In all his years, Ingvar had never found a forrest he hadn’t loved. He had spent his whole childhood in the shadow of the Frostbacks, scrambling down mountain pathways to sprint into the tree-line after his brothers. They had made a game of it, chasing each other through the woods, from the shadowed forrest floor to the towering canopy. The woods were lush and ancient, trees rising to dizzying height and old ruins humming in the depths of the wood. When he had left with the Wardens, darkspawn blood fresh on his lips, he had resolved never to let the cities poison his love of the woods.
And then he had come to the Korcari Wilds, and found a place that even he could not love.
The swamp was less like a living thing, but a hollow corpse—there were trees, but they did not sing. There were animals, but they smelled of taint and terror, consumed by the Blight. The air was heavy and sour, and where there should have been wind there was only stillness. An ever-present mist curled around their ankles, cutting through armor and clothing to chill his very bones. He could taste the metallic whisper of a curse lingering in these wilds, and Ingvar would have love nothing more than to do as the wilds asked and leave.
Soon, he tried to assure the spirits of the wilds, We will not tarry much longer.
The wilds did not answer.
His recruits were a ragtag bunch—the rogue offered biting wit and he was a decent shot with a bow. He seemed promising. Ser Jory was obviously well-versed with blade and shield, but there was something in his watery eyes that Ingvar wondered about. The man spoke too fondly, too frequently of home, of his yearning for his pretty wife. The third was a quiet elf, blessed with magic, and that alone made Ingvar trust her. Spirits touched the best of people, and those who healed were blessed among his people.
And when she revealed that she knew the local Witch of the Wilds, Ingvar could not say he was entirely surprised. The girl had subtly guided their movements, and as a tracker himself, he couldn’t help but notice how she moved just a touch too confidently, without making so much as a sound. The other recruits seemed wary—Daveth in particular seemed to know the local legend, and the way he paled told Ingvar that the stories were not good.
Of course, Ingvar knew that people feared that which was most natural and wondrous for the most foolish of reasons.
The elf—Mela—apologized to him, looking like a child expecting a lecture. He merely nodded, accepting her explanation without complaint.
“We all have secrets,” he had said simply, the timbre of his voice rolling like the thunder he had been named for.
They traveled in near silence for the better part of an hour. The exhaustion of the day was clearly creeping into their bones. Ingvar let the elf girl guide them, pale eyes tracing the wilds, searching for signs of birds or deer. He found nothing but deep gouges in trees and the taste of decay. The taint hummed in his veins as they moved, as it had done from the very moment he had arrived in Ostagar. He had gone months without sensing the taint before—now he could not escape it.
A small hut began to emerge from the mist. For a moment, he was back in Stone-Bearhold, returned from a hunting expedition to a home-cooked meal and a chance to kick up his feet. The illusion faded at the renewed whispers curling around their party. The elf turned on the other recruits sharply. As Ser Jory opened his mouth to make another comment, Ingvar cut him off.
“Enough,” the word punched through the air, and Ingvar looked to his wards. “If you are to be a Warden,” he looked firmly at the guilty looking men, “Then you are to be cordial.” His gaze shifted to Mela and he arched a heavy brow, “And patient.”
It was the most he had spoken in hours. Among the Wardens, he had forged a reputation as, rather fittingly, a grumpy bear. Taller than most Wardens by at least a head, with a bushy beard and a lifetime of hard living etched into his features, Ingvar was well aware of the fear he often inspired in younger Wardens. Add in his purportedly heretical beliefs, and it was no surprise that many avoided him. And that was what made him the perfect recruiter, really—if a recruit couldn’t overcome that fear, they’d be worth precisely nothing in their ranks.
“Lead the way,” he nodded to Mela, hands resting on the buckle of his leather belt. “We would be honoured to make her acquaintance.”
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