#artin

“It’s a shamble-man,” Morrigan said, nodding to a branch higher above them. “Have you not noticed that we pass through Chasind territory? They are a superstitious lot.”

There’s a collective intake of air as everyone raised their eyes to the trees over them. Hanging high above them were twigs, feathers, and twine all fashioned into the shape of men. Some were made of straw and as large as a human man. Artin, having never seen such a thing before, reached a hand toward them before hesitating and pulling back. 

“What’s a shamble-man?” she asked. The fog was growing thicker by the moment, tendrils of mist wrapping their chilled fingers around their ankles and creeping up their calves.

“Perhaps we should set up camp,” Morrigan suggested. “And then I will tell you.”

“H-Here?” Alistair asked, looking around.

The witch arched an eyebrow at him. “Do you sense any darkspawn? No? Then here is as good as anywhere.”

***

Morrigan chuckled to herself, watching Alistair and Zevran gather as much firewood as they could carry- twice- and build a campfire so large Leliana scolded them and made them dig a second pit for a cooking fire. Lady Artin, however, had gone back to examine the shamble-men hanging in the trees until dinner was finished.

“Will you tell us now, Morrigan?” she asked, filling her bowl with Leliana’s hearty stew made from wild herbs and dried meats.

Morrigan’s smile was full of mischief and mystery. “If you wish, Warden.”

“Please.”

Clearing her throat delicately, she stood and walked around them, staying just outside the circle of light. “The Chasind tell many stories,” she began in a low voice, “about the shamble-men. Some lure children into the forest at night and make them confess their sins before disappearing forever. Some offer lost children rest and food, releasing them near their homes and leaving them with tales of folk whose feet never touch the ground. Some have an insatiable appetite for the flesh of young women,” she whispered, leaning close to Leliana’s ear and snapping her teeth.

Leliana nearly jumped into Alistair’s lap. “Really, Morrigan!” she shrieked amidst a little laughter.

Morrigan retreated into the dimly lit night, her golden eyes locked on Artin, leaning forward with all the excitement of a child. “But all stories are based in some kind of truth, Warden.”

She could see Artin’s delighted shiver and congratulated herself on capturing her audience. “What kind of truth, Morrigan?” Artin asked breathlessly.

“Demons haunt these Wilds,” Morrigan said, beginning her circle again. “Looking for anyone foolish enough to spend a night unprotected. That is why children go missing, why young women are never seen again, and why their feet don’t touch the ground. These effigies exist to protect the people from demons.”

Sten snorted, and Morrigan reached into the light to drag a finger across his shoulders. “Do not discount the shamble-men, my Sten,” she warned. “I was raised in these Wilds, I myself have crafted straw and sticks into the form of a man.”

“What do you think happens to the effigies?” Zevran whispered to Artin, leaning in and wrapping his arm around her. 

“The Chasind believe that demons and ghosts possess the straw men,” Morrigan explained. “On the first day of autumn, they are crafted and hung about the village, as low as the ground and far above their stilted huts. Each evening an effigy is burned in a great bonfire- much like this one,” she drawled. “And in the morning a fresh one takes its place.”

“What about the hours between the burning and the replacement?” Artin asked.