Stepping in the shadows, barely making a noise, Malzahel, crept up on the shemlen village. Four of his kin were behind him, not making a noise as they got into position, concealed by the trees surrounding the village. This group of Dalish scouts had been tracking a force of Orlesian soldiers for the past day and a half. Apparently, their target was a small farming community in the southern Bannorn. Goldfield, it was called. Malz had dealings with the villagers in the past. They were good people for shems. He wished no harm upon them. He didn't care enough about these humans to save them from the wrath of the Orlesians at the cost of his fellow Dalish, however. "Fenrel." Malz addressed the Dalish Elf directly behind him in a whisper. "Ian ar bela san. Enanan abar san el." The Elf was about to protest, but after reconsidering, he huffed and nodded. Once the Orlesians finished pillaging the village, Malz and his kin moved in. He decided that he would assist in the aftermath of the attack. He figured it was the least he could do after just watching while their village was sacked. The people in the village were rushing around trying to put out fires and carry the injured to the town hall.

Malz and his group traveled apart, joining together just outside the town hall. The doors were wide open, so Malz could see that they had changed this large building into a makeshift hospital. The dead were collected on one side of the building, blood-stained white sheets covering them. On the other side were the injured, moaning in agony as they writhed around on their cots. Some were missing limbs, others were burned, stabbed, or had broken bones. Before they could even enter, a young man in chainmail stopped them.

"Hold, Dalish. We've enough trouble here. Why don't you go back from where you came?" Malz looked up at the man and raised his eyebrow.

"What have we done to earn such a rude greeting? We have come to help." The young man sneered and stepped forward threateningly.

"Help?" An aging man stepped out of the town hall and interposed himself between the young man and the Elves.

"Assist Festis, my boy." The man looked down at the elderly man and huffed before turning around and heading back inside the town hall. "I apologize for my son. He just lost his brother."

"Ir abelas" Malz paused, then repeated the phrase in the King's Tongue. "I am sorry for your loss." The old man looked down.

"Maker rest his soul." He looked up at the Elves again. "I am Hemming, Mayor of this village. You say you wish to help? There are many ways you may do so. There are fires raging all over the village. Also, we have many dead and injured that need to be moved to our town hall. If any of you are experienced in treating wounds, you would be of great help."

Helping control the fires, carrying the wounded to the town hall, or assisting the wounded inside. There are many ways one could be useful in this situation.

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The air was bitter cold this morning. Masarizan had been traveling to Goldfield from Denerim for the past two weeks. He was joined by a small compliment of six Templars led by Knight-Commander Tarn. Their mission; oversee the establishment of a Chantry in the small town. After their mission was done, more Templars would arrive to pick Masarizan up and take him back to Lake Calenhad; back to the Circle. Most of the Templars were kind to him, if a little distrustful. That was to be expected, however. They were Templars and he a mage. The two groups almost had to distrust one another. They had come across bandits and rebels on their way to Goldfield. Even though Masarizan was sent with the Templars to assist in a time like this, they refused to let him fight. Perhaps they thought that once the enemy was destroyed, Masarizan would turn his spells on them. One mage wouldn't be too much trouble for six Templars, but still, they didn't want to take any chances.

"Mage."

Knight-Commander Tarn addressed Masarizan. He was a middle-aged man. He opted to shave his head when he started going bald, but he still had a salt and pepper beard that he kept neatly trimmed. He was dressed in the armor of his station. Full plate, a purple robed bottom depicting a sun and stars. He didn't wear a helmet like the other Templars did. Perhaps Masarizan would consider himself lucky. Templar helms were very intimidating. It hid their features. At the Circle, it was hard to think of Templars as people. They all looked alike when in uniform. But maybe that was the point.


"Tell me, mage..." Tarn looked out at the endless horizon. "Where are you from? Got any family?" A Templar making small talk? How unusual...

---

Masarizan wasn't used to being outside the confines of the Circle. He wasn't used to leaving the comforts he'd grown so accustomed to. The libraries that had been his home. Many a night falling asleep with his face against a book until he was woken and sent off. Usually to lectures or studies. Or whatever else his day consisted off that wasn't reading. Which to Masarizan was of little importance. The truth was Masarizan had volunteered for this mission. Not because he likes adventures, or really wanted to leave or even wanted an adventure. No, it was because Masarizan wanted to learn, to grow. He needed this to expand his horizons.

When they had been besieged along the road he'd been glad at first to be kept out of the fighting, but after the encounters became, well common enough that he wasn't scared to death of them, he would have wanted to fight. Not being allowed to do so didn't warm him to the Templars. It didn't help bridge the gap of mistrust. Masarizan appreciated their kindness, but he didn't trust them. He didn't know them how could he trust them.

Currently he was thinking about eating. The flowing of his robes around him as he walked the layers of cloth swishing with each movement the only sound outside of footsteps and wildlife he could hear. It had been quiet for a little while and his mind had wandered. A distant look coming into his forest green-blue eyes. He was therefore startled to hear the voice of the commander.

He looked over at the man who was now walking by his side, "I hale from the Dales, but it was discovered that I held the gifts of magic and thus I was abandoned to the Circle long ago thus I do not know my family, or my home." Masarizan responded taken aback by the Templar's attempt at small talk. "And where do you hale of? Have you family to speak of?" Masarizan inquired politely.

---

"Hm." Was all the Templar had to say in response to the answer to his question. Once asked about his own family, a small smile appeared on the grizzled old Templar's face. "Aye. I have a wife and son in Redcliffe. My son is in training to be a Templar. He's a young lad. 18 years. Full of **** and vinegar. I worry for them at times, though. The rebellion and all. Especially since Arl Rendorn of Redcliffe has thrown his lot in with the rebels and this... "Rebel Queen." Bah, politics. Best left to the bickering nobles of the Landsmeet. I'm content in my service to Ferelden and to the Maker." He looked over at Masarizan again. "Say, you mentioned you were from the Dales? What brings you to Ferelden? Were you transferred here or somethin'?"

---

Masarizan waited silently watching the Templar listening to his words. Masarizan took note of the change of expression. This was something the Templar did not mind talking about. There was a light of interest to Masarizan, he wasn't very comfortable around individuals of any kind, this was almost an adventure of its own. Getting to know someone. Sure he had friends, allies, but rarely did he go out of his way to speak with anyone. A soft laugh escapes him, "Politics the topic most taboo for conversation one wishes to remain on light friendly terms." His words were light, more in jest than serious, for a debate was exactly what Masarizan would enjoy. Anything rather than speaking about himself.

He was silent for a while remembering the day his young life had changed, "there is not much to tell," he began in a voice laced with anguish and sorrow, "I was young, perhaps too young to fully grasp the implication. It was late in the night, a man came to the house, had words with my mother. The very next day I was picked off with the trading caravan with explicit orders never to defy the will of my new masters and to make her proud," he let those words hang silently for a moment in the air before he went on. "I was as most young boys, energetic and eager. There was plenty of defiance, but it didn't last. I was happy here. It suited me this life. I am also content with my lot." He offered the Templar a comradery smile.

---

"Ah, an interesting story." Tarn reached into the waist of the robed part of his armor and pulled out a small bag of dried meat. He reached inside, taking a single strip and placing it in his mouth. He put the rest in his pocket. Once he finished chewing and swallowed, he spoke. "I suppose since you've shared your story with me, I think it only right I share mine with you--"

"Knight-Commander!" A young Templar scout ran up to Tarn. He was dressed in light leather stamped on the breastplate with the symbol of the Templar Order; a sword surrounded by flame. Tarn's light-hearted attitude melted away. He was all business once more.

"Report." He put his hand on the pommel of his sword. Based on the look on the scout's face, they were going to have to fight.

"Knight-Commander, a sizable force of Orlesian Chevaliers... they... they've plundered Goldfield, sir. Fires everywhere. Many dead and injured. Even if the villagefolk survive that, they've no food to see them through winter."

"Maker's breath..." Tarn seemed surprised that the Orlesians have resorted to outright banditry. "Templars!" Tarn turned around to address the men with him. The Templar scout fell in line among the others. "Our mission has changed. I am not even sure the Chantry still stands in Goldfield. Regardless, our new mission is to assist the people of the village. Move out! Double time!" The Templars began to march at an incredibly accelerated speed. Should Masarizan begin to fall behind at any point, Tarn would roughly grab him by his robes and jerk him forward with a "keep pace, mage." Soon, the smoking ruins of Goldfield came in sight.

As soon as the entered the village, Tarn began barking orders again. "Templars, help where you can. Put out fires, tend to the injured, do whatever is needed." He turned to Masarizan. "Mage, you'll be coming with me. We're reporting to the mayor. We'll see what we can do to help."

---

Masarizan felt an almost comradery beginning between the two, something natural, but that sense was lost instantly a moment later when a scout arrived and that uneasiness between mage and Templar returned. Masarizan was slightly saddened to see this easy report vanish so suddenly, but bigger concerns soon took over even those feelings. He was left with a sense of profound sadness at the news he heard. This wouldn't be a mission to set up a Chantry anymore, now it was one of survival.

Masarizan nodded to the Templar commander as he barked out his orders, having no other course but to fall in line and attempt his best to keep up. Masarizan was not as well trained in running while encumbered or even running for that matter that he did often fall behind. He was both grateful and annoyed at being dragged back into the group by Tarn. He cursed in eleven under his breath when he had breath enough to do so throughout the run and was only grateful when they finally stopped and he could gather his breath once more. He wasn't given much time to do so however.

Masarizan stared openly in shock and horror as he gazed around at the village in ruins. The fires. The smoke. The noise. The smells. It was all new and horrific and it sent a chill straight to the core of his being. Masarizan was almost dazed by the sight, sounds and smells all around him as he fell in with Tarn heading towards to center of the commotion. The place they would most likely find the Mayor. It was then Masarizan truly realized just how sheltered his life had really been. "Is there even much that can be done to help these folks?" He asked barely above a whisper.

_________________

"Open your eyes, mage. Some villagers still live." Tarn said gruffly as they went up the wooden steps to the town hall. He was surprised to see a group of Elves in conversation with an older man. This was Hemming, if Tarn remembered correctly. Tarn spoke with the man on several occasions. He was a good leader. Kind, wise, just. These Elves, however, Tarn didn't know. Judging by their facial tattoos, they were Dalish. That much was clear. Once the Elves left to assist the villagers, Tarn approached Hemming. "Hemming." Tarn stepped forward.

"Knight-Commander? My, but you are early." Hemming gave Tarn a broken smile.

"One of my scouts reported your situation. We got here as soon as we can. I already have my Templars helping your people." He gestured to Masarizan. "My charge and I are here to see if there is anything in particular you need." The old man let out a small chuckle.

"Where do I begin?" His smile faded and he sighed. "The man leading the Chevaliers that plundered the village... he carried a writ allowing him to "requisition supplies" for the king. It was signed by our Bann, Ceorlic. This is a personal request, my friend. One of my sons died today and I want to know why."

"I understand." Tarn turned to leave when Hemming spoke again.

"You may have seen the Dalish Elves up here. Try to get at least one of them to go with you. Should things turn sour, having a Dalish archer at your back would be indispensable." Hemming walked over to Tarn and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "My answers are not worth your life, my friend. Come back safely."

"Aye. I'll see that I do. Come, mage." Tarn briskly walked through the village. It was small and primarily human, so he had no trouble finding the group of Elves. He came across the man who called himself their leader, Malzahel. He had many reservations about going to a major city full of hostile "shems". Malzahel only agreed to come after he was told that in exchange, the Knight-Commander would hand over a few secrets about the location of Chantry-protected ruins that were thought to be Elven. To a Dalish Elf, this seemed too good an opportunity to pass up. Tarn ordered his Templars to continue dealing with the aftermath of the attack before continuing on with their original mission. After that, he was quick about getting the group on the road. Commerce wasn't really a concern in Goldfield at the moment, so they had to pick up provisions at a town a day's trip away. From there, they went north through the Bannorn and up towards Denerim. A day and a half after they set out on their journey, they saw it: Samson Keep, named for Bann Ceorlic's ancestor. It wasn't far now. The remainder of the journey would be the work of hours.

----------------

It was nightfall now, so Tarn decided to look for a spot to set up camp. He found a spot that was fairly defensible-- as defensible as one could get in the Bannorn. At least if they were attacked, they'd be on higher ground.

((At this point, i'd like Fain to give me a Perception (Hearing) test. Tarn and Malz will be making one as well.))


Tarn:


Malz:

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