My Amells and their stories!

my Amell family !! Aila is my Hero of Ferelden, those are her tragic dead/assumed dead siblings.

"He was a good man who hoped too much and died too young. He deserves what little honor we can afford to grant him."

24 Kingsway, 9:30 Dragon,

Arl Eamon is alive and acting. Alistair and I decided to seize the opportunity to travel south and return to Ostagar.

The darkspawn were scarce on the eastward roads between Redcliffe and Lothering, their number increasing steadily as we neared the tiny village of Lothering. The blightlands were too dangerous for our fellow companions, and thus we traveled through the harsh hinterlands and looked upon Lothering from afar. Its farms have fallen, the buildings burned to nothing, the crops destroyed, the land black and sick. It was a horrid sight. There is nothing that can erase the sight of the fallen village from my memory.

We turned south and returned to the road once Lothering was out of sight. The darkspawn were more numerous outside and within the ruins of Ostagar: their iconic disease and architecture began to pollute the area. There was a humming in the back of my skull that did not cease for our entire brief visit.

Our travel was slowed by the ever-present darkspawn, adding two entire days while we crept through darkspawn territory and attempted to remain unnoticed. We killed scouting bands only when we were certain we could do so swiftly.

For all the trouble it cost us to return to Ostagar, we were only able to afford a few hours within the ruins themselves. The snows had already fallen amongst the ruins, and only one corpse could be found. The rest of the army had seemingly vanished, but we knew their fate. It was on the bridge that we found the frozen, partially-decayed corpse of King Cailan, strewn up and skewered like a piece of meat.

It took much time to track down the scattered pieces of his golden armor, but the darkspawn had not yet taken them from the ruins. We killed their bearers and recovered the pieces for ourselves. An emissary harassed us within the ruins, thus we followed it into the Tower of Ishal and through the underground tunnels, where we cornered and killed it. The emissary resurrected the frozen corpse of an ogre, with two blades sticking out of its chest.

Once both were dead, we inspected the corpse and discovered the blades were unmistakably Duncan's. Alistair and I have taken them, though we know not what we will do with them. He carries them in his pack, though he is not proficient enough to put them to any use.

We returned to the bridge and took King Cailan's corpse; we built a pyre and burned him. It was not a proper ceremony for the young king, but there was no hope in carrying his corpse to Denerim. (Although perhaps this would be the sort of convincing we would need for the Landsmeet. Or the Grand Cleric would throw us out for desecrating the royal corpse.)

I did not know him well or for very long, but I grieve for the fallen king. Alistair has been quiet. Our determination to see the Blight ended has been renewed.

Above all else, however, it is Duncan that I think of most. I overheard the brothers in the Redcliffe Chantry denouncing Jowan as a "maleficar" and a "monster," but Duncan did not care about such things. When I was doomed to execution, he stepped in and saved my life. Perhaps he committed terrible deeds and was ruthless in pursuing the Blight, but I shall always think of him fondly.

"You have a responsibility, Alistair."

15 Kingsway, 9:30 Dragon,

The far western roads were clear of bandits and darkspawn. It would seem the darkspawn have progressed to the north of Ostagar, pouring into the Bannorn, but have not yet reached the mountain range. Thus we were able to travel with all due haste.

Bann Teagan found us in the entrance hall. Though he was initially skeptical of the Urn's legitimacy, he confessed that their search for alternative cures has not slowed nor born fruit. He was delighted with the presence of the sacred ashes.

We carried them to the second floor, to the arl's bedchamber. He rested within, as still and pale as he was before our journey into the mountains. The healer used the ashes with his healing spell. There was a moment of silence...

...then an inhale. Arl Eamon breathed deeply and opened his eyes.

The arlessa and Bann Teagan spent several hours with him thereafter, explaining the slaughter that had taken place in his absence. Arl Eamon seemed to recall it as a vague dream. He is somewhat aware of his imprisonment within the Fade.

Yet he wasted no time in preparations. Arl Eamon was quick to grasp Loghain's betrayal. He has decided that he will spread word of the damages he has caused, both within Redcliffe and Ostagar. And the arl is dissatisfied with Queen Anora's reign as queen. He believes she is too loyal to her father, or perhaps she has allied with him, and thus he intends to put forth Alistair as the heir to the throne.

Alistair was furious. He has no intention of becoming the king. Arl Eamon was firm in his response, allowing no room for argument, declaring that he would be forced to support Loghain if Alistair did not accept the claim. Alistair succumbed quickly, but he has been in a foul mood ever since.

For the moment, I have decided to support Arl Eamon's plan. In truth, I need Alistair as a Grey Warden. We are only two in number, against an entire Blight, and I need every Grey Warden available. But the arl has a point: the queen is Loghain's daughter. It is not unthinkable that she would be his staunch supporter, given that, according to Bodahn, she has already declared him her regent.

I would rather confront Queen Anora before declaring any support, but that must wait. The Blight, and the slowly-amassing army, must come first.

"Dare I ask of your own mother?"

12 Kingsway, 9:30 Dragon,

We parted with Brother Genitivi at the last village. He will hire a caravan to Denerim and continue his work there. Redcliffe is perhaps two days down the road. We will then learn if the ashes' legends have any merit to them.

I have taken the time to speak with my companions. Alistair has returned to his thoughts of Goldanna. I thought I was too harsh with him, but he has accepted my words. Perhaps it is best. His is a tale of consistently being taken advantage of by others: Arl Eamon, Arlessa Isolde, the Grand Cleric, all of whom shoved him into the shadows and attempted to deny him a different life. (I dare not say "better," as I have yet to partake in the wild sex and massive feasts the rumors speak of.)

Leliana appears to have come to terms with Marjolaine's death. Or, rather, she has come to terms with her previous life. The Guardian accused her of lying, and she eventually admitted the peace she felt within the chantry might have been boredom. The thought frightens her. I am not so bothered. All of the apprentices, myself included, hated the weekly sermons in the tower. We would sleep through them if the enchanters wouldn't pinch us awake--not that the enchanters paid any more attention.

Within the village store in Haven, I happened upon a pair of Antivan leather boots. I gifted them to Zevran, and he is quite delighted with them. They fit him perfectly.

Sten has complimented me! Well, in his own way. He claimed I am "not as callow" as he originally thought. Our bloody confrontation in Haven's village square seems to have earned me some of his respect.

I questioned Sten once more on his crimes at the farmhold. He is a convicted murderer, yet the man I have traveled with is not the sort to kill innocent men and women and children. Sten deigned to answer. He came to Ferelden to answer the Arishok's question, "What is the Blight?" But he came with fellow qunari. They camped beside Lake Calenhad and were attacked by darkspawn. The farmers discovered him and nursed him back to health. When he recovered, he learned his brethren had perished and his sword was gone. It was then that he flew into a hysteria and killed the lot of him.

It took a bit of prying, but Sten eventually explained that he would be killed on sight by his own people without his sword. "A true warrior would not release his sword while he still lived," he claimed. I have a difficult time fathoming this sort of logic, but this is the same man whose respect I earned in combat. The qunari are foreign indeed, but I would like to return to Lake Calenhad and look for this sword.

Morrigan and I spoke a little of her mother. Flemeth is an abomination, but she is unlike any other abomination in Thedas. She is unique. Morrigan suspects even she does not know what she is now. Then she asked me of my own mother; I did not answer.

I was thinking of Jowan when I next spoke to Wynne, during our watch together last night. She confessed that she was unkind to her first apprentice, an elven lad by the name of Aneirin. He fled the tower and the templars hunted him down and killed him.

We all have our regrets. Some of us must carry the regrets of others.

Wynne's tale reminds me of Jowan and Anders. Anders escaped from the tower over a half-dozen times, and each time I feared the templars would lose their patience with him and run him through. Jowan always wanted to escape the tower and live free. We all did. Sometimes I wonder if I would have the strength to escape were it not for Duncan's recruitment. Would I be happy living in hiding, pretending I had not magic?

One of the apprentices, Keili, used to claim that magic is a curse. The Revered Mother filled her head with that nonsense. She tried it on all of us. Magic is not a curse...but it is no gift, either. Yet imagining a life without magic makes me feel as though I am imagining a life without an arm or leg or my senses. Magic is not a curse. It is simply a part of me.

This was something my mother and father could not comprehend. Flemeth is many terrible things, but she taught Morrigan how to face the templars and fight them. My own parents could not stand the shame of magic on the Amell lineage, and thus they turned me over to the templars willingly. I have not seen them since I was a little girl.

I recall Father was stone-faced when the templars arrived. Mother at least had the grace to cry.

"Do you believe you failed Jowan?"

2 Kingsway, 9:30 Dragon,

We followed the caverns beyond the high priest's chamber and eventually emerged onto the mountain-top. The sun was blinding on the white snow, but we heard the distinct cry of a dragon and quickly sought shelter in the shadows. We watched from cover as a great high dragon soared through the air and settled on a perch above the far temple's entrance.

With the priest's horn in hand, we traveled into the open area. I blew threw the horn, which let out a deep reverberating sound that shook me to my bones. Perhaps the high dragon was as bothered by the sound as I, or she was annoyed that we had interrupted her nap, or she quickly saw that we were not the high priest. Whatever the reason, the high dragon soared towards us with an open mouth, spewing a great column of fire before her.

The battle to follow was hard and bloody. A high dragon is a fearsome creature, all claws and snapping jowls and long neck. She spit fire and swatted at us. Leliana and I stood out of distance and rain arrows and magic on her from afar. Alistair kept the dragon's attention on himself; Sten and Dane fought the dragon from the side, wary of her hindquarters and lashing tail. We were numb and brittle from the cold, and the dragon seemed impervious to damn near everything. But at last, she collapsed under the weight of her injuries and moved no more.

We bandaged wounds and healed injuries to the extent of my remaining mana, then continued onto the temple.

There we encountered the spirit of a man in shining armor. He was The Guardian, no more and no less, and he could see what eyes could not. The Guardian knew Jowan and his plight, and he questioned me about my regrets. It was a disturbing feeling, to look into the eyes of a spirit and know it could see everything about you. Much like looking into the eyes of a demon, but far less sinister. I withheld my answer. The Guardian questioned Alistair, Leliana, and Sten; he pronounced Dane free from regret.

We were allowed to continue into the temple, known as The Gauntlet. The Urn of Sacred Ashes awaited worthy pilgrims at the far end. I confess, dear journal, I was in disbelief that anything but an old vase awaited us. I was wrong, but I shall get to that when I do.

The first chamber was huge, with massive pillars supporting a high vaulted ceiling. Eight spirits awaited us within, blue and ethereal and dispassionate towards our cause. They had prepared riddles for us, and the experience recalled me to the Harrowing and the spirit of sloth. The spirits took the shape of Brona, Andraste's mother; Ealisay, Her dear friend; Thane Shartan, the elven slave that won his freedom; Lady Vasilia, wife of Archon Hessarian; Maferath the Betrayer, Andraste's husband; Archon Hessarian, responsible for Andraste's burning; Disciple Cathaire, who led Andraste's armies; and Disciple Havard, who claimed to carry Her ashes to the mountain-top and build the temple around them.

I answered their riddles, withholding any smart talk lest it damage our cause (it could be Andraste was not fond of sarcasm). The door at the far end of the chamber opened, and there stood Jowan. Or a spirit that looked like him. The encounter has put a new fear in my heart: has Jowan died? Is he safe? I have not seen him since he fled the dungeons beneath Redcliffe Castle. This Jowan knew I withheld my answer from The Guardian and questioned me about it. It was a brief encounter, and when he left, I felt cold and lonely.

Past Jowan, there was a smaller and darker chamber filled with spirits. These spirits resembled our lot, and they fought us with our magic and our skills. The battle was not as fearsome as the high dragon, but I found myself distinctly annoyed with my own arsenal of spells. The Other Me would hit us with primal magic and heal her fellows. The Other Dane was quite protective of her, and it took our combined strength to bring them down.

When the last spirit dissipated into nothingness, we entered an open chamber with huge stone steps around a pit of utter darkness. Stepping on one stone resulted in an ethereal stone manifesting somewhere in the pit. Stepping on two made the stone solid. Each step controlled a different portion of the bridge, but once one was across, the bridge returned in its full and solid glory. Creating the bridge took well over an hour, during which Dane eventually laid down and took a short nap.

The last chamber was far larger than any other we had thus far seen. There was an altar before a short wall of fire, telling us to shed our equipment and pass through the fire. As I removed my robes, I thought how terrible it would be if the last two Grey Wardens in Ferelden died as a result of walking into the fire. The fire was warm and painless, and the Guardian came forth as we emerged the other side. He pronounced us worthy of the ashes.

At the far end of the chamber, there were a set of massive stone steps leading to a marble statue of Andraste. This statue was unlike any other I have seen, as it more closely resembled the spirit of Brona and not the doe-eyed, small-lipped statues that adorn nobles' estates and chantries. At the base was a golden urn, and within was a fine powder resembling dust.

Leliana and Alistair were rendered speechless; Sten could not have cared less. Perhaps I should be moved. Andraste was a great woman and, a few brave scholars insist, mage. But She is dead. And if this does not work, I do not know what I would do. Bann Teagan would have to lead the Redcliffe army, and I might break something over my own foolishness in believing the arlessa.

We returned to Brother Genitivi at the entrance of the temple. There were no cultists and no apostates. It was dark and quiet. The brother had gathered what he needed for the time being. He planned to return to an expedition. I agree with Alistair: that Urn ought to be self-replenishing if the pilgrims are to return to the temple. They might want to deal with the generations of cultists and apostates living at the base, as well.

Brother Genitivi travels with us for a time, until we reach the main road. He will return to Denerim to convince the Chantry of the truths he has seen. Our destination is Redcliffe. These ashes had better be useful for something, as it is not often one gets to desecrate a holy corpse and have the Grand Cleric's praise.

"The prophet Andraste has overcome death itself and has returned to Her faithful in a form more radiant than you can imagine!"

1 Kingsway, 9:30 Dragon,

The temple is less than a week into the Frostback Mountains, but Brother Genitivi's injured leg added two days to our travel. It is bitterly cold, and the snow is several feet deep. Even our thickest clothes felt too light for the march into the mountains, and it seemed that we would never feel warm again.

Brother Genitivi led the way to the best of his ability, and Wynne and I spent our mana on magelights to keep the path lit. The wind howled so loudly that even my nightmares were mute. Yet the temple stood at the end of the trail, as promised. Or perhaps I froze on the trail and all this is a terrible dream woven together by wisps in the Fade.

The temple is huge and ancient. There are parts in ruin, and the snow has come inside. Beneath the snow and ice are ancient depictions of Andraste's life. Brother Genitivi remained at the entrance to study the engravings, and I have left my companions with him to protect him.

The cultists call themselves "the Disciples of Andraste." They allow apostates amidst their ranks and have no templars, and the priests are all men. Dragonlings--wingless young dragons the size of Dane--stalk the half-sunken corridors. The male priests, free-practicing mages, and connection to dragons make me suspect they were once connected to Tevinter. But their connections are lost. Haven is its own entity, separate from the rest of the world.

Deep within the temple, past the crazed villagers and their apostates, we encountered a madman. He was armed, with men and mages at his heels, and he ranted that Andraste Herself had risen from the dead. He had a temper to fit his faith, and he ordered his men to attack once we disagreed.

There is another temple on this mountaintop, connected with a crumbling bridge. If the Urn of Sacred Ashes exists, it is within that temple. We're at rest for the moment, and I have healed my companions of their injuries. After a bite of food, we will continue.