she might . . . it was as if the Maker had delivered her to some afterlife she had never believed in. She would have looked up to Bowen, wanted to smile at him and show him how happy she was, but she was afraid to look away from the keys, lest her fingers fumble. Instead, she let a slow smile cross her face, and when tears ran down from her eyes again, she wasn't sure if it was because she was so happy, or because the song was so sad, so haunting.

Sophia laughed, quiet and sad, and she missed a key as she looked up at the songstress, the motion sending one tear falling faster down her cheek, and the sour twang somehow fitting with the humorless sigh. Her fingers found their path again, and the song finished just as perfectly as it had started.

Griffinhart sat, still as stone, visage unchanged, through the song, as if he had not heard a single note.

It was not her voice. Not her song. Not her words. Not her melody. Not her face. Not her place.

Whose?

But there she was. A different voice, singing a different song, with different words, to a different melody; hers was a different face, but the place was too familiar. Here he sat, half on-edge, watching the darkness, as she sang. Déjà vu overwhelmed him and he struggled, Maker, do you struggle, to keep on watch as her song split something in him, stabbed at something in him, something that he could not remember.

Should not remember.

And then silence settled over them, Sophia's voice replaced with the crackle and pop of a slowly dying fire.

The fire flickered in the winter snow, against the winter cold, in the winter storm, and there was no tinder at hand to give her flame a new life.

Whose?

Betrayed. Betrayer. The hatred coursed through his veins in the flash of an instant, burning as cold as the howling winter wind, and knew only of his crimes. Knew only of the lies he had told. Knew only of his punishment. The knife, six inches long, glittering against the moon and the stars, white as an icicle, sharp as a dragon's tooth, merciless as only the mindless could be - flashed out, and flashed in, and cut out his heart.

There are some things you can't get back.

Griffinhart looked from the darkness back to the fire, back to their bard. What should he say? What could he say? The gears in his mind were crafted for combat, not for conversation. He knew at least twelve different ways to kill Sophia from where he sat, with an average time of six seconds. He could snuff out the flame with a flex of his hands and disappear in the darkness, for he had memorized, already, the layout of the camp. He knew that, in this environment, with his armor, he could run flat-out for a full fifteen minutes before his muscles would begin to even play at burning. But for all he knew, he didn't know what to say. He recalled, in an instant, the words that had been bandied about this night. None of them could even begin to fit what he felt. What did he feel?

Did he feel?

And so Griffinhart kept his silence, as he had always done in the halls of Weisshaupt; as he had done when he had been out killing; as he had done when fellow Wardens that had fought at his side died; as he had done until only just recently, having joined the company of Ferelden's Wardens. And so Griffinhart kept his silence, looking across the fire at Sophia, his unknowable, unknown feelings smothered beneath an expression set in something more enduring, more eternal than stone.