The group of Wardens who had agreed to conscript Tythius was a particularly efficient bunch who took no detours and hardly any rest stops. They had secured passage across the Waking Sea by virtue of a merchant's appreciation for the Gray Wardens and his hasty offer of assistance to their cause despite the Gray Warden treaties not officially taking effect until a Blight was truly upon Thedas. Tythius had ended up on the receiving end of the merchant's doting praise, the man particularly impressed by a spritely lad willing to give up his life for the good of Thedas. Little did he know Tythius's motivation was less for Thedas and more for himself--war heroes were only heroes when they killed the right people or monsters, and while Tythius had no intention of aiming for such overrated glory, he did understand that picking off nobodies and useless nobles in Ferelden for the rest of his life was a pathetic way to live in the days before a potential Blight. In the end, he just wanted to be remembered by someone, anyone, and what better way to start than to be a Gray Warden?

While the merchant had had no business in Cumberland, he had gone the extra mile for his Warden guests and had berthed at Val Chevin first, despite that city being the last stop on his trading route through Orlais. They had parted there after exchanging coin for several of the merchant's hardier supplies--dried and salted meat, sturdy metal canteens of water, and various blankets and bedrolls for the trip north to Cumberland. From Val Chevin, the group had simply followed the coast northeast until they had stopped in the sprawling city outskirts, already bustling with activity from trading ships docking at and setting off from the fortified piers. The gathering of the Gray did nothing to help the congestion of human traffic in the famous port city which served as one of few major trading posts between Nevarra and its southern neighbors. Recent Nevarran expansion into the Imperium had only heightened the liveliness of the city and there were signs of massive expansion projects all around its outskirts.

Tythius had whistled in amazement at the level of activity in the city, a stark contrast from the dwindling stupor that remained of Ferelden's glory days. The sound had surprised a few of his Warden escorts, simply because no noise had emitted from his mouth the entire time he had traveled with them. He had grinned in response, flicking his hand up and down in an apologetic manner for startling them.

When the group had finally arrived at the Warden outpost on the edge of the city, his Warden escorts had dispersed to any unoccupied room in the fortress, leaving him with the group's leader, a middle-aged Orlesian man by the name of Aldrich Bertrand who had been the first to realize that Tythius couldn't speak.

"Communication is key in battle, boy," the man had addressed him, watching as Tythius looked around the central hall of the outpost, marking all potential exits in his head in case something went terribly wrong here. "You're not the first mute we've recruited, and you certainly won't be the last, but you need to take extra consideration in combat for your position and risk factors. Since you can neither call for help nor warn an ally of danger, you need to find a way to change that."

At that, Tythius had turned around, a smirk on his face as he had tugged at a thin leather strap hanging around his neck, pulling it out of his shirt to reveal a small silver flute with only three holes. He had played a few simple melodies before simply blowing air straight through the miniature instrument, emitting a very noticeable high-pitched keening. As further explanation, he had kept the flute in his mouth and pantomimed shooting a rifle, stepping swiftly left and right as if he were dodging shots aimed at him. With a dramatic collapse to the ground, he had grabbed his waist in feigned agony, blowing on the flute so hard the Wardens nearby had to cover their ears and had turned to see what the commotion was about.

"All right, that's--" Aldrich had tried to put a stop to the little show, but Tythius had held up a hand, curling the rest of his fingers down until he had only one finger in the air. One more demonstration.

With a throwing motion, he had pretended to discard the flute, following up with a horrified expression as he had stared at something behind Aldrich, hands scrambling for the flute on his chest only to come up with nothing (a situation he had made clear by raising both hands and shaking them). Pointing a sudden finger in the air with a dawning look of realization on his face, he had whipped out a few elemental mines from a small satchel tied to his belt, pretending to violently throw them to the ground in a sweeping motion of his arm while never actually letting go of the explosives. Grinning at Aldrich, he had waggled his fingers rapidly in the older man's direction, moving his hands left and right to indicate the radius of the explosion.

Prancing lightly over to a nearby female Warden who had been watching the little mime act with some amusement on her face, Tythius had grabbed the random Warden's hand, raising it to the woman's ear as if she had heard the explosion. Playing along, the female Warden had run towards Tythius previous location, making a show out of pretending to draw her sword and shotgun and grappling with the invisible enemies while the gathering circle of Wardens around them had laughed quietly. Scrambling to pick up an invisible rifle nearby, Tythius had braced his back against hers, nudging her with his elbow. Laughing, she had dramatically pointed her invisible shotgun in one direction while Tythius had aimed down his rifle's sights in another. Following a particularly loud click of his tongue, both parties had fired their respective weapons before raising their fists in an extravagant victory pose. As the Wardens around them had clapped and jokingly asked for an encore, Tythius had bowed with a flourish of his hand, turning back to Aldrich and raising an eyebrow at the senior Warden.

"You've made your point, boy," Aldrich had sighed, shooing the other Wardens away with a few flicks of his hand. "Follow me. We're here a few days earlier than the day of the Joining ceremony, so you'll have some time to get accustomed to this place before becoming a Warden proper--if you survive the trials, that is."

The man had then left Tythius in a small room with only the bare necessities--a bed and a small end table with some oil lamps stacked in a corner. Sighing in relief that he hadn't been turned away from being a Warden simply because he was mute, Tythius had drifted off to sleep, wondering how difficult the trials of the Joining would be and how many more secrets the Wardens kept only to themselves.



Aldrich had woken him early the day of the Joining ceremony, telling him to wait in the main hall with the other recruits. Yawning, the quiet young man had shaved the stubble off his face and had combed his hair, resolving to look at least somewhat decent for the ceremony.

Hefting his large equipment case onto his back and making sure his belt was fastened securely, he made his way to the main hall, relieved that his large box didn't look at all out of place amidst great axes, large shields, enchanted swords, piercingly bright mage staves, strange hooks and chains, other firearm storage cases, and a plethora of other weapons he had never even seen before, much less know the names of.

In the clamor of nervous and newly arrived recruits, Tythius stood in an alcove of the main hall, tucking himself and his box as best he could next to a large statue of some imposing Gray Warden from another age, casually noting the "Hero of Ferelden" plaque on the statue's base and ignoring the rest of the titles and accolades that someone had listed even further down the plaque. Smiling, he wondered if he could try and get a statue of himself built in one of the other alcoves.

As he entertained the thought of making silly poses for a statue commission, the Warden-Commander Dwyliner Klardash stepped onto the second-floor balcony, catching everyone's attention with his impressively deep voice and authoritative demeanor. The speech was nothing new as far as Tythius was concerned, and all of it just boiled down to "Do your damn job and do it well!" anyway. He sighed as the Warden-Commander walked away, telling them to wait until their Warden handlers grouped them up for the trials--waiting and more waiting had been the name of the game these past few days and Tythius was starting to get antsy. As he scanned the large crowd gathered in the hall, a ridiculously armored elf caught his eyes, namely because her armor was emblazoned with incredibly colorful flowers and dragons. The craftsmanship on the armor was superb, but Tythius had to wonder how in Andraste's fuzzy tits the girl had managed to convince any self-respecting armor smith to craft something so garish.

He decided to just ask by sauntering over to where she stood happily chatting with someone who appeared to be another potential Warden. Waving amiably at the two of them to catch their attention, Tythius pointed at the hideous scar on his throat to indicate the obvious issue and grinned while pulling out a scrap of parchment and a thin graphite rod from a small metal box on his left hip, strapped to his belt alongside several mysterious pouches and steel-reinforced vials of faintly glowing liquid.

In delicate, cursive penmanship completely uncharacteristic for a man of his profession, Tythius wrote something on the scrap and handed it to the elven girl, pretending to be blinded by the sight of her colorful shield and swooning in a girlish manner.

The note read, "How in Andraste's fuzzy tits did you manage to convince someone to craft your equipment?"

Cora had never been so glad to feel dry ground beneath her feet as she was right then, for a moment it felt strange almost too still but the rightness of it soon re asserted itself. She took a moment to enjoy the sensation having spent much longer than she would have liked on a heaving mass of timber floating on a lot of water. She had never particularly liked sea voyages, preferring to keep her feet on the ground, but her previous trips had been relatively pleasant with mostly calm sea's. But this trip had been a lot more turbulent with several big storms and she had spent much of the voyage in her cabin with bad sea sickness. Whilst she had used several of her own brewed potions designed for the purpose, they only eased the symptoms somewhat and did not remove it entirely. By the time they had reached Navarra she was sure she had lost a fair bit of weight and looked somewhat worse for wear.

First order of business then was a hot meal and a bath, fortunately the Grey Warden she had been travelling with had assured her both were available at the outpost here in Cumberland. After paying the ship captain the Warden led the way through the streets of the city, Cora was happy to follow him as she had never been here before and knew she would have been lost within minutes. The streets were clogged with Cumberland natives, visitors and a great many refugees fleeing Tevinter. Seeing them made her heart ache, many looked exhausted and unwell and some looked to be in serious need of a good meal. She wanted to stop and aid them but she made herself walk on, she could not help all of them and if she tried to help even one she knew the others could overwhelm her.

They reached the outpost and Kaden her Grey Warden escort sighed quietly, she glanced at him questioningly and he smiled ruefully at her. He gestured inside and she followed him into the outpost proper.

"I'm afraid your meal and hot bath will have to wait." Kaden said. "The Commander has gathered all the other recruits and intends to address them. You need to be there."

Cora sighed and plucked at her worn woolen dress in regret, the dark blue fabric showed signs of wear from their time spent at sea and she knew she did not look better. She was very much aware of the heavy dark circles under her eyes and of how pale she was, she was tired and still felt weak and wanted only to eat and rest. She knew that a good nights rest and one of her restoratives would have her feeling much better on the morrow. Besides she had not been able to bathe as fully as she would have liked on board ship and as she pushed aside strands of hair she could feel how dirty it was. The dark red strands hung about her shoulders in a straggly mess and she hated to appear in front of anyone in this state but there was nothing for it. She straightened her shoulders and nodded to Kaden. He led her to the main area where everyone was gathered, she was the last one in and so stood at the back. She discreetly leaned slightly against one wall, easing her tired legs, and hoped no one noticed.

She listened to the speech with half an ear, not out of rudeness or boredom but simple tiredness, and struggled to keep her eye lids from drooping shut. In the end she stood up straight hoping the ache in her legs would help keep her awake. Once the speech was finished she stayed where she was near her chosen piece of wall. She noticed several interesting characters, a female elf with breathtakingly bright armor and a shock of ginger hair, and a lean wiry man wearing an ancient looking hat. A well dressed, handsome man soon joined them and Cora assumed they knew each other. No one else in the room caught her eye though there were plenty of different races and professions gathered. Some were quite obviously mages, wearing their distinctive robes and Cora made it a point to keep a distance from them, she did not dislike her fellow mages but she was also not eager for their company either. She shifted her foot once more leaning against the wall and hoped fervently she would have the chance for some food at least before they began their trial.

“I said put him down, Silas.”

His fingers were tacky around the elf’s throat, bloody from where his nails had bit through callouses to try and pry them off. Now the refugee clung to his wrist for dear life, wide white eyes flicking between Silas and the sea below as his legs danced on thin air. The grip tightened, ever so slightly, the watching small waves lap at skinny bare feet. The Warden, however, was not playing games—a dagger flicked to her fingers and he knew full well that she would use it. Not a pretty thing by any stretch, her eyes were by far her best feature. They locked to Silas’ flinty greys and, for a moment, it looked like there might be blood.

The elf came back on board with the thud against wet wood, coughing past the bruising on his windpipe and snorting the clotted blood from his broken nose. The refugees that swarmed the deck reabsorbed him quickly, tugging him behind the line and watching the Grey Warden and the strikebreaker with dagger-sharp glares. For a moment it looked like there still might be blood, the big man’s eyes locked and even with his escorts until finally he spread his hands. Turning back to the vessel he sat placidly on the railing, looking as calm as it was possible for a man that had just ripped an elf off the deck and threatened to send him seaward could look.

If the sigh that passed through the crowd was relieved it didn’t show it—as one creature they watched, and that made them dangerous. Warden Halise knew it, and knew it was their turn to stand down.“Get some rest!” She barked over the crowd, eyes flicking to the boatswain who was already biting his lip and eyeing the potential bloodbath nervously. “Rest!” She repeated again, more sharply this time, dagger still in hand. “There are hundreds more like you crowding the docks of Nevarra. You’ll need to look strong and healthy if you expect to work, not like you’ve been crawling the decks!”

“You heard the lady! Off you get, make yourselves scarce!” The relieved deckhands began breaking up the mob, making their way back to their stations. Only an hour out from port they could already see the weathered sails swarming the docks—getting in would be tricky enough without stumbling over their Tevinter cargo.

“No trouble, you said.” The boatswain hissed to Halise in passing, catching her by the boiled leather bracer on her lean bicep. “On and off, you said. Keep your people in line, Warden, this was a damn favor.”

“A favor we’re paying for.” Ripping her arm free of his grip, she returned her dagger to the sheath at the small of her back unceremoniously. “Just get us to the docks, Felipe. You’ll get yours.” As the man grumbled his way across the deck she rounded on Silas, sighing and kneading her temples. “Si-“

“Don’t start with me.” Raising a thick finger to her pointedly, Silas watched the distant shore from his place on the railing. “Wasn’t me that picked the fight.”

“No, but that doesn’t mean you have to choose to make it worse.”

“If he’s in the drink, he’s not pointing his knife at me.”

“If he’s in the drink, every slave on this boat would have torn you apart.”

“There’s worse ways to go.”

“Really?” She snorted, shaking his head and running her slim fingered hand over her face. “Really. I can’t think of any off the top of my head, but whatever you say. Maker, if you live long enough to be a Warden—“

“Find better things than slaves to tear me apart.” His gaze didn’t leave the shore.

She turned with a roll of her eyes, making her way back to the cabin. Warden Halise didn’t ever wonder if Silas would make it into the Wardens. She just wondered if she’d wind up killing him before they got there.

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

Rousing speech. The grizzled old Commander had obviously grown used to telling it, especially recently, but it was nothing new to Silas. The Praesumptors were hard bastards too—they were there to see Tevinter go to hell and get paid for the trouble. Empathy was a professional hazard, and not one that most would have accused Silas of. Still, as he looked around the crowd, he couldn’t help but sigh slightly. It took all sorts, but half the men here, half the women…

Well. Everyone died someday.

He’d woken up and dressed as ever, scratched stubble from his craggy face with a razor that needed to be sharpened and tugged on the shirt he’d at least managed to have washed. Like Tythius, he noted the assortment of arms and armor loaded around him and appreciated that he at least didn’t look completely bizarre amid the assorted dregs. Tall enough to stand out above most and broad enough to shoulder his way past almost anyway, the black duster he wore almost muffled the mail and plate sewn inside it. He was dressed well enough beneath that, hardy cottons with a black leather vest over his broad chest, dark jeans stretching down over a pair of hobnailed boots.

Flicking his eyes from one person to the next, he resisted the urge to spit. The Wardens took anyone, which meant all manner of idiots. Refugees and slaves, nobles and thieves, there weren’t many of them that Silas would have put stock on in a fight. More than a fight—a war, he reminded himself. The kind that actually mattered. The good old fashioned kind with enemies that would kill and torture and shatter everything in their path, that didn’t deserve anything less than total annihilation. Ancient horrors, spawned by men who thought they were Gods.

Damn. Put like that, it almost sounded like fun.

Not far away a little cluster seemed to be forming, a knot of irregulars—very irregulars, he corrected, watching Captain Pantomime and the Colorful Chavalier go through their little rigmarole—seemed to be forming. Anyone who wore armor like that either knew how to take care of themselves or had absolutely no clue how to take care of themselves, but he had a guess for the former. That the other assorted seemed like they had more tricks up their sleeves than they let on didn’t hurt, and so he hefted his luggage and lumbered his way over. Which was saying something, considering the child-sized leather crate he hauled at his side by a chain with a wrapped leather handle. Between it and his other assorted weapons he looked all but ready for the coming war—which, admittedly, he liked to think was basically the case.

By way of introduction, Silas dropped the crate to the floor with a heavy thunk and took a seat on top of it, ready to wait out the wardens. Who the hell knew how long they were liable to take.