#newbadbeginning

Still pale but steady, the elf nodded—no fainting in his plans. They slid down the ladder to find Alistair braced at the stairwell, the thunder of approaching darkspawn echoing upward. Battle had come to them.

Morrigan tossed over her shoulder:

— Don’t die.

Morrigan approached Alistair and, moving slowly to avoid startling him, touched his blade. A simple spell rippled across the metal, coating it in frost as if freshly pulled from a winter gale. The warrior acknowledged the aid with a curt nod. Alim, wrapped in shimmering magical and spiritual wards, attempted a grim joke:

— Heard tales in camp about the legendary Witch of Korkari. They say she could call lightning upon her enemies. Perhaps we’re fortunate to have such company?

The witch nearly agreed—then froze mid-breath, struck by uncertainty. Racing through her memory, she realized the lightning spell’s sequence had vanished, feeding fresh paranoia. The hours spent mastering it felt intact, yet the spell itself... as if those efforts had evaporated. What else had been lost during those blank hours? With a noncommittal nod to Alim, she steeled herself for battle.

A minute and a half later, the first three genlocks appeared on the lower floor. Clad in rusted mail and wielding jagged blades, they charged up the stairs with startling speed. The spell on Alistair’s blade hurled the lead creature backward—bones crunched as it tumbled down—marking the fight’s start.

Morrigan clenched her fist and hissed through gritted teeth:

— Tua vita mea esté.

Something intangible brushed the charging genlock—like a ripple on water—before its sword plunged into her abdomen to the hilt, dragging her back a step with a choked cry of pain. Though Alim roared in fury, Alistair was locked in his own struggle. Genlocks in melee were deadlier than they were at range, especially armed and armored. Deflecting thrusts with his shield, barely dodging, the blond bided his time—then ducked low and surged forward. A shield bash to the gut, a stab to the thigh, and he flung his opponent down the stairs after the first.

Turning, he witnessed something unnatural: Morrigan, impaled and smiling horribly, cradled the kneeling genlock’s head as she whispered:

— Fríos. Tenací.

Frost crawled over the creature’s skull beneath her fingers. It collapsed, sword clattering free. She yanked the blade from her belly—barely a trickle of blood now—and tossed it aside.

— Leave this one. It’ll serve as a... well of life.

Five more genlocks reached the third floor. An archer loosed at Alistair—the only visible armed target—forcing him to dodge right, slamming into the wall. Alim managed to hurl one attacker downstairs, his ragged breathing betraying his limits.

Alistair whirled, using foes as shields against the archer. Morrigan, exploiting her staff’s reach, speared a genlock’s eye, then bludgeoned it senseless. Slipping from the archer’s sight, she repeated her freezing spell on the stunned creature.

Before Alistair could fully use one darkspawn as cover, a hilt struck his jaw twice in the scrum. He retaliated—kicking both genlocks down the stairs—then spat blood and retreated from arrow range.

— Our time’s running out.

Panting, he checked his grip and squinted upward.

— Dark’s falling.

Two genlocks and another archer burst onto the landing. Alistair and Morrigan split, complicating their aim—but the archer targeted the swaying elf. Without hesitation, Morrigan incanted:

— Somnia dirae tenebrae, animus furenté!

A wave of translucent gloom flashed through the room. The effect was more than she’d hoped for: the archer flailed at invisible threats; one genlock froze; the other stumbled backward down the stairs. Alistair seized the opening—running one through the neck, shield-bashing the second, then finishing it on the floor.

— Can’t... huff... help but wonder. Got more tricks like last night’s?

Morrigan shot him a glare, fatigue now plain.

— Honesty will kill you.

— Bit late for warnings.

A thunder of footsteps echoed below—dozens, plus an ogre’s heavy tread. Morrigan hissed:

— Remember your vow at the ruins? To protect? Your hour’s come. Delay them. Even a minute.

— Got a plan?

— An idea. We’ll see what it costs me.

He readied his blade.

— Still better than ‘we die now.’

Alistair clenched his teeth and took position at the stairwell, his attention wholly consumed by the approaching footsteps below. Morrigan lingered for a moment on his tense back before turning to the elf who was clinging to consciousness by sheer will.

The crowd scattered like water hissing off hot stones. Only Naire remained, unmoving, blinking in confusion. Morrigan’s expression emptied as she shifted her gaze from the tense Knight-Commander to Alim: — You? The elf’s silence was answer enough. Ignoring Morrigan, he spoke to his sister: — Naire, come here. Please. — But she saved me, Alim! I don’t understand— Alim’s fists clenched until his knuckles whitened. His eyes darted between Naire and Morrigan, searching for some flaw in his suspicions. But the woman before him was undeniably Morrigan. Regret, pain, and irritation warred in his voice: — This is... the right way. For everyone. He stepped forward: — I waited by those doors from dawn till dusk, sister. Every hour could’ve been your last. And you know what kept me there? The thought that if you survived... it’d likely be because of her. — His gaze flicked to Morrigan. — But that doesn’t mean I can overlook the rest. Morrigan laughed bitterly and nudged Naire toward him: — Go to him. He’ll spin you a tale or two. Might even forget who saved his hide. Then she focused entirely on Gregor: — Should’ve left you to die back then.

The older of the two mages interjected before the conversation could turn into a relentless exchange of barbs, quietly asking:

— Lyrium?

Valinsi nodded, removing from his belt a massive leather pouch, suitable for carrying several valuable tomes at once. Inside were four ceramic flasks, designed to hold a solution of processed lyrium. Touching them with her fingertips, the girl felt the familiar, unpleasant tingling in her hand.

— Then let's begin.

After emptying the bucket of drinking water into the latrine, she moved it to the center of the room. Watching the preparations, Bethany whispered:

— Um… what should I do?

As she retrieved the ceramic vessels and began to pour the bluish liquid with a faint pearlescent sheen—a sign of high concentration—into the bucket, the prisoner gave a nervous snort and replied:

— Make sure I don't fall. The floor is stone.

At this remark, Valinsi cast a thoughtful glance at the kneeling Morrigan, which only the younger mage missed. The man remained silent, not interfering in the preparations in any way. Wasting no time on doubts and pushing the empty containers aside, Morrigan sat before the bucket, crossed her legs, and plunged her right hand into the solution. It felt only slightly more viscous than plain water to her. Her arm, up to the shoulder, was immediately gripped by an unpleasant tingling that seemed to reach the very bone. This was accompanied by slight nausea, but nothing that couldn't be overcome with an effort of will.

After a meaningful look from the older mage, Bethany realized it was time to act. Springing from her spot, she was behind her mentor's back in two steps. Taking a deep breath in and out, Morrigan conjured the mental image of the required spell formula. Making the necessary adjustments on the fly to account for the role of oscillating runes, the witch approached the final step. Closing her eyes and concentrating on the sensations in her right arm, she allowed the mana from the dissolved lyrium to flow freely through her body, to fill the formula with power and set the spell in motion.

Morrigan had never experienced mana burn before. The witch had various expectations… but there was almost nothing to feel when the spell took effect; no distinct sensation marked the moment. It was more like rapidly mounting dizziness and fatigue, crashing down with an overwhelming weight upon both body and mind. As if a huge wave of cold water had suddenly surged forth, instantly dragging her to the very bottom. Darkness crept in from the edges of her vision, squeezing her consciousness in a vise. And it lasted no more than a couple of heartbeats. The last things to reach the witch's awareness before the embrace of darkness were the sounds of the Templar's irritated questions, their meaning elusive, and Bethany's “Flaming Hands” on the back of her head… * * *

The forest was dying. No… Morrigan winced, realizing she'd let herself think it. Her thoughts were tangled, refusing to form a coherent chain. Words obeyed reluctantly, refusing to describe what she saw. For several nightmares now, the forest had borne little resemblance to familiar, living vegetation. These changes had been accumulating, but only now had they become so obvious. Everything around her had become the embodiment of “death”.

Before her eyes, the trees were losing the pitiful remnants of blackened foliage, which dissolved into black, ghostly smoke before even reaching the ground. The undergrowth had already vanished, and even the ash that had previously covered the soil was crumbling away like the first snow under bright sunlight. All that remained was a bare, grey surface, scarcely resembling forest soil and pockmarked with ulcers, as if afflicted by an unknown disease.

Looking around, the witch, for the first time in this nightmare, felt free rather than a victim caught in a web. Nothing restricted her movement, and the first cautious step she took felt astonishing. Finally, after what felt like only three minutes, her searching gaze finally fell on the only object that differed from the trees and showed no sign of dissolving into a mirage. Taking careful steps, Morrigan came upon a copy of herself. Kneeling, curled into a ball with its face buried in its knees, it sensed her approach more than heard it. The witch's alter ego lifted its head, covered in black scars, revealing a face contorted with pain. Focusing its single eye on the “visitor”, the copy demonstrated a swift transition from suffering to rage and hissed:

— Everything's been taken… My memory is riddled with holes… My body… And now you're burning this little corner I fought so hard to cling to, to keep from falling into oblivion. How I hate you!

Morrigan frowned, looking down at herself for the first time, and asked the only question that troubled her at that moment:

— Why?

The copy suddenly froze, its single eye widening, reflecting something more than just rage—a profound understanding of the absurdity of its position. A snarl twisted its face, though behind the hatred, desperation was now visible:

— Why?!

The double repeated the question, its face distorting into a grimace half pain, half mockery.

— You stupid creature! Does one need a reason to want to live? To desire to exist? To reclaim what was rightfully theirs?…

Its voice broke into a rasp as black cracks crept up its neck:

— You've even stolen my pain… my dreams…

Morrigan felt an icy shiver run down her spine. There was a strange conviction in the copy's words…

— But I desire the same. Exactly! Our desires cannot… Why didn't you choose another victim, demon?

— Not my choice!..

The copy opened its mouth and froze, deeply shocked by Morrigan's words. Then it burst into abrupt, wild laughter. The witch felt a strange mix of revulsion and pity watching the scene unfold. When the laughter subsided, the copy raised its hands, watching as the tips of its remaining fingers began to blacken. Shifting its gaze back to Morrigan, it began to spew words with extraordinary force:

— You are a sick creature… broken, twisted, with insane goals, meaningless principles. And that is my small victory. A doll stuffed with the desires of others, desires that make me feel soiled and diseased. Without me, you are less than a shadow… Every particle of you is stolen! Even your very essence belongs to me! But now… Now…

Breaking off mid-sentence, the copy looked away into the void, as if peering into an abyss unfolding before it. Something in these words, saturated with sharp hatred and chilling sorrow, pierced Morrigan, making her take a step back. Meanwhile, the blackened fingers of her alter ego began to melt, turning, like everything else, into ephemeral haze. Looking around, the girl realized the trees were gone. The nightmare was coming apart, rushing toward its climax. Letting out a painful, weeping moan, the copy drew the witch's gaze once more. As if with great effort, it forced out a poisonous smile. In it was a certain defiance and a desire to drink to the dregs the sweetness of small victories, no matter the cost. The girl couldn't bear it and shouted:

— What?! Enough. Disappear. I've won. You won't get this body.

— Creature… Be damned… On that ill-fated day, Flemeth almost killed you… Almost…

Lurching forward abruptly, the witch grabbed the copy by its darkening shoulders, intending to shake it.

— You remember that day? What… what happened then? Tell me! What happened to Mother?!

In the copy's single eye, shining with pure gold, surprise flashed, replaced by triumph. It laughed again, but this time the laughter was angrier, more jerky, more painful… reeking of madness. To her own surprise, the witch slapped the copy, then again, tasting the blood on her bitten lip. With the third blow, the face, riddled with black cracks, shattered like broken glass, scattering into tiny shards that didn't even reach the ground. The body fell, immediately crumpling and beginning to disappear. In the frozen silence, a whisper finally reached Morrigan's ears:

— Be cursed…

Immediately after, the very ground beneath her feet swiftly changed color from dull grey to black and crumbled into dust, marking the final death of this mysterious place, lost amidst dreams. At least, that was what Morrigan hoped, sinking into darkness… * * *

Pain. Why does it sometimes come tinged with colors? Black shot through with red… Throbbing. As if something living had taken root inside her skull. Scratching behind her eyes, behind her eyelids. Sending waves of nausea rolling through her. Morrigan drew a hoarse breath and exhaled with a soft moan. She was afraid to open her eyes, as if something alive lurked behind her lids, ready to burst free. Although, of course, the greater fear was the light—a source of exquisite torture. But the illusory darkness couldn’t save her from reality. The light filtering through the vent grating pierced her eyelids like thin blades. Still, it could have been worse… Taking her time, wary of the dizziness any sudden movement might bring, the witch looked around.

Still in the cell. This constancy was, strangely, reassuring. The sound of breathing made Morrigan flinch instinctively, despite her caution. The price was a surge of nausea from prolonged hunger, rising in her throat. Only by squeezing her eyes shut and breathing rapidly did she manage to force back the bile. Trying again, more carefully, she saw Valinsi sitting in the corner, at the head of the bench. The man had his arms crossed over his chest in an attempt to keep warm, and he was asleep.

The scene seemed so unreal that Morrigan blinked, as if trying to shake off a stupor. But Valinsi remained in the corner, arms crossed. The vision didn’t fade. Ten minutes of struggling with her own body—and finally she managed to sit up, bracing herself with effort. Setting those questions aside for later, Morrigan turned her attention to more pressing matters. Recalling what she had resolved to keep under close watch, she began methodically reviewing them, one by one.

Memory. Despite her hopes, there was no improvement here. Not a single new fact about that day. And the scattered recollections—or rather, vague fragments—hadn’t vanished, hadn’t assembled into a coherent mosaic, and hadn’t revealed anything new.

Softly stepping forward—and immediately catching Brom’s fiery golden gaze, leaping to meet hers from under bushy brows—the witch joined the conversation, trying to speak in a loud, measured voice:

— You are a concerned man. A son, or perhaps a brother, among the Temple Guardians? It cannot be that you are seriously worried about Kolgrim. Otherwise… how to explain?.. While the residents were gathering at the chantry at an ungodly hour, comforting each other in grief, anxiety, and hope, your eyes were fixed on that trail. That is the only way you and your comrades could have ended up at the Refuge’s fence line ahead of time. Oh, or perhaps it’s simpler… Were you waiting for a messenger with new tidings?

Brom blinked, forcing his gaze away, but Morrigan was already striking her next blow:

— Kolgrim, Brom isn’t your kin, is he?

The warrior pressed his lips together in displeasure at the raised topic. A telling shadow passed over his face; the girl saw only irritation and a faint tinge of shame there. Without delay, she clicked her tongue:

— So that’s it. Even here, filth isn’t hard to find.

Brom, who had managed to collect himself, snorted and shook his head:

— A vixen. Sharp-tongued. Good thing the “chosen one” serves the people, and not the other way around. Otherwise…

Baring her teeth like a predator, Morrigan addressed Kolgrim alone, pointedly ignoring Brom:

— Your compliment was better earlier. Scales, forked tongue… A more interesting prospect than a fluffy tail. Is such delicacy really needed here? I suspect Father outplayed you from the grave, having cultivated doubt in every useful person beforehand. Any truth is a lie, and a lie is like truth.

Pointing behind her without looking, Morrigan did not release Kolgrim’s grey eyes for a moment:

— If parents mistake a crow for an eagle, their son cannot become a falcon. Nobility and honor can be turned—cleverly—from a shield into poisoned arrows. And it’s hard to argue with corpses and shadows… Do you have something that cannot be tainted by such suspicions?

Kolgrim opened his mouth, ready to answer the witch’s challenge, but immediately snapped it shut. His grey eyes slid over the warriors—those searching the crowd for familiar faces, those thoughtfully studying the trampled snow before them, those watching the maid in their midst with burning eyes. Annoyance and fury flashed across his face when his gaze fell on the urn, gleaming with indifferent gold. After the unbroken pause, he said firmly:

— No.

The girl nodded, simply. As she was about to respond, she turned toward the mountains, peering into the dark sky above the ridgeline. The witch frowned, then lowered her scarlet-gold gaze from the heavens onto the figures of the Guardians. Staring as if through them, she asked herself—pointlessly, inappropriately—whether Kolgrim’s mother and father were alive, whether he had brothers, sisters. Gathering her resolve, she addressed the spearmen loudly and clearly:

— Have you truly forgotten an indisputable truth? Each of you has witnessed it again and again—daily—so often it has eaten into your bones, become as mundane as breath.

Turning back to Kolgrim, Morrigan finished the thought:

— And that truth needs no prophets; it can speak for itself.

The man raised his eyebrows and, soundlessly, with his lips alone, mouthed:

— Andraste?

Brom’s face darkened as he shouted harshly:

— What heresy is this?!

At that same moment a sound loud enough for all to hear carried across the yard—the slow beats of enormous wings. And the noise grew, sharpening. It was almost immediately clear it was not a single pair. Heavy, low breathing—slightly whistling, slightly gurgling, like the lungs of mighty forges—joined the wingbeats. All of it in the night’s darkness, under an utterly still black sky where the vague, deceptive outlines of clouds were barely visible. Whatever filled their heads—whatever they believed—whatever principles they professed, every single one felt the touch of paralyzing, animal terror. Like hares realizing too late the presence of a pack of hungry wolves. A couple of teenagers—the kind who already trailed their parents everywhere—and a good half of the women panicked, rushing toward the nearest houses in tears or emitting incoherent gasps. The others did not dare move. Morrigan realized only two emotions remained in her—rapture and envy—having burned away everything else. A quick glance at Kolgrim showed her he was in the grip of something similar. But in him it was rapture and… fear.

In the space of a heartbeat, the seemingly motionless sky split open. Enormous silhouettes materialized out of the darkness. Each new beat of those vast wings spawned eerie eddies in the clouds, blinding the involuntary onlookers with waves of snow blown from the hilltop. Torch flames thrashed like birds gone mad in cages and, losing the battle, guttered out, yielding to the gloom. People squinted, crouched, covered themselves with hands and clothing, but no one dared turn their back on the unfolding horror. The massive bulk of the male landed first, plummeting onto the summit from the last few meters. Corded muscles absorbed the momentum, but a resounding impact rolled through the valley, echoing inside their skulls. From the settlement came, at that moment, the distinct sounds of panic and the crash of falling pottery. The female, in comparison, settled on the hill gracefully and quietly—almost more staggering. Then the brood appeared. Like minnows beside sharks, they flopped down clumsily behind the ridge, nearly tumbling like stones. Judging by the soft thuds and plaintive squeals—ill-suited to the deadliness of the “little ones”—few managed to land competently.

Without waiting for them to fully settle, Morrigan spun in place and in three steps was nose to nose with Brom. It was the only movement in the crowd, and it drew eyes at once. Pale as snow, Brom tore his gaze with difficulty from the flickering molten amber of the dragons’ pupils—studying the people below like a faceless herd—only to become captive to the Witch’s golden eyes, reflecting the last torch-gleams. He swallowed audibly, trying to calm taut nerves, but the girl gave him no respite; she leaned closer and, in a barely audible voice, said:

— That is the truth, requiring not a shred of proof. I admit, my mother is astounding. No one could—or can—play so virtuously, and yet so directly and cruelly, upon the prejudices and weaknesses of others. I can’t compare, but I’ll try to play. Alas, I do not command time in abundance. I haven’t the leisure to be delicate with petty obstacles.

Without another word, she stroked the bulging veins at his throat with feigned tenderness… He jerked away, managing only a soundless exhale:

— Mage…

And then Brom sank into the snow—for a heartbeat, fighting for his life. Witnessing his tribesman’s swift end, Kolgrim lunged toward the witch, shouting:

— Morrigan…

But his voice broke off midway, as if he had run headlong into an invisible wall. He was stopped by an attentive gaze, ready for any continuation. The crowd, stunned by the appearance of the dragons, struggled to digest what had happened. The swiftness, the absence of blood, screams, and the clang of weapons—none of it matched the rapid death of a seasoned hunter. Letting no excess emotion show, Morrigan addressed the leader of the Guardians coldly:

— My words of regret would be hypocrisy and lies. As would your words that this cannot be done.

At last, the improvised cavalry encampment. Morrigan had not chosen this particular company at random. It was the only one that had not settled near the fortress, enjoying the comfort of surviving houses and barns. Instead, it was on a ridge, using only the stone arches of the Imperial Highway, snow, the trunks of felled trees, hay wagons, and tents in a checkerboard pattern for shelter and cover. The result was excellent protection from the bay’s wind. Streamers of smoke coiling around the massive base of the old Imperial road hinted at warmth. The neighing of warhorses made the place almost cozy. One might think these warriors were ready for difficult decisions. But no—this company wanted to be used for its intended purpose at the first opportunity, and was known not only for skill but also for pride mixed with stubbornness.

Morrigan surveyed the well-organized camp. A single figure walked toward them. Not tall, but a sturdy Orlesian with a clean-shaven face composed entirely of noble features, sky-colored eyes, and a straight posture. At least forty winters. The chevalier’s grim face bore the marks of exhaustion and lack of sleep. The man nodded to Ron. A polished gesture containing exactly as much respect as required—not a hair more. Then he « noticed» Morrigan and Leliana, ignoring the others. A deep voice underscored the beauty of the Orlesian tongue:

— Je suis ravi de faire la connaissance d’une si grande dame. Votre réputation, Madame, n’est que trop fidèle à la réalité.

Morrigan raised her eyebrows—surprise and delight in one expression:

— Oh-ho-ho… My reputation, Leliana? Subtle, elegant. I’m pleased. My task is precisely to make people know about me. That is imperative. What is under their skulls—less important. Introduce yourself.

The chevalier gave a weary snort but did not lose face, maintaining tone, gaze, and expression:

— Overnight, something may have changed. Forgive me if I am not informed. Here the cavalry officer cast a cautious glance at Ron. — But fine ladies have no military rank or service record. Quite the opposite—they are their own authority. So I recommend you address higher command for my name.

— Meaning subordination is not an empty word for you? At least when it protects you.

— As you wish. May I ask the purpose of your visit?

Behind the chevalier, a fire crackled dully; the scent of resin from burning pine branches mixed with the stench of horse manure. From one of the tents came a man’s cough.

— I’m curious. Your reputation is also extraordinary.

— Ah, you are seeking entertainment at our expense. Don’t bother, my lady. It is dirty, cold, and nothing more.

Morrigan’s crimson gaze slid toward the bard, taking on a questioning tint. Pale-green eyes looked back confidently. Nodding, the mage continued:

— Is that so… I heard otherwise. Fine stallions, frightened mares. Since we are here, will you show off your talent for laying out a camp?

The chevalier frowned even more deeply, throwing a questioning look at Ron, but from him came neither help nor hint. He seemed only to wish that this dragging moment would pass quickly.

— Very well…

— Excellent!

Having formally received an invitation, Morrigan glided with a light step across the packed snow among tents and horses, as though she had spent the past days entirely here, swinging a wooden shovel and a heavy axe. Other chevaliers along the way looked at the procession in surprise, shifted their gaze to the commanding officer—who hurried after them, lest he be entirely pushed aside. Some wanted to intervene with a sharp word, to shut her mouth—only to meet two red dots blazing from under her hood. Some dared to reach out a hand, only to find a long spear-point at their throat to the sound of Templar blades being drawn—and promptly backed off. Twice behind her, hot whispers reached Ron: — This is pointless, insulting, and breaks discipline. Convey my words to the marshal.

Finally, Morrigan stopped before another tent, partially surrounded by a snowbank and dusted with a thin white layer mixed with rime on the heavy cloth. Compared to the others—nothing special.

— Speaking of boring things…

The chevalier’s eyes searched the mage’s features for an answer to the charade before him. And the witch sought in the Orlesian’s face even a shadow of foresight. After a minute’s pause, neither side got the satisfaction they wanted. Leliana sighed heavily. Ron frowned.

Morrigan nodded to herself, slid her gaze sideways—toward where she thought the least noticeable member of her retinue stood—and yanked back the heavy tent flap, releasing precious warmth. The interior was not ascetic, exactly, but functional. Everything necessary was in its place, arranged for its owner’s hand, who within this dwelling was king and god. And in the corner, treated as no more than part of the furnishings, was a partly stripped, tightly bound elf barely past twenty winters. No gag. A bruise blooming on her cheekbone. Rope already leaving marks. The broken stare of a hunted doe. Streaks of long-dried tears. She jerked, trying to curl into an invisible ball, afraid even to moan, but the bonds only tightened.

Reactions varied. Ron clicked his tongue, swore indistinctly, stepped forward. Only Morrigan’s searing gaze stopped him, forcing him to wait for the denouement on her terms. The Highlanders locked their thoughts and emotions away among strangers, as the Chosen had taught them. The Templars’ gloves creaked on sword hilts. The elf’s fate likely did not concern them much, but a breach of order did. Sharpest of all was the look from the elf behind their backs, safely veiled in insignificance and obedience. Leliana simply averted her eyes—on the surface embarrassed, but in truth watching the chevalier closely.

Note (post): This is an interpretive match: Morrigan and Leliana confront an enemy-held captive, rather than being captured themselves.