Dragon Age: Champion's Fall

Chapter 001 - Flight from Kirkwall

Merrill looked up. She exhaled. Her breath drew out, in a mist barely distinguishable from the gusts of drifting snow. Hawke was a few meters ahead. She shuffled clumsily, struggling to catch up to him.

The snow beneath her feet was as raw as the early morning chill. Though Merrill had wrapped them in rags to ward off frostbite and gangrene, shoes probably would have been a better option. Merrill sighed. In all of her ten years since coming to the Free Marches, she had not even bothered to obtain a pair of shoes. She peered down at the rags covering her feet. They were torn, black and bloody – she would need to replace them as soon as they stopped.

A bitter wind blew snowflakes into her face. Merrill gripped the shawl wrapped around her even more tightly. Her stomach growled. She had not eaten in two days, and her last meal – which comprised of a pitiful half-dozen wild mushrooms, was scarcely sufficient for an infant, let alone a grown adult elf.

She lifted her head to look at Hawke. Without warning, Hawke's figure suddenly blurred before her eyes. The entire world was spinning around her. Her head was about to split in two.

"Argh..." Merrill collapsed to her knees.

Hawke looked back. "Merrill!" He dashed towards the stricken elf and helped her to her feet.

"Lethallin," she cried. "Can we... can we... rest a little?" The pain was too much for the elf to bear.

"Merrill, we can't rest here. Come on." Hawke hoisted Merrill's limp form across his shoulders.

"If I die..."

"You can't die," Hawke said sternly. It's not an option under my watch."

Merrill smiled faintly and closed her eyes. Such confidence was reassuring even though the fierce wind suggested otherwise.

/

It had been nearly a month since Hawke and Merrill fled Kirkwall and its mage rebellion. They had fought briefly with the mages against the templars, but as the templars gradually regained control and issued arrest warrants for the pair, Aveline urged them to flee.

They went north, beyond the mountains of Sundermount. They also had the unfortunate luck of traveling through the Vimmark Mountains in the dead of winter. Beyond lichen and mushrooms scavenged along the valleys between the peaks, there was little to eat.

However, even in these remote mountains, the templars still lurked along the trails, eager to spring up upon malelificar and their sympathizers to either arrest or kill them. Hawke and Merrill had yet to encounter them, but given their severely weakened states, an ambush by even a small number of templars could prove deadly.

They were near the base of the mountain now. It was exhausting to hike over it, but thankfully, the descent was not as challenging, even with Merrill weighing down Hawke's back. A valley dotted with many snow-covered fir trees greeted Hawke's eyes.

As they descended into the valley and entered the forest, Hawke heard a rustle in the distance.

"Merrill." Hawke laid the elf upon the ground besides a tree. "I'm going to scout ahead." He presented her with a dagger. "Under no circumstances do you move, alright?"

The delirious elf took the dagger, nodded slowly, and sat up besides the tree. "Be back soon, ma vhenan," she whispered.

Hawke strode forward, unsheathing his sword as he did so. He squinted his eyes at the bushes in the distance. No movement. He looked up and scanned the treetops. Nothing. Hawke sighed and sheathed his sword.

As he turned around, Hawke felt a sword's tip upon his neck.

"Don't move," a gruff voice commanded. Hawke remained still.

"Turn around. Slowly. Put your hands where I can see them." Hawke turned around slowly, arms raised. His eyes met his captor. He was a templar. Hawke heaved. After nearly a month of not seeing a single templar, they had to show up now, when he and Merrill were most vulnerable. The templar pointed his sword directly at Hawke's neck. Using his free arm, the templar pulled Hawke's sword from its scabbard and tossed it away.

"Williamson!" the templar cried. "Do you have the elf?"

Hawke turned his head. Another templar, carrying Merrill in his arms, meandered forward.

"Yes, Clive. I have her. Little one didn't put up much of a fight."

Clive nodded in approval and pulled out a sheet of paper, while keeping his sword trained on Hawke's neck. His eyes met Hawke's.

"Under orders of Knight-Commander Cullen, I, Knight Robert Clive, am putting you, Garrett Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, under arrest for consorting with blood mages. You and your companion will be escorted back to Kirkwall to face these charges. In the meanwhile, it is suggested that you-"

"ARRGGGAH!" Hawke looked up. A dwarf with a great red beard, who seemingly materialized out of nowhere, ran up behind Clive, and beheaded the templar in one quick swing with his axe. Blood splattered all over Hawke's face. What was left of Clive crumpled. His head rolled onto the snowy forest floor and rested upon Hawke's left foot.

The dwarf jumped upon Clive's headless corpse to face the other templar. "What are you going to do with that big sword now, huh, templar man?" he taunted. Williamson stepped back, his face blank with shock. Despite the snow swirling all around, Hawke could see that his face was white with fear.

"YOU WANT SOME? YOU WANT SOME?" The dwarf raised his axe as he made another frenzied war cry.

Williamson crouched behind his shield, as if to make a stand-

The dwarf charged. The templar dropped his sword and fled.

The dwarf stopped and relaxed his axe. "Yeah, yeah, run away like a pussy. Just like the others. No one in this freaking land has the balls to stand up to OGHREN!"

"That always gets them," he murmured, watching Williamson scurrying away towards the mountain.

Hawke retrieved the sword that the templar had disarmed him of earlier and wiped the blood from his face. Merrill remained on the forest ground, swaying, scarcely aware of what had happened.

Hawke turned to face the dwarf, extending his hand in gratitude. "Uh... Thank you, I suppose."

The dwarf raised his hand. "No need. You're Hawke, aren't you? The Champion of Kirkwall, right? You can't come to the bloody Free Marches and not hear 'Hawke, Hawke, Hawke!' all the damn nuglicking time. Of course I know who you are!"

Pausing briefly, the dwarf tossed Clive's headless corpse another quick glance before rambling on.

"The name's Oghren, by the way." Oghren looked down at Merrill. "Anyways, Champion, I don't think your elf friend is doing so hot. Come on. My camp is just a few clicks north of here. Let's go."

/

Even though Oghren had saved him and Merrill from the templars, Hawke could hardly imagine why a dwarf would be adventuring in such a remote part of Thedas, especially in the dead of winter.

Throughout the long walk, Oghren scarcely asked Hawke any questions, instead preferring to talk about himself. He hailed from the ancient dwarven kingdom of Orzammar and spent a few years in the army. Some eleven years ago, a Grey Warden came to Orzammar and encouraged him to help her fight the Blight. Soon enough, Oghren left for the surface, recounting the moment as "one of the best damn decisions" he ever made.

After the Blight ended, he sought the Wardens, seeking to join their ranks. An Orlesian Warden stationed in Amaranthine granted his request, after he saw him decapitate two darkspawn at once.

"You see," Oghren said thickly as his boots crunched through the snow, "The Wardens will let anyone join, so long as you're willing to kill. But you can't just be a simple-minded killing machine – you need to kill with skill."

He stopped, and produced a flask. "Wait, Champion. Need some fuel." He drew his lips near the flask, gulping loudly as he did so. Hawke ruffled his nose. It had to be corn whiskey.

Finishing his draught, Oghren belched. "Ah. Much better."

Hawke rolled his eyes. The dwarf's story was too fanciful to be true. This impetuous, rude, alcoholic dwarf, a Grey Warden? He was clearly lying. But then again, he did have a Grey Warden shield suspended on his back. Hawke shook his head. Perhaps it was wise to suspend judgment for the time being, since his dwarf did save him and Merrill from the templars.

Hawke was also concerned about Merrill. Despite his best efforts to keep her warm until they reached the dwarf's camp, her hands remained deathly cold. Her breathing was slow and labored. One of her toes also appeared gangrenous.

They reached a clearing in the forest with the camp in view. The camp consisted of two tents. A fire was lit in the very center of the clearing. A tall figure, presumably a man, stood near it. A magical staff was slung over his shoulder.

"Hey!" Oghren yelled. "I'm back, and you wouldn't believe who I just picked up!"

The figure by the fire turned to face Oghren.

Hawke stopped momentarily, squinting his eyes at the figure. Was that who he thought it was?

No, it couldn't be.

It was Anders.