A few moments after she was sat up, Isala's eyes burst open and she bolted into a standing position. Her eyes were wild behind the mask, darting from each of them to the other before finally settling down. The lightning that had been crackling between her fingers dissipated, leaving behind an acrid smell and a taste of metal in the air around her. Raising a hand to run through her hair, she let out a breath. "Forgive the outburst," she said, then leaned up against the wall, arms crossed over her chest. Her eyes landed on the Commander, giving him a dark glare.

"I have questions for you, Arvaraad," she stated, giving him the old title of her masters. "However, I will keep them to myself for now." She turned her head around, craning to see past Maas. "I suppose the elven girl died. Shame, that." A muttered phrase in qunlat was spoken after that, and then her shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. "I suppose we'll be leaving shortly then, is that correct?" All speech seemed to be pointed directly at the Commander, and her eyes never strayed to the men they shared a room with. Was this a blatant show of her ignoring them, or was it an innocent thing? It was up to them to decide how they took it, for Isala truly didn't know.

Really, her thoughts were elsewhere. The images that had flooded through her mind were quite disturbing, even compared to the twisted visions of the Fade. It was quite disheartening. Her eyes closed and her head lowered, trying to catch those fleeting images. Armies of darkspawn trampling the land that became blasted and doomed with every footstep. A mighty dragon, distorted and marred by the Taint of the beasts that it now led, flying high in the sky, roaring. But a voice also had accompanied the roars and fire and destruction. A beautiful voice that could not come from these monsters, should not, but seemed to echo throughout her mind like a song, the words lost but the tug of longing still there.

Her eyes slowly opened, and once more she glared at the Commander. "Well, Arvaraad?" she queried once more, pushing off the wall as if eager to leave.

Marc stood silently, his palm naturally resting on the pommel of his still-sheathed blade. He didn't seem worried by Isala being tensed and ready to pounce, and although he was confident he could take her on, deep down he was still terrified of her and her people; at least the hostile ones. Selim had tried to make him conquer his irrational distaste for the Qunari people by taking him on a trip to Par Vollen when he was fifteen, there he'd picked up bits of the language, so Marc was quite surprised to hear Isala refer to him as Arvaarad, though he was glad he'd earned her trust he highly doubted that Maas was overjoyed to hear the term. Marc gave a half smile and bowed his head lightly.

"Welcome to the wardens, Isala. I'll be happy to answer your questions whenever you're ready." He stepped back a bit and looked at the awkward crew in front of him. Two Qunari outlaws and a dead dwarf. It sounded like the makings of a bad prejudice joke to him, but they were the best he'd found in the entire country. "I'm sure you're all quite ready to make a hasty departure from this place. I've sent word to the Arle of Redcliffe, he'll be expecting us. I know none of you are particularly versed in Fereldan etiquette, or surface life at all in your case, Scout. But I'll be sure to give you all a brief rundown when we arrive. If you're all ready then we can set out now." Marc explained.

She blinked after a few moments, and slowly her shoulders rose and fell. Isala felt awkward now, with three sets of eyes on her. Truly, she would have felt just as awkward if only one person were staring at her like this. Her hands balled into fists momentarily, before her form seemed to relax. A hand rose and ran through her hand as she tried desperately to find something to break the silence, until she simply turned from them and made her way towards the door.

Before she headed out, she turned to look over her should at the three. "Arvaraad, I am going to get my things. When I return, I hope that we will be ready to get on the way. And once we are on the road, we will need to discuss things." She paused for a brief moment, then with a sly smirk and a knowing look towards Maas, she added, "Particularly about that dragon flying with the Darkspawn." Then, without a second look back, she headed out to gather her things. A pack with a few rations, clothes, and a knife was resting against a tree at the edge of Ostagar. Her staff gripped in her hand, she knelt to make sure everything was still there.

Her eyes turned upwards as she caught movement in the corner of her eye. A pack of wolves was eying her and her bag, likely having smelled the meat within. She slowly stood up, and let out a fearsome growl at the group. The largest of them stepped out of the Wilds and neared her, growling just as viciously. Rather than play little games with the beast, Isala rose a hand and let out a blast of lightning. The beast jolted as the electricity went through its body, and then it fell, smoking and slightly charred. The pack dispersed, howling in despair, while Isala chuckled. It was good being powerful.

Maas glared at the Saarebas. Was he supposed to be impressed? Intimidated? It was basic history to know that every Blight was accompanied by what the Wardens called an Archdemon. From the Commander's description, an Archdemon was supposedly a powerful dragon infected by the Darkspawn and given power over all of them. The beast held no terror for the warrior, only promises of honor and glory for his slaying the dark beast. Maas was unsure if anyone saw him clench his fist as the Saarebas walked off. After a moment, he deigned to follow her. A filthy Saarebas should not have any reason to feel superior to anyone, and Maas would make sure this one was no different, lest her misplaced pride invite the demons that so easily came to magic wielders.

He appeared behind her just as the lightning from her fingertips blasted a wolf that had foolishly come too close. Several more scattered as their leader fell. Maas heard Isala chuckle, and that was all he needed.

"This is why your kind should be chained up and collared by a true Arvaraad," Maas said, not attempting to hide his anger at her. "When left to your own devices, you invite only trouble and misfortune to all those around you. And before you answer," he added, interrupting whatever she was about to say, "know that you neither intimidate nor impress me. To kill a wolf is a child's effort. If this is all you are good for, perhaps it would have been better had you joined the dead elf."

At the sound of a voice, Isala spun around on her heels and glared at the man through the mask. Slowly, she rose her free hand up, and pulled off her mask. Her entire face was covered in a mask of scars, some long and some short, criss-crossing and running parallel. She lowered her hand until it rested limply at her side, like the hand holding her staff. A deep breath was inhaled, then exhaled. "I thought Tal-Vashoth left the Qunari to get away from their ideals. But it seems that you have simply taken them with you wherever you go," Isala stated, giving him an even gaze.

"If you want to question what I can do, then let me make something clear to you," she continued, now turning to look off towards the Wilds. "When I was Saarebas, my duties were to rest, train, and kill Tal-Vashoth. I rested little, trained most of the time, and spent what was left killing your kin. If I failed in that duty in any way, if one of your kind escaped or if they killed one of ours, then I was punished. Beaten, whipped, cut. For every scar that you see is every one of your kin that I missed, or every one of mine that died that was deemed my fault by my Arvaraad. I received my last five years ago, and I have been free for only a few months. I am good at killing skilled warriors, and darkspawn are near mindless rabble."

She brought her mask up and covered her upper face once more, and planted the butt of her staff in the ground. "I was trained to enjoy killing, as that was my purpose in life. So, please forgive me if that is what happened." She reached down and lifted her back, slinging it over one shoulder. "Now, unless you would like to make any other foolish assumptions, we should be on our way. Arvaraad and the dwarf are likely waiting for us."

Maas looked at the Saarebas with an odd glance. He said nothing at first, merely considering the being before him. Her words and her scars stirred something within him. It was not pity (he doubted he had any such thing to offer anyone), and it most certainly was not affection, or any feeling like it. Maas reflected on it further, and finally, he realized what he felt: respect. For a Saarebas. He almost wanted to retch. Almost.

It wasn't that he felt anything toward her personally, nor did he feel that his own judgments were in error; a rogue Saarebas was as dangerous as the Darkspawn, and Maas would not hesitate to kill either one. Rather, he felt the faintest stirrings of respect toward her. A scar told a story of a trial overcome, and many scars were the sign of a strong being. His own body, hidden by his armor, bore many scars from his days as a younger mercenary. He had overcome those trials, and now he had physical, tangible proof of his own inner strength. And now, so did the Saarebas. Maas continued to consider her. Perhaps... Perhaps she would not be so easily overtaken by a demon. He decided then: he would become her Arvaraad, but only in his own mind. He would not claim control over her, but rather, he would watch her. If she showed resistance to the demons' callings, if she proved that her strength was true, then he would willingly stand beside her, if only to face the greater enemy. If she fell, then he would kill her. But he would at least allow her the chance to prove herself.

So deciding, Maas took a deep breath, looked her in the eyes, and said, "You should not wear that mask. There is no need to hide who you are." With that, he turned and walked back to camp.

((Flashforward 3 days))

Marc stepped over a trail of scattered pebbles on his way through a wide pass, knowing he'd see the banners of Redcliffe only moments later. He thought now would be a good time to address the party.

"I know none of you are likely familiar with the customs here in Fereldan," he said, trudging through the rough terrain, "so for the sake of keeping the peace, please let me do the talking. We need Redcliffe." He only half-listened to any potential replies from the party as he kept his eyes peeled for the flowing gray tower atop a red hill that would adorn a high flag. As the road finally opened up and the hills on the sides dispersed he found himself entering a wide plateau; all at once the vastness of Redcliffe and Lake Calenhad broke into view. "There." Levine said, pointing to the castle. "Come along, we're behind schedule," Levine ordered and continued forward across a narrow cliff overlooking the city. Before too long the party would have been able to notice a group of soldiers approaching from the castle, Marc raised his hand to signal the party to stop. It took only minutes for the soldiers to reach them.

"State your business." The shortest of the five men ordered. Marc reached around his belt to the back left side and pulled free a piece of parchment, unraveling it and handing it to the man.

"I have urgent business with Arl Cunnington." Marc replied confidently. The guard looked at the paper briefly before noticing the seal. He looked back up and toward Maas and Isala.

"Them too?" he asked reluctantly. Marc nodded. With a brief but deep exhale the guard rolled the paper up and gave it back. "Alright. Come along." Marc looked back to his followers and then to the castle where he began to walk with the escorts. As they walked one of the soldiers looked off across lake Calenhad and pointed toward the dark clouds in the distance.

"Wish the storm would move away and let us enjoy the lake for a while." he said to another who quickly agreed.

"Its not a storm." Marc said quietly, the one who heard him gave him an odd look but didn't inquire any further. The guards lead the party through the castle gates and into the court yard.

"Ready to enter?" he asked.

"Just a moment," Marc said, turning back to the group once more. "Do any of you have any questions or concerns?" he asked, more for Scout than the two Kosith whom he doubted would care either way.

Three days with the... whatever the appropriate terms for these greyskins were. Scout's eavesdropping on their argument at Ostagar had not proved enlightening on the issue of vocabulary, given Maas was presumably 'Tal-Vashoth', and Isala not so. 'Kosith,' Commander Levine had termed the two in more discreet circumstances, but Scout thought it wholly possible for anyone not of their upbringing to be incorrect about it. Or indeed anyone who was of their culture, given how the two interacted.

Mostly the dwarf had served as a picket for the party, as there was little need to practice the tracking skills he'd made an active effort to hone since emerging onto the Surface. They'd had enough food for the trip, and the road to Redcliffe had been very clearly worn by more than centuries of use. His redundancy during the trek had depressed Scout, which he'd ignored as best he could.

When they finally reached their destination, Scout was reminded distinctly of the open sky. The castle, after all, was on a cliff, overlooking a lake too great to see across, which meant no trees. The issue of metaphorical walls and a ceiling was left to the darkness in the northern sky, which Commander Levine had termed 'not a storm'. Scout, wary of the Surface's 'weather,' observed the lake grimly.

"What is it that's prevented us recruiting this Arl before now?" Scout asked, when prompted. "Or anyone in command of soldiers? They know Wardens have been the ones to defeat every previous Archdemon, yes?"

While he didn't care to speak out of turn, Scout was curious, and a bit sulky after the previous few days. He would not pass up the opportunity his Commander had given.

Marc shifted uncomfortable in his position. "I had to focus on finding wardens first, our order is of paramount importance to killing the archdemon, we have a chance without them but without us there is no chance. So I've been sending recruits to the generals out of country." He rested his palm on his pommel. "I can't tell you why, not now at least, but that is the reason I have not looked for armies yet." Levine reached into the right front side of his belt where a small leather pouch rested, from inside he removed a piece of yellow parchment, stained and wrinkled it was obviously older than anybody now living.

"This document was signed after the end of the fifth blight, it simply renewed the promise that the leaders of Ferelden would lend their aid to us in times of blight. What you must realize, however, is that the wardens of the fifth blight had troubles recruiting all of those who were obligated to help, so I needed a party with me to help should problems arise that we must solve before we can move on and eventually earn their allegiance." He rolled it up and placed it back into his pouch. "There's not a lot we can do if they flat out tell us no, but hopefully Arl Cunnington will consider his contractual honor, and if not, you three will have to help me to try and convince him." Marc finished.

Maas looked at the paper in annoyance. He never understood how a person could be bound by such a flimsy thing as words. Certainly, keeping one's word was important, but why such a thing as paper was necessary was beyond him.

"Why not simply kill them or best them in combat?" Maas asked. "Surely no one could deny your claims to leadership if you did."

Marc gave a shallow nod and slight shrug of the shoulders "Here in Ferelden we sometimes settle disputes with single combat. But if that's how our alliance is forged then it will be a flimsy one peppered with hate. He wouldn't break his word to me I know, but in times like these comradery is just as important as power. If thats all then we should enter." Marc turned around to face the guard and gave him a nod, then followed him up the steps of the ancient castle and to the rotting wooden door which the man promptly pushed open.

"Go on in, he's expecting you as ye' said." The guard said, standing aside to allow passage. Marc nodded and entered, followed by the party.

"I know I don't need to say this, but please don't speak out of turn in here." He said as they entered the not-so-great hall of Redcliffe castle. It was fairly small with a hearth on the far end and wooden supports lining the left and right sides of the room. A guard was positioned in every space between the supports and fine paintings lining the old stone walls. The floor was adorned with a red carpet bearing the sigil of Redcliffe upon it. As the party marched quietly across the carpet to stand on the sigil in the center they would notice an older man with a broad belly and weak shoulders standing near the dark hearth embroiled in a heated debate with a younger, more physically impressive man whom happened to be accompanied by two soldiers clad in dark steel splintmail.

"You cannot refuse. The threat is too great." The younger man stated, to which the elder replied,

"Bann Howard you are a vassal, it is not for you to decide. You're here to offer counsel and your counsel has been heard. Leave me, my decision is made."

"Arl Cunnington you will regret this when the blight comes to break down that old piece of dead wood you call a door." Bann Howard said, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb. "Your brain's gone soft in your old age." He said turning around to head toward the door.

"We'll discuss your behavior later, Bann Howard." Arl Cunnington said to him as he shoved Scout aside lightly to pass by. When he did so Marc simply looked at scout and shook his head silently, signaling him to keep his composure. Marc then turned back to Cunnington. "Ah, Commander Levine it is an honor." The Arl said, descending the steps from the hearth to greet Marc with a handshake.

"Cunnington. It's been too long." Marc returned, pulling the Arl in to a tight embrace for a second or two.

"Indeed, it is a shame we must be reunited under such dire circumstances. But I suppose that the Wardens only show themselves during the darkest of times anyway." He said, looking over Marc's shoulder to view the Kosith and the Dwarf, unlike many surfacers of Ferelden he did not appear to show any disdain for either race and instead smiled and bowed his head respectfully to each of the three.

"Arl Cunnington, I'd love to exchange pleasantries with you but I'm afraid we have pressing business to attend to." Marc said, presenting the document to the elderly man. With a bit of unhappiness in his face Cunnington gently grabbed and unfolded the parchment. He turned away from the party, walking back and ascending the steps toward the cold hearth whilst scanning the words with his dark gray eyes.

"I had feared that this would be your reason for attending my court," escaped Cunnington's thick red lips. "I'm sure you heard my little debate with Howard a moment ago, it concerned this issue. He disagrees with me most heavily upon this matter but I'm afraid I cannot fulfill the promise my forefathers made to you." Cunnington said, shredding the parchment down the middle with one swift tear and allowing the pieces to fall to the floor. At the sight, Marc launched forward a step, outrage was apparent in his body language.

"What do you think you're doing?" he yelled, approaching the hearth quickly until he was stopped by the sound of swords sliding free of their scabbards. Marc looked up and the Arl had his hand raised in the air, which allowed the soldiers to sheathe their swords once more. Not once did Marc look back to his party to see what they were doing, but he hoped that his faith in their composure was not misplaced. "We need Redcliffe."

"I'm sorry, Commander Levine but the truth is that my Arling needs Redcliffe even more than you. If I send my soldiers off to war with the Darkspawn, then how will I protect my own lands? If you march north and face the Archdemon, what happens when a Darkspawn garrison decides to sally forth from the east? Or the south, or the west? My lands... My people. They will be destroyed if I send my men off with you, and then even this castle that we make our meeting in tonight, would not be safe." Cunnington explained, adamant in his decision.

"We must all make sacrifices don't you understand? If you don't give me your men then even more lands in Amaranthine or the Hinterlands or Orlais may be destroyed. We must come together, you must see reason." Marc debated to no avail.

"I am sorry, Marc. You are dismissed." The Arl said, raising his hand for silence when Marc tried to speak again, followed by two soldiers coming to place their hands on Marc's biceps to escort him out. Shaking free he looked at both of them before turning back to his party and trudging passed them toward the door.

"Lets go." was all he said before leading them out of the castle, through the courtyard, and to the cliff overlooking Lake Calenhad. The sun had begun to set into it's midday heat when Marc looked out across the water. His display of ill-temperment in the hall may have made him look like a poor leader, but he could not control it, his hopes were riding on Redcliffe. "Scout, Isala, Maas. What do you suggest we do now?" he asked, looking back to the party.