Disclaimer: do not own Fable II or Dragon Age: Origins

Written for: LJ com writerverse

Prompt: random book quote ["'Well, this is about a dozen times worse'" Mistborn p125], at least 200 words.

Thackeray is the first to find her.

They had been following her for days while their Commander ever-teetered on the cusp of sounding a retreat, to leave the trail of corpses as a mystery of the Deep Roads. "Time," Duncan had said, "is against us."

Provisions, Thackeray had taken the words to mean, will not last us indefinitely.

A fortnight ago, on a chance meeting, Legion of the Dead members shared stories of the battle grounds found, of rings made from corpses, of frozen earth and melted rock the likes of which they have never seen. Their best trackers had little by way of explanation, but the shared campfire that night had been full of speculation.

"Besworded men, surely" one dwarf told them; for there were too many cuts in rock and flesh and a few too many beheadings still.

"Aye, and archers, too" another threw into the tale. Long and sturdy arrows had been passed around the gathering dutifully, and indeed, they were of a quality which outshone darkspawn make.

"A mage," started one, for another to quickly add a laughing "Or three!" And on this, it seemed, they would not disagree.

They didn't quite know what to make of it, the Legion, but an army bearing such destruction to darkspawn is an army to have at your back, or at your side, or at your front. "Just so long as you have them!" said a tattooed dwarf, and there were a great many shouts of agreement.

His Commander did more than agree; he had looked positively gleeful at the prospect of such recruitment. He could hardly be blamed for the enthusiasm. With only a begrudged presence within Ferelden, his Commander had very few to call his own. Rare these days were one so doomed by luck to make the perfect candidate, for the truth to the matter is thus: exposure to darkspawn bred darkspawn and naught but a drop of blood is needed.

He knew to the last soldier his Commander would offer the only possible chance at prolonging the inevitable to those so afflicted. It was why they had traveled to Orzammar, after all, to restore the Order of the Grey Wardens in a land that had cast them aside. From casteless to noble, they were far more likely to bolster their number with dwarves than human or elf. They lived closer to the truth than any on the surface.

Their search, for search they did, lead them deeper than originally indeed. The map, one gifted to them by helpful ex-Shaperate and budding cartographer, placed them four-to-five days' journey from the path leading to the surface. It is here Duncan made the decision to abandon the quest in favor of seeking a way out of the Deep Roads. "Fate," he had just about said to them, "would have us all take a different route."

The food, Thackeray had taken the words to mean, is getting dangerously low. It was hard to supplement their dwindling supplies, though they did try. What unblighted meat they could catch never seemed to be enough to comfortably live on and he rather stay away from the glowing fungus, thank you ever so much.

The new-path they took ended, in the abrupt fashion of a path underground. Stone blocked their way. Recent, it would seem, from the still liquid nature of darkspawn blood splattered on the walls and on the ground. The hurlock head was a nice touch in décor, Thackeray didn't think, it really brings out the dangers of the place.

Its body was not to be found.

Sent by order and skill to scout a jagged opening unknown to both man and map, Thackeray broke away from his comrades. A last-ditch effort before heading to surer paths, he had been assured. Dockson was volunteered as his shadow, on account of youth, to send word back should disaster befall them along the way.

At a crossroads they had not been drawn to the left by sight or sound or scent- but with a coin toss, left they went.

Thackeray is the first to find her, and she is resting in the center of a cathedral sized cavern. Precariously positioned at the edge of the sheer cliff his path had turned into, he almost falls at the sight. Twenty-odd feet below broodmothers and ogers and shades litter the ground. Nearby stalactites protrude, bleeding, from suspended bodies. Limbs, unattached to all but refuse, dot the cavern. Random corpses are disintegrating, condensing onto themselves before his very eyes, by acid or lightning or some other magic besides. The edges of the cavern are adorned with cooling streams of magma. They are settling into the very patterns the Legion taught them to recognize as the mystery mage's work: unnatural circles interwoven with still glowing runes.

And in the center of the bloodshed, in the very center of the cavern and the aftermath of what must have been chaotic battle, is the only human form they have seen since entering Orzammar. A sword, the size of a Sten, has been embedded into a boulder bigger than she, its metal gleaming in the low burning wall-fires of ancient design. Her back is to the flat blade, her feet dangle in front. He thinks, briefly, that she has died.

Then she turns and looks up, up like a civilian never does, and he is discovered.

He does not greet her, by word or gesture. Does not need to, it seems, for she jumps-to and frees her bastard sword from rock with ease. It hooks, he can just see, with some sorcery into a back sheathe. She is walking towards him, towards them and their outcropping, with merrily twinkling spell-light at her feet. The sword does not slow her; a sword bigger than she.

"What- what is it?" Dockson is jostling behind him and far more jittery than need be. "Shall-shall I go get the Commander?"

"I don't rightly know," is his answer, but looking down at the girl wading through the many corpses of their forsworn enemy, he could hazard a guess. To both questions.

And so Thackeray is the first to find her, but looking at the amount of destruction, he's quite sure she'll be more trouble than they could afford.

Turns out, he'll not be half wrong.