The world around them could change relentlessly, shifting seasons and the balance of power. Even the rules by which these forces were measured. But in the rickety boat stubbornly tracing the shores of the great lake, there was not a single chance to glimpse even the faintest echo of these changes. Once the group of unusual travelers left the chain of lakes stretching west to east—the drainage basin of the River Dane from Lake Calenhad—they began moving north with only minor deviations. Chasing the summer fleeing in the same direction, the travelers found themselves suspended in mid-August, despite autumn's pursuit.
Yet before and after this moment, the lives of these disparate companions had seen no shortage of events.
With the established monotony of their painfully slow journey came a leveling of dynamics among the boat's passengers. Surprisingly, Leliana took center stage. Even amid Morrigan's bouts of heavy paranoia, the witch detected no signs of calculated intent or deliberate effort from the girl. Nevertheless, the sorceress devoted time to pondering. In the end, every oddity found a logical explanation.
In a party of three humans and an elf, only two could hunt efficiently without wasting time. Yet the archer alone managed to fill their meals with enough food in a couple of hours—half the daylight saved. On lucky days, she'd even shoot an unlucky bird from the boat, effortlessly showcasing skills that hadn't rusted after years in the monastery. Later, Leliana admitted modestly: though rarely, she still practiced archery weekly, away from prying eyes. Morrigan conceded superiority easily, preferring a full belly to starved pride. Besides, this arrangement left the boat ten to twelve hours each day to press stubbornly toward the horizon.
But there was more. Only Leliana could fish. Perhaps she wasn't as adept as with a bow, but the others had never held a fishing line. Alim, the islander who'd spent most of his life in captivity, had seen shores more through windows than under his own feet. Bethany, a riverside farm girl, viewed water only as a bottomless drinking source or an alternative to winding hill roads. The cool lake teemed with fish, and even on foul days, the redheaded artisan's rod left everyone moderately fed. Some days, each tried their hand at this meditative pastime, demanding patience, focus, and reflexes. The younger mage's results were passable. The lone man, however, dismissed the skill as impractical—though Morrigan suspected he feared the close contact with his instructor it initially required.
The list of the redhead's strengths didn't end there. Leliana was also an inexhaustible wellspring of tales: local gossip, distant lands, fantastical events, Ferelden and Orlesian fashion, and tidbits of noble intrigue. Three-quarters weren't spine-tingling, but as they say, any port in a storm. More importantly, her storytelling talent was undeniable. A velvet voice and rich intonation turned even trivial facts into something hypnotic and profound. She answered questions with ease, radiating openness—though her singing was rarer. When she did sing, her repertoire spanned rowdy tavern ditties that would make seasoned ruffians blush to ballads woven with meaning and emotion, painting tapestries of tragic fates. Most carried a tinge of old sorrow or outright gloom, each episode etching itself into memory—not least because her voice evoked Lake Calenhad's waters: clear, deep, and boundless.
Morrigan maintained an air of detachment, feigning disinterest. Alim, in contrast, hung on every verse with rapt attention. Bethany, when not drowning in dark thoughts, became the most active critic and conversationalist, free of hidden motives.
Beyond daily routines and boat-bound gatherings, other relationships simmered. The elf gravitated silently toward Leliana's company, even without conversation or the mages present. Sometimes it seemed natural; often, it didn't. To the untrained eye, nothing of note surfaced. But to Morrigan, the undercurrents were plain. It seemed impossible the sharp-eyed huntress hadn't noticed the mage's inner turmoil—yet she remained neutral, as if lying in wait. The only time she showed genuine care was on the journey's second day, when the elf, inexperienced and overzealous, predictably bloodied his hands with blisters. Leliana skillfully applied herbs Morrigan had gathered and bandaged his wounds with near-tenderness. Afterward, only rare, thoughtful glances at his back betrayed any reaction.
To the perceptive witch, Alim resembled a clever beast frozen before trapped meat—locked in a life-or-death struggle with base instincts. And the harder he fought to suppress them, the more inexorably the pressure grew.
Morrigan and Bethany developed their own hierarchy and routine day by day. Predictably, the elder took the lead. Though she preferred a contemplative role, circumstances forced her to initiate constantly. Every problem in teaching her first witch posed a challenge demanding solutions. Following Flemeth's footsteps—within reason—Morrigan treated them like puzzles. The toughest nut to crack was Bethany's "curse" of apathy, creeping like tar over her naturally vibrant mind. At times, the girl drowned in memories of her mother or thoughts of her brother. In those moments, she needed a friend's shoulder, a patient listener, and an anchor against guilt's weight. Each role repelled Morrigan, yet distracted her from her own anxieties. So she shuffled masks like trump cards, playing them honestly (if dryly), pulling her pupil back from the brink. Occasionally, this drew glances—Alim's weary confusion or Leliana's quiet contemplation.
The lessons progressed… adequately. Bethany wasn't one to pluck stars bare-handed, but while coherent, she clawed her way forward. Each hard-won victory earned a respectful nod from the elf, who'd faced similar trials in the Circle. Morrigan's sole reward? A trickier task.
Yet the elder mage broke ground first. By the second day, she'd grasped the theory behind Flaming Hands—though casting it would've taken ten minutes of concentration and charred her hands to bone. As she traced runes, Alim voiced his bafflement at such a "useless" spell. A sharp glare from those yellow eyes silenced him, then slid to Leliana before returning with a silent sneer. To him, magic was a tool; to her, it was life. Useless now, but its principles might unlock greater things. Privately, Morrigan relished the small triumph.
Time, however, was a luxury.
By the third day, Alim had optimized poling intensity—one knot was the boat's limit. Convincing the women of this pace took longer. When logic failed, he resorted to math, sketching calculations in sand: higher speeds initially seemed efficient, but fatigue compounded, reducing daily progress. Even rotating shifts barely helped. Leliana grasped it instantly, explaining to Bethany. Morrigan, though, just stared—until her rare silence broke:
— Like counting rules. Mother made me learn this with pebbles until I could do it in my sleep. These scribbles say: if our estimate to Kinloch Hold is even close, the journey takes a month. And that's if weather, sickness, or hunger don't intervene. By then, autumn will grip the land. No warm clothes, on open water… Sounds delightful.
The elf froze, stick hovering.
— Let me clarify—you, raised in the wilds, understood this immediately?
Alim's eyes narrowed.
— Either you're prodigiously talented or Ferelden's finest actress. Given our acquaintance, I'll assume the latter. Have you truly never seen numerals?
— No. This notation is unfamiliar. As is any other. Mother just tallied— She dragged a finger through sand— One, two, three... Your symbols just replace these, but shorter. Isn't it obvious?
The stick dropped. He'd expected anything but this.
— And you just—
— If 'three' is 'three,' does it matter if it's lines or squiggles?— Her eyes glinted— Or did you think only city folk can count pebbles?
Alim exhaled, grimacing—his triumph stolen before he'd tasted it.
* * *
The journey continued under fair skies. True, most days were shrouded in fog or drizzle, but between them came sunlight and downpours. Every other evening, the eastern horizon glittered with stars, while the western sun sank into purple clouds clawed by the Frostback Mountains. Those churning masses birthed snow on white peaks, later swelling Lake Calenhad with glacial streams.
On one such clear day, before venturing onto the great lake, Leliana spoke with Bethany about Carver—his abandoned dream of becoming a guardsman, his distant hope of rising to sergeant or even captain in sturdy Highever. Naturally, the talk turned to Ostagar and the Blight. For obscure reasons, Alim interjected, offering "firsthand" impressions of Ostagar. A simple nod from the redhead spurred him on, though he prudently omitted sharp edges—like a certain witch and royal correspondence—to spare Morrigan's fraying composure.
Leliana rewarded him with a grateful nod.
— A remarkable tale. In another time, with a few colorful embellishments and verse, it might become a ballad. But in the current political climate, even mentioning Ostagar will soon be unwise. Military strategy eludes me, but Loghain Mac Tir's actions intrigue me most. Arguably the pivot of this story.
Morrigan, lounging at the bow and gazing into the endless blue frayed by wispy clouds, snorted without looking.
— The commander decided only one thing: where he'd die and the size of his mass grave. A flank attack wouldn't have changed the outcome.
— We can't know—
— We've the wit to ponder. And conclude.
— Très bien. My conclusion, then. Other motives drove him beyond survival. Else his actions, however shrewd, seem too cold—betraying his daughter's husband, his friend's son, the King himself. And the captains who saw the battle's tide yet obeyed without dissent… Such maneuvering requires groundwork laid in men's minds beforehand.
Alim shook his head faintly but nodded in agreement. Leliana pressed on:
— Whatever Loghain intended, Ferelden now faces lawlessness and division."
The elf frowned.
— Why? The army remains. The Queen. The Blight looms.
— All eclipsed by one fact: For the first time since Ferelden's founding, the Calenhad bloodline is broken. Eight generations, ended. The Blight achieved what Avvars, Hasind, or Orlesian occupation could not. Say what you will of this damp, dog-scented land—but the oldest noble houses of Thedas once vied for Calenhad ties. The question of 'who rules' is what first united pirate lords, warlords, and brigands into a nation. It's what bound banns, teyrns, and arls for centuries. Unless… Perhaps Maric's bastards survive…
She sighed:
— No. Even if none exist, they'll emerge within years. Every lord with a drop of royal blood will recall distant kinship; every opportunist will 'find' a 'lost prince' in their cellar. And true bastards?—A bitter smile— Would Maric have acknowledged them in life? Now their legitimacy will hinge solely on the swords at their backs.
The elder mage chose her words carefully.
— The Queen. Wouldn't her kinship with the general be enough to rally temporary support?
Leliana sighed, shaking her head as she gazed northward.
— I think not. Were there a clear heir… But the latest rumors from the capital suggest none exists. The issue lies in Anora Mac Tir's unique position and character. From what I know, she wasn't merely Loghain's favorite. She inherited his will and wit. Raised in the capital, she became neither spoiled nor naive—but politically astute. That woman won't yield the throne, even to her father. Whispers claim it was she, not charismatic Cailan, who presided over the Landsmeet and filled the royal coffers. Though one shouldn't trust such tales entirely. Young as he was, the King earned the nobility's loyalty, and many among them are no fools. Even Teyrn Gwaren initially followed him as he had Maric. Anora is the last legitimate tie to the old order—and to royal blood..."
Bethany leaned forward, interrupting with lively curiosity.
— How so? She's a Mac Tir.
Morrigan answered instead.
— Matters not who she is. Matters what pup she might carry.
The green-eyed lady smirked darkly, tossing her red mane.
— Aptly put. Whether she carries one or non, I'd wager her womb is empty. But hope—ah, that blinds even the wise. Mark my words: Loghain, knowing his strong-willed daughter, will seize control upon reaching the capital. Declare himself regent. Then—anticipating civil war—he'll announce her pregnancy with a 'trueblood heir.' That buys him half a year of noble hesitation. Beyond that? Depends on his preparations. What alliances he's forged. But already we can say: any opposition rallying to the Queen's side is doomed.
Alim scratched his chin.
— No leader? I heard of Arl Eamon's illness—Ser Donall mentioned it. Doesn't he speak for the southwest? First among equals?
— Aye. The throne's power rested on three pillars: House Guerrin of Redcliffe, led by Arl Eamon; the wealthy Couslands of Highever, with Teyrn Bryce; and the upstart Mac Tirs—now just the Queen and her father.
— Led?— The elf's head snapped up.
Leliana blinked at the group, but only Bethany seemed to grasp the past tense.
— A month ago, perhaps less, Highever was attacked by a well-armed band. So the rumors go. The Teyrn's eldest son had left with most guards, answering the King's call. Before mercenaries could arrive… nul survived. Now the lands fall to Rendon Howe, the late Teyrn's friend from the occupation. So—three legs of the stool shattered at once. Only scattered loyalists will rise for the Queen. Without change, the regent will face non united opposition.
Morrigan's gaze locked onto Leliana's probing green eyes.
— How do you know this?
— The rumors? Or my guesses about Loghain's plans?
— Your sources. Hmm… Keen ears, sharp memory. But the latter interests me.
— Oh, that's simple. Were I in Loghain's—nay, soon-to-be His Lordship's place… I'd do the same.
As the elder witch's lips twisted into a grin, the others sat in stunned silence.
A few days later, on Lake Calenhad's waters, a quiet rain veiled the world, hiding the shoreline and wrapping the boat in intimate stillness. Another languid conversation unfolded—one that had circled before, weighing the merits of travel. Alim methodically, if lifelessly, listed reasons to never repeat this ordeal. Only Morrigan countered, her arguments haphazard at best. Leliana seemed absorbed in her fishing line, while Bethany, having solved the elder mage's latest puzzle (this time involving the elf's "mathematical squiggles"), suddenly asked:
— How did you end up in the Templars' dungeon?
The simple question brightened Alim. Unaware he was mirroring the wind tugging at red curls, he began at Lothering's gates—but Leliana interrupted at The Dane's Refuge. A bright laugh escaped her.
— Truly? La pute—
She started the Orlesian curse flawlessly, then froze. Tucking a stray lock under her hood, she smiled nervously and pressed on.
— Morrigan swears like a native, yet never left the Korcari Wilds till recently. From Alim's tale, even that we owe to the legendary Flemeth? One lives and learns...
Morrigan, already irked by Alim's pedantic storytelling, snarled:
— Not remotely. My phrases are my own. And none of your concern.
Leliana sighed under the elf's scrutiny.
— What troubles me is... coincidence. Or seeming so. But the attacker fixated on an Orlesian insult.
Bethany, elbow on knee, leaned in.
— What's it mean?
Red brows lifted. Silence fell, broken only by rain and the pole's soft splashes. Adjusting her bait, Leliana relented:
— If Alim's mangled pronunciation didn't mislead me... It called his mother a whore.
Bethany's jaw dropped—then she nodded, impressed. Morrigan, studying Leliana's profile, barely noticed.
— Yet the reaction betrays strangeness,— Leliana mused, tracing the boat's edge—Forest brigands—coarse, uneducated, yes? But one erupts at an Orlesian slight like a chevalier defending a lady's honor.— Her gaze snapped to Alim— You said they looked local?
He frowned.
— In dress, yes. Though... the one who attacked Morrigan might've had an accent. Still,— he shrugged— Nothing odd there.
— Truly?— Leliana countered— Orlesian isn't Rivaini. After the occupation, it spread, yes—especially west, near Lothering, where Meghren's army camped. But that's true for elders. That band? Drifters, young. Ser Evu's reports claimed they were trappers, prospectors, borderland farmers. Hard to imagine such rabble knowing a second tongue.
Leliana fell silent, pondering the conclusion her words implied. Alim pressed impatiently:
— Well? Go on.
— Mmm? Yes...— She bit her lip.— Then the picture changes. The band might've been locals... save for a few 'guests.' Ones who knew Orlesian beyond tavern curses. Who reacted to it... like those raised in that culture.
Rain drummed against the hull as she hesitated.
— Orlais has a saying: 'A borrowed cloak won't hide your accent.' These men played brigands, but their true faces— She cut herself off— Still, mere conjecture. Though it explains why they were in the right place at the right time.
Alim grimaced, displeased by her reasoning. Shoving the pole harder than intended—rocking the boat—he muttered:
— Sounds like a cautious guess at a problem I'd rather not suspect exists. Bethany, how did news of our capture reach the Hawke farm so quickly?
Bethany's eyes widened.
— I'd love to claim mystical Hawke talents... but it's simpler. A hunter—a friend of my parents—stopped by that day. He'd been in Lothering that morning, leaving early with his group. Saw the Templars leading you two. Later, he heard of their raid on the bandit camp. His path to the Brecilian Pass took him near our farm, so he detoured to warn us. Brought some game, shared gossip... hoped we'd meet again.— She looked away sharply.
The conversation died there, drowned by rain.
But not all found peace in the white noise. Morrigan had endured two nights of worsening nightmares—vivid visions of ash she longed to taste, mist seeping through cracks in her mind, and a stranger's silhouette behind the veil, no longer hinted at but clear: a woman hunting a path to her corner of the Fade. It left her staring northward, toward Kinloch Hold, weighing futures and fighting poisonous doubts.
When sunlight finally broke through the clouds, Morrigan broke the unspoken question everyone had avoided—how they'd infiltrate the Circle. Bethany and Leliana hadn't asked, unaware of its importance; the mages hadn't shared their goals.
— Alim,— she began, tracing the boat's worn planks,— what thoughts have you spared for breaching the Tower? We've had ample time for heavy labor and little else.
The elf winced.
— What do you want to hear? A plan? I've offered ideas before. But we don't know the state of the Hold, the docks, even Ferelden. Our best chance is contacting the elusive 'free mage' network. At least to send word inside. I know that suits you poorly—
— You assume correctly,— she snorted, splashing him with lake water.— Are you ashamed to voice such drivel? Though I'm... surprised. I'd thought the journey's length troubled you more.
Wiping his face, Alim blinked—then glanced at Bethany (cautiously curious) and Leliana (briefly startled). Frowning, he conceded:
— Why should it trouble me?
— I don't know how you parted from your sister,— Morrigan began,— but to her, you left for war—albeit less dramatically than some. Time passed. No ravens flew from Ostagar. Leliana's right: Loghain keeps Denerim silent. But the Circle mages who marched with him? They'll return. By highway. Horses, wagons. A head start. They might already be there. And tongues wag—oaths won't seal them. Whispers in corners, rumors... What will that mean for your sister when she learns of Ostagar's fall? You have the facts now. Kinloch Hold is still half a month away. Plans?
Alim froze, his pole halting mid-motion—a rhythm so ingrained it needed no thought. His face darkened, jaw clenched visibly.
— Such thoughts... never occurred to me. Which reflects poorly. But I see no obvious solutions.
— Obvious? No. There are none.
Days prior, watching Alim's calculations, Morrigan had grasped how distance became days, and days became risk. She'd studied Lake Calenhad's currents, trade routes, how far a sailboat might travel in a day—each answer weighed with cold precision.
— From our companions, I've learned: the River Dane's mouth lies a day and a half ahead. The only thread linking the lake to the Waking Sea. A trade route... but autumn's short skirts hide winter's teeth. Ice and boats don't mingle. Shipping must dwindle—yet the Blight and news from the capital may spur risk-takers. I expect sails. Wind moves seven, eight times faster than our elf. Doesn't eat. Doesn't tire...
Alim scratched his nose, then eyed Leliana—testing her bowstring—and asked:
— Your thoughts?
The bard shook her head.
— Non. But Morrigan asked... odd questions. Some unrelated. It felt... inconsistent. Alarming. These conclusions are hers alone. Though...— She trailed off.
Alim's gaze returned to Morrigan's unreadable back.
— Fine. Trade ships under sail. One flaw: unless the ladies are willing to pay in kind, we lack even coin to bribe a deckhand.
Morrigan waved him off.
— No payment. We'll take the ship.
Silence. Bethany looked stunned. Leliana bit her lip. Alim blinked.
— You—what? Four against a crew? Even if they're merchants, not mercenaries—
— Dockhands and drunks,— Morrigan cut in.— Against a witch, an archer, and a mage.
* * *
As the enchantress had predicted, by noon the next day, the shore began to curve sharply to the right, revealing an endless expanse of water. The party had grown accustomed to the presence of distant peaks from the Frostback Mountains to the west, where no shore was visible. But now, it seemed their rickety boat had dared to venture into open waters. The necessity of following the shoreline, veering ever eastward while their destination lay strictly to the north, cast a gloom over everyone—save Morrigan. Casual conversations withered. Mundane tasks were postponed. Anxious glances scanned the dark-blue surface, dotted with lazy waves. As if that weren't enough, Alim soon detected a current—subtle at first, but steadily pulling the boat eastward.
The outflow of the River Dane, unlike the slow, lazy waters of the Dragon's Peak basin, resembled a perfect equilateral triangle. The water-filled valley between the surrounding hills narrowed methodically over the span of a day's travel, eventually funneling into a river channel no less than a hundred paces wide at its narrowest. Here, the current revealed an invisible, inexorable force. Ships sailing from the Waking Sea to Lake Calenhad, lacking favorable winds, preferred to drop anchor rather than fight the indifferent elements with oars. Upon exiting the channel, they hugged the shores, avoiding the central current as much as their draft allowed. Had it not been for the season, the travelers would have likely encountered a vessel in their path.
The main trade route ran south to Redcliffe Fort, the foundation of the Guerrins' wealth and influence. Through this great southern stronghold of Ferelden flowed goods from the independent villages in the Frostbacks' foothills, the Western Hills, and the Hinterlands. Yet at this time of year, ships sailed only north—to the capital of Erling Calenhad, to Kinloch Hold itself, and to the docks at the mouth of the wide valley leading to Garlen Pass. This meant any potential ship would appear only on the far side of the vast watery expanse.
After an hour of this new course, Morrigan turned to Alim. Pointing northeast, as if tracing a sharp diagonal away from the shore, she said:
— We must decide. Two options, both well-considered. The safe-then-dangerous path: follow the shore and face the rapids at the end. Or turn now, surrender to the current, and let it carry us where we need to go.
Alim froze, his grip on the pole turning his knuckles white. His face darkened—clearly weighing the witch's idea, recalling its potential benefits. The chance to reach "home" before winter might outweigh the madness of it. Yet the mage bristled at openly agreeing.
Bethany, meanwhile, gasped:
— But without oars or sails, we'd be at the river's mercy! No way to steer.
— We're in its clutches either way. But if we turn now, we'll reach the midpoint sooner. And thus, the sightlines of oncoming ships.
The huntress suddenly laughed, tossing her red hair:
— A helpless damsel, then. Four maidens crying for rescue.
The young mage opened her mouth to correct her, but the elf cut in:
— Aside from the difficulty of mistaking my gender…
Morrigan interrupted, dripping scorn:
— With your hood up, your posture, and our company, you'll pass for a maiden better than the real thing. Men and women see only what they expect—or desire. And all gladly delude themselves, so long as there's no penalty.
— Well. Ahem. Still, the plan is to… play victims on the river? That's… an unexpected reliance on goodwill from you.
— I'm learning to exploit human frailty. Leliana's chatter proves surprisingly useful. Unlike yours.
For the first time since their journey began, the mentioned girl flushed faintly and muttered in her own defense:
— I told you… The questions were odd…
— I don't know whether to be frightened. Or rather—confused, for multiple reasons. Fine. But what's your move when luck favors us? Say we're spotted, and a ship comes to aid. Board it? Like pirates? The four of us, even if three wield magic? Never mind the consequences…
— Leave such complications to me. I'll need only Leliana's bow—and I trust the "sister's" hand won't shake. Consequences? I mocked your morals in Ostagar. They amuse me still. Guard your conscience, but spare me yours. If there are no objections, we change course.
With a resigned sigh, avoiding the eyes of his companions, the man slowly turned the boat's nose from the shore and pushed hard, gathering as much momentum as the riverbed allowed before it dropped away, leaving the pole useless. Once adrift, Alim stowed the pole beneath the forward bench, slumped down, and muttered:
— Done. We've surrendered to the whims of water spirits and chance.
Bethany twisted nervously, her gaze lingering on the receding shoreline. Distracting herself, she asked:
— Is that an elven belief? About spirits?
Alim shook his head, smiling faintly:
— I know little more of elven beliefs than any Circle mage with library access. Namely, that they don't categorize shadow creatures as "good" or "evil." Perhaps in ancient times, that held true. Now, it's a dangerously narrow view. But the phrase wasn't elven. The Dalish never believed spirits govern nature or creation. Mightier than mortals? Yes. Godlike? Certainly. But no ties to the act of creation. The Avvar, however, see it differently. To them, every gust of wind, every stone, is a divine message—the very essence of gods. And the shadow beings they call spirits are just part of the world, like birds or rocks.
— Fascinating. I've heard of the Avvar, but near Lothering, they're just legends. The Hasind tales unsettled me far more.
Morrigan, lazily scanning the horizon, joined in:
— The Hasind trust only in their own strength, bowing to no higher power. What use are mysterious gods? Will they feed you? Stop a blade at your heart? Survival on the harsh southern plains breeds pragmatism. Even Flemeth, who lived among them for ages, never changed their ways. Nor tried. She earned respect as the strongest—and fools still challenged her yearly. A mother's apprentices are vital to the tribes' survival. Hence, revered. There are shamans, too, but pale shadows of witches when men try teaching magic. Shadow creatures are dangerous tools—like tamed wolves that may still tear your throat out. No wonder soft northerners fear the south. So long as the tribes fight amongst themselves, they're no threat. But united? One southern warrior could slaughter ten northern weaklings.
Alim nodded.
— Firsthand knowledge is priceless.
Time crawled as the sun inched across the sky, slower still the more one willed it forward. The farther the shore drifted, the more their boat seemed to hover motionless on the gentle waves. In truth, the current carried them faster than Alim's pole ever could. Yet no ship lay ahead. The brooding elf distracted himself by calculating the odds of meeting a vessel before reaching the River Dane's channel—a grim exercise yielding no optimism. Bethany fidgeted, squinting at the horizon until Morrigan diverted her by reciting the runes for 'Winter's Grasp'.
Then, without warning, the elder witch turned, grinning, and announced:
— Time to play the victims.
Following her gaze, they saw it: a ship growing rapidly larger, riding the wind and current. Alim barely managed:
— How—
Before clicking his tongue in realization:
— Of course, a southwestern wind. Waiting for an eastern ship was pointless. You planned this?
— Naturally. Leliana's chatter proved instructive. There was a tale of a ball where heroes drew attention one way to act elsewhere. I wondered: fact or fiction? The storyteller never confirmed, but her evasion spoke volumes. Mother used similar tricks, I suspect. But enough talk.
Leliana nodded, tucking her bow and arrows beneath the bench. Bethany rose, making herself visible. Alim sighed, straightened, and avoided looking at the ship. Morrigan, ever the disruptor, shed her cloak and unlaced her shirt without hesitation. At their stunned silence, she stripped to the waist, stretching languidly—her nipples hardening in the cool air—then kicked off her boots.
— Wait. Why—
Before Alim's flustered mind could form a coherent question, her pants and smallclothes joined the pile. Mage-trained propriety made him turn away, flushing. Leliana, to his surprise (and a prickling jealousy), appraised the naked witch with undisguised interest. Bethany wavered, torn between averting her eyes and failing spectacularly, her cheeks pink.
Morrigan winked at Alim.
— Be ready when they near.
With a fluid motion, she slipped into the water, barely a splash. The elf shivered at the imagined cold, muttering:
— She's oddly fastidious about her clothes. Just occurred to me: Korkari must lack decent tailors.
Leliana tapped her lips, nodding.
— Indeed. Such a body deserves silks, satins, and lace.
The others blinked. Meanwhile, the witch had vanished like a water spirit. The ship, now alarmingly close, raised sails to slow. Shouts rang out as ropes were thrown. Bethany caught one, tying clumsy "landlubber's knots" that would make any sailor wince. A ladder thudded into the boat, its ascent daunting—a dozen wary crewmen waited above, and they'd have to climb single file. With a deep breath, Bethany seized the ladder, deciding the order for them.
From below, Alim murmured:
— Two spells. Three, if we're lucky. But if Morrigan's plan fails…
But as Bethany's head cleared the railing, she found their "rescuers" indifferent. The deck was eerily silent. Seven sailors, the captain, and his first mate stood frozen, as if an icy wind from the Frostbacks had swept through. Every head was turned toward the opposite side of the ship. The bosun—a burly man with a wind-chapped face and a scar running across it—flinched, his hand hovering over his belt knife.
— A creature from the depths...—he whispered.
Legends of water spirits taking the form of maidens to drown sailors were common on Lake Calenhad. Yet within moments, his fear twisted into something baser. A stifled chuckle rose behind him; an elbow jabbed his ribs. The ancient dread of spirits dissolved into crude, familiar hunger.
Two younger sailors exchanged glances. One absently rubbed a crude wooden amulet carved with a wave—the symbol of the Sea—but his grin widened as he eyed the dripping figure. The other gulped audibly. They were no seasoned mariners, just dockside riffraff, and their fear of the unknown quickly gave way to pack courage and lust.
Behind the men, standing tall and unashamed, was Morrigan—naked, her skin puckered from the lake's cold, yet showing no sign of suffering. Paler than usual, her dark hair loosened in the water now clung to her shoulders and face in inky streaks. Her golden eyes burned like those of a spirit lurking in the depths. Yet with each breath, her chest rose enticingly, betraying her mortal nature. She flicked a wet lock from her nose and smirked.
— Ah, what a touching sight...
Six invisible threads of magic already tethered her to the sailors—one each. A dangerous game, teetering on the edge of her limits. A step further, and she might collapse. Her voice, smooth as oil on steel, cut through the silence:
— A herd of goats, ready to rut over a scrap of meat. Which of you is the true alpha? And when will the pack realize who leads?
The taunt struck like a slap. Bethany, unnoticed, peered over the railing and frantically gestured for the others to hurry. The sailors, torn between fight and dominance, chose the latter. Their postures slackened; grins multiplied. Only the captain's presence held them back. Sensing the shift, he barked:
— Who are you? And what in the Void are you doing on my ship half-dressed?
Morrigan laughed—a full, mocking peal. The sheer absurdity of it unnerved the crew. Some sailors fidgeted, glancing at their captain. Alim, now on deck, gaped at the scene, exchanging a bewildered look with Bethany. But shock soon gave way to rage.
Then, in a heartbeat, chaos erupted.
The captain snarled:
— Seize the mad bitch!
A sailor at the back paled, doubling over for no apparent reason.
Six men lunged at Morrigan like starving hounds, shedding fear and restraint.
Before the first could lay hands on her, another staggered, his face sickly. The fastest grabbed her wrist—she slipped free like an eel. The second twisted her arm, forcing her toward her knees. With a crack, she wrenched it loose, reset the joint with a *snap*, and stifled a gasp. Boots pounded the deck as she retreated, heels skidding on wet planks. A broad-shouldered brute yanked her hair—strands tore free in his grip.
— Hold her!
Calloused hands dug into her thighs, leaving crimson marks. Morrigan jerked her head back—her skull met teeth with a *crunch*. The attacker reeled, spitting blood and a broken fang. Another squeezed her breast, flesh whitening under his grip. A third locked his hands around her throat. Darkness flickered at the edges of her vision—then her knee drove into his groin, precise as Flemeth had taught. He crumpled, wheezing.
— Enjoying yourselves?
She licked her split lip, feeling the skin knit. The pounding in her temples worsened with each wound. Pain—distant but persistent—seeped through. The wind bit her wet skin; the captain's grip on his sword hilt made her tally her dwindling strength.
Leliana emerged onto the deck, bow ready and arrows clenched between her teeth, her gaze locked on the witch's macabre dance amidst the frenzied mob. The sailors failed to notice how the wounds on the woman they'd cornered against the railing vanished like mirages—or how four of their own now lay sprawled behind them, faces ashen and mouths twisted. Then came the first real blow: a fist to Morrigan's stomach that forced the air from her lungs with a choked gasp. Strong fingers seized her throat, yanking her upright, while another lashed her wrists together with rope. The remaining men groped greedily, their breath hot and whistling as they pawed at the soft flesh between her thighs.
But after the fifth sailor crashed against the railing and slumped to the deck, the "mob" was no more. The last two standing—one who'd split her lip moments ago, the other still leering between her legs—froze like statues. Cold dread flooded their minds, sweeping away all other thought. Morrigan's husky laugh rang out as she straightened, her skin unmarred, just as the first mate collapsed with a groan. The captain stared, glassy-eyed, struggling to reconcile the carnage with the naked, dripping girl at its center. His hand trembled near his sword hilt—but before he could draw, the screech of a drawn bowstring froze him mid-motion.
Leliana stood at the far rail, her arrow aimed squarely at his ribs.
Shrugging off the half-tied ropes, Morrigan shoved aside one sailor and turned to the other—the one who'd been so *investigative* moments ago. His mind, battered by the surreal turn of events, had short-circuited. She stepped close, her hands sliding over his wiry shoulders, and murmured:
— Who's in charge now?
Her knee flashed up. A choked cry later, only two crewmen remained conscious.
— 'Typical',— Morrigan sighed, surveying the aftermath.— Give a man an inch, and he'll take a mile—literally.
She glanced at Leliana, adding:
— You were right. These ships 'are' crewed by strong males. But they're weak-willed in so many ways—a pack of dogs, really. Governed only by strength. And now, 'we're' the strength.
The bard's bowstring quivered—whether from strain or adrenaline was unclear. The image of Morrigan's pale form encircled by snarling men, her wounds sealing unnaturally, had left its mark. Yet her face remained impeccably composed.
— I don't know where you got that idea,— Leliana replied, her voice barely steady.
Her fingers loosened as the threat passed. More collected now, she continued:
— I only meant crews like this are often landless men—no trade, no family. Not desperate or clever enough for outright outlawry. They know ships and navigation, but at heart, they're just… Maker's breath, I'm arguing with you? What of the captain? My arm won't hold forever, and I'd hate to waste the bow.
Morrigan shrugged, indifferent to the distinction. Turning to the captain—who'd been tracking their exchange with wary eyes—she clapped her hands sharply. Half the conscious men flinched.
— So. Why you? Why here? Why now? And what next?— she recited.— You're unlucky, not guilty—save for being predictable, dull-witted, and paranoid. I'll forgive the paranoia. We need passage. Your sails will serve us in exchange for your lives. You,— she nodded at the captain,— will clean up this mess. Your crew will recover by noon. Meanwhile, don't waste daylight. Set course for Kinloch Hold. Questions?
The captain's lips twisted, but he bit back his retort. Here was why he commanded: pragmatism. A glance at his gray-faced first mate, facedown on the deck, and he spat to the side. With a jerky motion, he unbuckled his sword belt and tossed it at Leliana's feet.
— As you say… Mistress.
No submission colored his tone—only fear, and the promise of vengeance if the scales tipped back.
As Leliana lowered her bow with trembling hands, Morrigan turned to Bethany:
— Care to fetch my clothes? One performance a day is quite enough.
Nearby, Alim picked up the captain's sword. The blade glinted as he caught Leliana's eye—his expression mirroring hers: 'This was too easy'.
— One question,— he murmured— What do we do when they wake?
Morrigan smirked. Her lips quivered, though not from fear… Only a slight pallor betrayed her strain.
As two men dragged their unconscious comrades into the shade and another wrestled with the wheel, Bethany slipped below to gather their belongings. The day was young—but the landscape would soon blur past. If they avoided knives in the dark and rat poison in the stew, Kinloch Hold was now days away, not weeks.