Flemeth was a slip of a woman, with weathered skin and a cackle in her voice that was meant to sound mad. Ingvar pounded his hand against his chest and bowed at the waist in greeting. There was a wildness to the woman, not of addled thoughts, but of magic and woods. Her golden eyes seemed to see beyond, like she could see past his learned manners to his younger days, to hunting with his people, to his love for the Lady of the Skies. 

“We are honored,” he spoke for his frozen recruits when introduced, and he settled in to watch. Mela seemed to gather herself, to challenge her mother. Her voice wavered until she found her stride. If she survived the Joining, he mused, she’d make a fine Warden. She was a believer; Lady know they needed more believers in their ranks.

Flemeth gave not quite a blessing, but more than permission. When she returned with their treaties, Ingvar bowed his head in gratitude. He accepted the ancient, wooden chest, relieved that it had not come to blows. Somehow he suspected that he would not fare well against Flemeth. Opening the chest, he scanned the first treaty, calling the Dwarves to join and fight. It was authentic. 

“Without them, our chances are worse,” Ingvar spoke diplomatically. “Thank you for protecting them.”

Flemeth left them abruptly, and Ingvar turned to his recruits. Daveth swore beneath his breath, relief plain across his and Ser Jory’s faces. Mela called attention to the late hour and Ingvar nodded, hoisting the chest onto one shoulder.

“We will go,” he decided. There was no point in tarrying; he did not wish to be in the Korcari Wilds at night with a darkspawn army gathering.



The journey back to Ostagar took several hours, and the sun had long since set by the time they reached the gate. He released his recruits for the hour, bringing the treaties to the Warden Commander. Ingvar stopped to bring the wilds flower to the Kennel Master, resting his heavy hand on the sickened beast for a long moment. It was a spot of warmth in what was to be a grim night. The Joining would begin on the hour.


He’d prepared the ritual a dozen times before, and it never ceased to amaze and unsettle him. Warden Commander Duncan stood beside him in silence, his gaze resolute. Ingvar breathed deep and turned his face to the moon. The Lady breathed through the woods, between the Mountain Father’s fingers, and whispers of her breath brushed against Ingvar’s face. Spirits willing, at least one of their recruits would survive.