"Off somewhere doing whatever it does," Wynne gestured with her sword, the blade sizzling in blue energy. "But that isn't why you called me to you. You have a question."
Called? Was that what Lana did? She knew the spirits popped up at the more inopportune times, but... Jowan was there whenever her heart dug through her past faults, Nathaniel when she roused herself to keep going because it was expected of her, and Wynne when she found a question that needed an answer. Then what inside of her called the other one, the dangerously powerful spirit?
Squaring her shoulders, Lana looked over at Wynne, "Why did I survive?"
"I believe it has to do with the balance of your humors," Wynne answered without answering.
"You know that is not what I... What took down the rest of the spiders? What killed them when I became incapacitated?"
The spirit's shrewd eyes glanced over at the woman nearing the end. She felt it dangling in her heart, something beyond her ken pressed harder and harder against her body, wringing it out until nothing remained. Lana couldn't explain it, but she knew she had little time left.
Wynne smiled, "Is that really the question you are most curious about?"
"Yes, damn it! It's the reason, the answer to...to what? What is going on?"
Without a care for her armor's backside, Wynne plopped down onto the spider. It should have cracked in half, the guts spewing down the crack from her weight, but the spirit hung in the air. "Did you by any chance dream?"
"Not this again!" Lana threw her arms up, rage fueling her body with energy as she paced back and forth. "Yes, the green barrier was there, the cold - bitter as frost in a crypt - and...the hand, that grey hand reaching for me." Her legs paused and she screwed her eyes up, struggling to bring back the dream.
It was almost impossible to make out through the wobble of the air around it. The hand curled, but not towards her, the fingers elongated strangely and pressed together as if stretching towards the sky...
"Oh Maker," Lana's stricken face glanced up to Wynne, "It's not a hand. That's a wing, a wing on the statue of a griffin. I'm dreaming about a Warden fortress."
* * *
9:44 Anderfels
"And you're certain this is it?" Alistair asked, rolling up and down on his heels.
The templar dug out the phylactery that never left his pocket and pressed his palm against it. "Dead certain. If Lana's alive, she's located inside of that..."
Leering, honest to the Maker leering, off a the bitter edge of a cliff to a stained death below rested a fortress. Not the worst thing they could find, and honestly, he almost suspected to come across something like it. Alistair came prepared to make any and all offers of gold, fancy silks, an adorable mabari pup, or all the turnips they could have in exchange for Lanny. Let the crazed Duke, or Bann, or whatever of the fortress come to make demands. If the owner wasn't in a bargaining mood there was always deal by sword. Except, there was one teeny tiny problem -- there was no door. Someone built the fortress' front walls around themselves completely forgetting to add a door and sealing whoever lived there inside it. Now, there was paranoia and preferring solitude, then there was taking the time to build solid walls around yourself with no escape should the stables catch on fire, or you starve from a dwindling food supply inside. Even the nearest water source was a good half a day hike down the twisting paths of the steppes.
A lone vulture circled above the pointed towers, its death caw rumbling a naked flag pole. The roofs themselves bore spikes, as if the inhabitants feared invaders would swoop in out of the sky to try and sneak in. No windows broke through the wall circumscribing a smaller hold buried deeper inside, no banners dangled off the stones to declare who owned it. Dead vines, the color of a bleached skeleton, climbed up the walls. No flowers or leaves graced any of the foliage, only thorns bothered to grow. If stone could reek of death, this would turn a Mortalitasi's stomach.
"What do we do now?" Alistair sighed, digging the heels of his hand into his eyes.
"Do you know what this place is known as?"
"Of course," Alistair bit back, "it's called 'You're Screwed' Castle; part of the 'Fuck Off' estates. Very exclusive." The templar let him chatter his head off; he needed it, needed to think - to try and conjure up an idea while glaring at the vulture. Swooping through the clouds without a care in the world, the vulture landed upon a statue. Able to only see the top crest, Alistair rose up on his toes and danced towards the side until it came into view.
"At least we know one thing about it," Alistair laughed, his finger pointing at the tell tale griffin statue. After recognizing it, he spotted the same reliefs scattered around the area, worn by time and weather, but legible when one knew what to look for, "This used to belong to the grey wardens."
"What?" Cullen placed her phylactery back in his pocket and moved to unsheathe his sword.
"Whoa, easy there. Just you, me, a vulture, and miles of dead plants."
"Corypheus was discovered in a warden prison much like this," Cullen continued, a burn lighting up his taciturn face.
Shutting up his eyes, Alistair listened for the familiar drumbeat of the voices of darkspawn calling in the back of his head, but nothing echoed out. Except...something, a faint whisper that strung against him. He could barely make it out, but he knew it better than he knew himself. "No darkspawn, no voices in my head."
"That's debatable," Cullen sulked, but he removed his hand off his sword.
"But..." Lanny? It could be other wardens, or maybe some darkspawn deep underground he was picking up on. So close now, Alistair's heart pinged in a painful hope.
"But what?" Cullen picked up on his lost thread. The man bore his own black eye with a scowl that made it appear ten times worse. It was no wonder most caravans chased them away when they saw that face coming at them. For being the decorated commander of the Inquisition, he screamed 'terrifying bandit likely to pluck out your kidneys' when angry.
Rubbing his face, Alistair weighed whether it was worth telling him about his darkspawn sense. It'd probably lead to another argument about how he was only imagining what he wanted to, he could be lying, and anyway who says he could feel Lanny anyway? Rather than face that headache, Alistair yanked out their crude map and drew a finger across the nearest town. "But I bet you anything, someone near here knows how to get inside this fortress. People don't grow up near this thing without bored kids daring each other to break in. Nowhere's impenetrable."
The commander nodded his head, "That is...makes some amount of sense. We should head there immediately, the phylactery is fading again." He didn't grimace, his face already pinned into an eternal frown, but Alistair knew he had to feel it. When the phylactery rose back to life it was like a burst of euphoria, hope, whatever you wanted to call it. But when it faded away, every despairing thought washed over him. The templar bore it all without a complaint, which drilled into Alistair's back teeth. He whistled for his dog to put down her latest stick and began the march towards the only living blip on the map.
Drawing nearer to the town, Alistair gestured towards what looked like an inn. He couldn't read the sign, but whenever anyone makes a straw dummy and slaps it over a door it's either an inn, tavern, or the local executioner's house. They'd either find lodging, a drink, or their own pick of head pikes in the morning. Cracking open said door, the braying of drunken laughter and smells of alcoholic urine slapped both in the face. "I think I guessed right," Alistair quipped to himself, getting a sigh from the sullen templar.
Taverns were taverns, you needed only three things to make one work: tables made out of founded wood probably crafted from some hanged men's half used pyre, a bar for the crusty old tender to sop behind, and at least three villainous scums to fill up the back. Extra points if one of them wore an eyepatch. This one bore the tables rotten enough for one to risk a splinter the breadth of a dagger, the bartender - a dwarven woman who cracked a glass on the bar rather than clean it - and eyes glittering in the shadows trying to size up the newest men. It was li
ke finding home on the other side of the world.
"Ten sovereigns says someone's gonna walk through that door and invite everyone on an adventure," Alistair whispered to Cullen.
"Is that not why we are here?" he said, causing Alistair to pale.Maker, he was right. Well, may as well play the part.
While Cullen kept Honor tight to his side, Alistair moseyed up to the bar and placed his hands upon it. He dare not risk sitting on the stool for fear of suffering hook worm in tender areas. "What's on tap, my dear woman?" he asked in his jolly tone.
"Whatever comes out of the big bucket," she said, throwing her hand back to smack against the giant keg. Alistair swore he heard gurgles crying out in pain from its depths.
"Ah, that's all right. I was hoping for a bit of information."
"Quests are for paying customers only," the barkeep interrupted, then she smashed her fist against a sign proclaiming the same, rattling the chains dangling it off the ceiling.
"It's not a quest, it's about that fortress to the north of here. The grey warden one." Every voice in the tavern dropped as dozens of eyes swung from their drinks to drill into the newcomers. "I was only wondering if anyone here had knowledge about it..." Alistair continued, trying to not gulp in fear. That was as good as waving his red underwear in front of a bullshark.
The barkeep eyed him up, but a strange pity brimmed in her good eye. "A nice boy like you doesn't want to have a thing to do with Ishonmoq Hold. No one should. It's haunted."
"Haunted?" Cullen leapt into their conversation, the templar's sneer in place. "Do you mean demons roam through it?"
Her eye traveled up to the other man, the not-so-nice-one, and she clammed up. Great, Alistair rolled his eyes. He almost had her opening up, then ray of sunshine there had to rush in and break it up.
"Haunted is haunted. We don't mess in warden business around here."
"Funny you should say that," Alistair began, "because I just happen to be a..." A fist jabbed him in the side, cutting off his words and he turned to the man who'd tenderized the area before. "What are you doing?"
"It seems unwise to go announcing that fact around here," Cullen whispered. "These people don't seem grateful about the wardens." Alistair followed his head jerk to an old griffin shield nailed to the wall, red stains splattered across it and the wall where some of the well inebriated missed with their rotten tomatoes.
"What am I supposed to say then? Tell me how to get into the fortress because I'm a king and this is the commander of the Inquisition?"
"How should I know? It was your plan," Cullen sighed, wanting to maintain his anonymity as much as Alistair.
The barkeep interrupted their whispering session, "I don't know what little lover's quarrel you two are having but unless you're buying, we ain't got room for you."
Swallowing down the assumption that Alistair would ever lower himself to someone of the templar's standards, he smiled at the woman and held up his fingers. "Two of the best in stock."
"That'd be the tap," she said, jerking her head towards it again, then she began to draw from it.
With their shared samples, king and templar flounced off to a table along the wall and glared into their mugs. An oily slick floated along the top of Alistair's beer. He'd had no intentions of drinking it before, but now he was curious. Did they drop lard into their alcohol in the Anderfells? Butter, perhaps?
Unimpressed, Cullen shoved his offering away and smashed his face down onto the table. "I am at a loss," he moaned. "If we had the Inquisition's connections I could tear down that wall in a day."
"That's assuming they even have any trebuchets left." Alistair dipped a finger into his mug. His nail didn't sizzle and fall off, promising.
The commander's head snapped up and he glowered, his eyes all but vanishing in the folds of his anger, "Which would be your doing."
"We're back to this? I liked it better when you hated me for Lanny. Look, you may not want to hear it, but your little army was scaring a lot of easily spooked people. The kind of people who glance down and start to think, oh shit, are they going to start a war? Add in the fact it had connections to Orlais, who a lot of people are not happy with, and the chantry -- ditto -- and thedas was growing a bit tetchy."
"I heard nothing of the sort. We were on good standing with many neighboring countries. Even Tevinter..."
"Smiled at you while circling around the back with a knife. Come on, you're not that stupid," Alistair said, extending his hand towards the broken man. He paused, blinking his eyes with the terrifying realization that he actually knew something about politics. Shit, when did that happen? "And you did almost start a war with the Qun."
"Who never held a treaty with anyone," the templar continued to stick up for his less-heretical group.
"Yet, aside from Tevinter, they left the rest of us alone. Oh, and Kirkwall." Alistair paused in his thoughts, then placed his mug back down before taking a sip. "Andraste's knickers, maybe it's you."
"What?"
"You were in Kirkwall, boom Qunari attack, and then the Inquisition. Maybe their Arishock hates you. Like really, really hates you. Shit, maybe he's trying to protect Lanny. That'd be hilarious."
Cullen smashed his head back against the table, groans erupting from below, "I despise conversing with you."
"An entire invasion because her big, hornless qunari friend doesn't think you're good enough for her," Alistair mused to himself, tickled at the idea. He knew it wasn't possible, Sten wasn't that kind of a softie, though they did hit it off again in Seheron. If it weren't for Lanny's smooth diplomatic skills, the qunari might have finished them all off as something to do between meals.
While Alistair steeled himself to risk a sip of his drink, Cullen complained, "Your blathering gets us no closer to a way into the fortress."
"Begging your pardon, but did I hear you say you're trying to breach Ishonmoq Hold?"
Alistair choked on his beer before any got into his mouth at the hulking qunari standing politely beside their table. She, and it was obviously a she with her extensive lady parts barely covered in strips of fabric crisscrossing her chest, tapped a claw against the wood. Her white hair was buzzed back save a strip knotted around her horns and extending deep down her back. He'd guess she was older, perhaps in her forties, but it was hard to tell with qunari. They didn't seem to get wrinkles, just scars in the place of wrinkles, and she had them by the boat load.
Rising his head off the table, Cullen groaned, "Oh, wonderful. Just what we need, a qunari."
The woman smiled, displaying the sharp teeth of her people. "I'm not qunari. I'm tal-vashoth, a..."
"Mercenary," Alistair interrupted.
"A freed mind," she finished with instead. "My name is Aqun and if you intend to break into Ishonmoq without employing siege weapons you will require my help."
"Why would you know anything about the fortress?"
She smiled again, her grey cheeks rising in a flush, "It has not been opened since the second age. I intend to be the one to crack into it."
"You intend to pillage it for your own gain," the templar harrumphed as if he intended to sabotage their only lead.
"No, I do not care about any valuables. My interests lie in the history, the knowledge that transpired inside the hold. Thousands of years undisturbed, it is remarkable to think upon what past rests within," an electric sheen rolled across her eyes as she spoke those words, which caused a tremble up Alistair's spine. Lanny got that way sometimes, when she was leaping around in excitement over something or another that always led to lots of spiders.
"Are you saying you're a qunari scholar," Alistair sputtered, trying to stifle back a giggle.
"Tal-vashoth," she groaned at him, "and yes. I have studied Ishonmoq for years, probed it for a weakness through the multiple defenses, and I believe I have finally discovered one."
Alistair's curiosity rose, but Cullen leapt in to dampen it, "Then why do you need us? Why have you not taken this yourself?"
"Because," her
head drifted between the two men now sitting on the edge of their seats, "it requires a templar to break in."
"How do you...?" Alistair began, but Aqun spoke over him.
"I will give you time to think it over, but there is no other option. Either follow me and together we open Ishonmoq, or remain here for years struggling to find a way in." Having given her ultimatum, Aqun snatched up Alistair's mug, downed it in one go, and slipped out of the door.
"There goes trouble with a capital Q," he mused to himself while watching her also barely covered backside. That had to be a distraction during battle, or maybe they thought the bad guys would only shoot at the barely armored bits. "Well, I'm guessing we take her offer."
Cullen whipped his head, then gestured to the door, "We do not know this woman. A qunari?"
"Tal-vashoth. Maker, I thought you'd know the difference."
"Who could in actuality be a qunari spy," Cullen argued back.
"I thought all their spies were elves and humans to throw people off the scent. The horns are a bit of a dead giveaway," Alistair rubbed his head as if he sported his own set.
The templar growled, "Which seems more likely, a tal-vashoth scholar reclining in a backwater tavern happens to have the only way into the fortress we need to breach, who also seems to be aware one or both of us were templars, or she's a qunari spy being fed all that information from the ben-hassrath?"
Alistair banged his fist on the table, needing to feel something, "It doesn't matter. Evil qunari spy, funny tal-vashoth scholar, either way that's it. That's our way in. Unless you want to wait a couple months out here sending letters you hope people answer, then more months for their sappers to arrive, we have no other option."
Folding his arms across his chest, Cullen sat back in the chair. He tipped his chin down deep as he digested through Alistair's thoughts. Didn't matter how he added the maths, there was one answer and one answer only. "Very well, but know that I do not like this."
Swiping the templar's drink, Alistair took a deep swig. It was butter after all. Wiping off his mouth, he sighed, "For the little it's worth, I don't like it either. Now, let's go find our qunari spy and get this over with."
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