[b]Ostagar - The Queen's Camp [/b]

	A sergeant nudged the corpse with his boot, his eyes looking over the group of soldiers that stood in front of him. “This is a darkspawn, a genlock in particular. They’re small, but ferocious in combat, and make up a significant portion of their scouting parties.” He pointed at the blood that had dried around the beast’s sliced neck, “Their blood is just as deadly as they are, it’s what carries the Darkspawn taint, so stay clear of it if you can. We’ve had too many hunting parties return intact only to fall sick the next day.” 

	From his position against a pillar, Joras Telrik watched with crossed arms while the sergeant explained the dangers of the Darkspawn blood. He decided against interrupting the man and mentioning that the blood wasn’t that bad, hell, he had drank some of it himself, and it was even rather tasty, like a thick lager. 
	
	An archer, bow and respective quiver slung across his back, approached Joras. “Word just came from our scouts, Commander Duncan has returned.” 

	The former noble uncrossed his arms, “Has he? Is anyone traveling with him? Word around the camp was that he was out foraging for new recruits.” 

	“Aye,” the archer jerked his thumb in the general direction of Duncan. “You, uh, might wanna have a look yourself at who he’s bringing back.” 

	“Right,” Joras said. “You’ll want the tip I promised of course.” The man nodded eagerly, expecting a few silvers, hell, perhaps even a whole sovereign, from the finely dressed warden. 

	“Don’t drink Darkspawn blood,” he said, “It’ll make you gag, and your soldier won’t be able to stand at attention for days.” 

Disbelief crossed the archer’s face, and he opened his mouth to protest, but when Joras smiled at him and touched the hilt of knife at his back, the soldier shut his mouth. The Grey Warden slapped him on the shoulder and walked away, beginning to whistle a tune. 

	The camp was bustling with activity. Pretty little elves were running everywhere, carrying messages for their human masters. Mothers were granting blessings to the faithful or those who were attempting to reserve a last minute spot with the Maker. Templars were walking around with their heads shoved firmly up the hindquarters of their magic-wielding charges. Lords were bickering over politics and matters of honor while their soldiers were stationed in the main army camp. It was all very exciting, and one should feel proud to have a spot in it. 

	Joras stepped onto the bridge that connected to the two sections of the fortress of Ostagar, admiring the impressive piece of architecture. It hung high above a valley that was nestled between the cliffs that Ostagar was built upon, providing an excellent vantage point as well as a prime position for archers. Like the rest of the fortress, it was of dwarven make, with a smooth stone surface and a number of finely carved statues that looked over the valley. 

	The walk across the bridge was a long one, and at times felt a bit perilous. The railing that ran down the bridge could be stepped across if one chose, and the breeze that rustled the banners also gave one the feeling that they could be blown off because of a bit of tricky wind. 

	As he made his way across the bridge, Joras could make out a number of figures approaching on the road. He smiled once he recognized the armor of the Warden Commander, with a handful of people walking behind him. 

	“This shall be fun,” he said to himself, ready to say hello to his new ‘friends’.