The grey overcast sky obscured the moon and stars. Everything was pitch black, everything around the entrance to Orzimmar in the Frostback Mountains obscured by darkness. The dead of night never felt so real and if it weren't for the field of lights and fires one would believe the world had been swallowed whole. This luminescent colony was home to over 25,000 of the best soldiers, knights, mages and Chantry servants in Thedas. The vanguard of the Exalted March. Over 10,000 of the faithful were already in Orzimmar below and there were hundreds of thousands more on the way. They all needed organization, leadership and a stern hand to guide them through the horrors that surely awaited them down in the Deep Roads. This force was supposed to lead them and all of its parts, Ferelden Knighs and Mabari, Orlesian Chevaliers, Tevinter Mages, Antivan mercenaries, Chantry Templars, Brothers and Sisters and the mighty Grey Wardens, formed an indestructible whole.
Ser Titus of Redcliff, a Chantry Templar and veteran of the Fifth Blight, was the hero of the evening. Through strength, skill and the Maker's will he head secured the Chantry's holy war on the Darkspawn and had given the world the chance it so desperately needed to destroy the ancient evil forever. He had earned his place as Champion of the Maker, the military commander and symbol of the March, and everyone looked up to him. He was arguably the greatest Templar in Ferelden and had fought alongside such legends and Paul, the Grey Warden from the Denerim Alienage and Circle of Magi who had sacrificed himself to slay the Archdemon, and King Alistair himself during the battle for Denerim. He fought alongside the Orlesian commander at Vigil's Keep when the Architect tried to keep the Blight going without the Archdemon. He had aided the Vigil's senachal and the surviving Wardens in rebuilding after the Commander's death. Now, on the eve of this great crusade, the Wardens needed a new commander. A new man to lead them and Ser Titus was that man.
Yet despite all his victories, all his accomplishments and praise, the man himself was looking forward to none of it. The last two years had been of terrible hardship for Ferelden and Titus himself had lost a great many friends. Now, just as his home was getting its strength back, it was being thrown into an Exalted March and he was going to lose more. Everything was also being placed on him, which was enormous pressure but he was able to handle that. He considered himself a capable commander and a good Templar. He even considered himself one of the "good ones" who did what he could to serve the Maker through helping others. He also treated mages like actual people instead of prisoners. They were just as varied as anyone else, including Templars, and so many of his brothers had forgotten that. That's why he couldn't stand being at the Circle for more than a few years and got himself reassigned to the Chantry in Redcliff. It was during the Blight when the town was completely upended by the demon that possessed Arl Eamon's son but it was better than what he saw when he went to help clean up the Circle after Uldred's rebellion. It was no small miracle that both places had recovered and all was now well.
Titus was sitting by a fire in camp, thinking all of this over while enjoying the moist breeze of a recent rain. Quite possibly the last he would ever feel. He was trying to relax but simply couldn't. Before the night was over he would either be dead or a Grey Warden. Either way he would no longer be a Templar. Walking away from 20 years of duty and service for a different kind of duty and service felt strange for him. He didn't want to do this but he had to. His people needed him and the Maker clearly agreed and so he would. The senachal walked up to him from his right.
"Everything is ready Ser Titus. Are you prepared?" He asked.
"As prepared as I'm going to be." Titus answered, years of experience letting him hide his own fear and doubt.
"Do you have any questions? Is there anything you'd like to do before we begin? It could be your last chance."
"Nothing important. I wish for this to be done with as soon as possible and we shouldn't delay the king any longer."
"Very well then. Follow me."
The senachal led Titus over to a small clearing in the middle of camp with a large upended log in the center. On the log was the silver chalice all Grey Wardens drank from for over 5,000 years, filled with darkspawn blood. King Alistair was there waiting and flanked by two other Grey Wardens. Oghren, who had survived the battle at the Vigil with nothing worse than a bit indigestion and Anders, who was none too pleased that they were recruiting a Templar but aware of Titus' reputation. Three other potential Wardens were also there, all brothers-in-arms of Titus. Sidones, a grizzled old Templar from Denerim who had somehow kept the lyrium at bay, Leandros, a relatively new and zealous Templar from the Circle and Meredith, an Amaranthine Templar known for her mage hunting. Alistair was the first to notice Titus.
"And here he is, the man of the hour. It's good to see you again Ser Titus. And congratulations again on your victory."
"Thank you again Your Majesty." Titus said, kneeling before his king and drawing his greatsword to kneel with him.
"I did only what was necessary."
"Huh! Sod that!" Oghren interjected.
"You humbled ol' Harald in the best way possible! That Proving floor's made better use o' his head than he ever sodding did!"
"Too bad really." Anders said.
"The March could use more stubborn mules to catch Darkspawn arrows. Gives us a chance to do our jobs with less blood on our armor."
"That's enough out of both of you." The senachal said. "In case you've forgotten this is a Joining, not a feast table. Show a little respect."
"It's quite alright Senachal." Alistair said.
"A little levity isn't so bad. It always makes these a little easier. Maker knows their dreadful enough."
"As you wish Your Majesty. I think we're all ready, so let's begin."
Everyone grew serious. Even Oghren and Anders grew somber as they realized that this was really happening. Joinings were the most sacred events the Grey Wardens held and they were always bittersweet. A time to accept new brothers and sisters and to remember those who fate weeded out. No Joining was without casualties and that, sadly, will never change.
"Ser Titus of Redcliff. You and your fellow Templars have been chosen to lead the Chantry's Exalted March into the Deep Roads. You will be the front of the vanguard and with you will stand the Grey Wardens. This is our chance to destroy the Darkspawn once and for all, to finally end the threat of Blight forever. To do this, you all have volunteered to become Grey Wardens yourselves, to strike against the enemy in the best possible way. Some of you will not survive the night and those of you that will will be forever changed. If any of you wish to back out now, step away."
None of the four Templars moved.
"These words have been uttered since the very first Grey Wardens and we utter them again today in remembrance of them and to remind us all of what we fight for. In remembrance of Paul, the Hero of the Fifth Blight, and to Duncan, Paul's mentor and the greatest of us, Alistair, our king and fellow Warden has volunteered to lead us. Your Majesty?"
Alistair cleared his throat and begun in an even, somber tone.
"Join us, brothers and sisters.
Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant.
Join us as we carry the duty that can not be forsworn.
And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten.
And that one day we shall join you.”
Memories stirred of that fateful night at Ostagar. The last night he talked with Duncan and when all others failed, Paul survived.
"Titus? Step forward."
Titus took a deep breath, stepped forward and picked up the chalice.
"Maker, be my shield. Protect me as your protect all your children and grant my brothers and I the strength to live through this." Then he brought the chalice to his lips and sipped. The dark liquid inside was the most vile thing he had ever tasted and as soon as he swallowed it a paroxysm of pain seized him. Fire started in his throat and swept throughout his body. His eyes grew white. Flashes and distorted images ran through his mind. He fell to his knees. Sedonas tried to help him but Oghren restrained him. Titus was gasping for breath. His throat felt as if it would explode into bile. He felt as if he was dying and he was in so much pain that he could barely gasp. But when he looked up at Alistair and the senachal, his eyes begging them to end this torment, they nodded at him.
"You did it Titus." Was all he could hear before he fell onto the ground and his world turned black.
***
Titus' world was dark but not void. He could experience sensation. His world was dark because his eyes were closed. He was warm and lying on something soft. The air he was breathing was dry and cool. Strange smells invaded his nose. He risked opening his eyes and found that he was lying on a bed. He was looking up at a stone ceiling in a dimly lit room. His head was resting on a large comfortable pillow. He turned it to his left side and saw King Alistair sitting by his side in a wooden chair. He was smiling.
"Ah, you're awake. Well then, welcome to the Grey Wardens."
"So...I'm still alive?" Titus asked, confused.
"Alive and well." Alistair said still smiling.
"It was in doubt at first. Your Joining was more...intense...than the others, but you pulled through. How do you feel?"
"That...that was the most intense thing I've ever felt. Too much so to describe. I felt as if I was going to die. What of the others? Leandros, Sedonas?"
"Leandros and Meredith are both resting in room across the hallway." Alistair said. Then, he frowned.
"I'm afraid Sedonas didn't make it. He was the last to drink and the taint...It was simply too much for him. I'm sorry Titus."
"I see." Titus said. He felt grief for his old friend but that would have to be put aside for now.
"Then the senachal was telling the truth. Every joining really does have casualties."
"I'm afraid so. Yours was relatively easy though. Paul was the only one to survive his Joining. Derek, another Warden here in Orzimmar, was the sole survivor of his. Three out of four survivors...that's a good day for us. Oh, and you don't have to call me 'Your Majesty' anymore. Just call me Alistair. We're brothers now and you've earned that."
"I appreciate it...Alistair." Titus sat up on the bed and rubbed his eyes for a moment.
"What time is it?"
"Morning. Or at least what passes for morning down here. The rest of our forces are here and we're organizing for a parade through the streets to celebrate the March. It starts in an hour and you and I'll be at the front with F so we'd better get moving."
"Never a dull moment it seems." Titus said, rubbing his eyes some more. He found he was already dressed and he found a new set of Grey Warden armor out for him. He changed quickly and made himself presentable. Soon after that, he and Alistair headed outside their borrowed apartment and into the streets of the Commons. The big show was about to start.
***
The great doors of Orzammar were dragged open and the Hall of Heroes was flooded with the largest army of surfacers the Stone had ever seen. They marched in sharp columns of five men wide and twenty men deep, each column being broken by exactly five feet of space. Every man and woman marched in perfect, thunderous lockstep and their combined presences was such that it made the very ground shake. The dwarven guards on duty stared in awe. Commoners and nobles alike were moved beyond words. Even the statues of the great Paragons could not ignore this mighty vanguard. The Commons were hit with a tidal wave of music as over three hundred Chantry sisters processed into the streets singing the Chant of Light in perfect harmony with three hundred brothers manning huge clanging bells mounted on catapult chassis. Two thousand Templars formed a protective box around the holy procession with a corp of mages in the back and fifty Templar-Commanders at the front of it all. They were guarding a large wheeled wooden effigy of Andraste's holy symbol. A True Symbol of the Bride of the Maker and the symbolic heart of the Exalted March.
Closely following the Templars were the combined armies of the Maker, as vast and varied as the nations that they hailed from. At the front were the Fereldens. The "dog lords". The heroes of the fifth blight. Their armor was relatively plain. No gold, jewels or fancy embroidery could be found on any regular soldier. Even King Alistair's armor and that of his elite bodyguard was no fancier than it needed to be. Ever since the days of King Calinhad Fereldens have valued function and practicality over fancy costumes. Swordsmen and spearmen thundered past in oiled chainmail, wielding broadswords, long spears and large round shields that warded off even the finest cavalry. Foot knights in dull but spotless full plate and full face helms marched with their brothers with shields and maces that could easily crack a man's skull. Mounted knights and light cavalry rode past in leather and light mail, the horses unadorned but strong and hardy. Archers and light infantry marched behind their heavier comrades in well oiled leather and cloth.
Staying true to tradition the Fereldens were accompanied by their ever-loyal mabari. Hundreds of hounds marched with their masters and beside their knight-handlers. They were adorned with kaddis of every shade and color and marched side by side with the legendary Ash Warriors. Their loyal mabari would kill anyone or anything that raised arm or claw against their masters. The fighting mabari, the time-honored symbol of Ferelden and mabari, was everywhere. Every shield, every sword pommel, ever chestplate, every surcoat over chainmail. All proudly displayed their mabari.
These men and women know the blight all too well. They fought it on their own land and in their own homes. Their country and countrymen bled, rotted and died trying to stop it while the rest of the world simply watched. They swore that the Darkspawn would never harm an inch of Ferelden ever again and now it was time for vengeance. Time for payback. The Fereldens were more than ready.
They were not alone. Behind them was Orlais; the empire of the lion. Hundreds of mounted Chevaliers rode behind Empress Celine with a regal showmanship no other country could match. Every man and horse sported a dazzling suit of silverite polished to a mirror shine and the Empress herself wore a beautiful suit of white steel plate with a golden chain securing a flowing red velvet cape. Behind them were the infantry. Every man from dismounted Chevalier to spearman to archer was wearing polished mail or plate and all of them sported gold, silver and lyrium embellishments with copious precious jewels. Ornaments and plumage covered every helmet and banners and pennants hung from every lance. The sight was nothing less than beautiful and it simultaneously showed the excessive opulence and undeniable power of the greatest army the world had ever seen.
Tevinter; a nation that tried to conquer the world. A nation that murdered the holy prophet Andraste and a nation that tried to usurp Heaven itself. A nation where mages rule everything from state to religion, who created the first Darkspawn from its own sin and which was now a shadow of its former self. But this shadow still had considerable power and its people, mindful of the sins of their ancestors, were now here trying to repent for their children. The fact that Tevinter was here at all, cooperating with the Andrastian Chantry despite centuries of denial and denouncement, was incredible. The fact that the "Black Divine" was here with the full might of Tevinter, openly working with the "White Divine", was nothing less than a miracle.
The thudding of staves were in perfect tandem with the other groups. Row upon row of mages advanced, on foot and on horseback. The most powerful mages the world had ever seen, free to unleash the full might of magic powerful enough to preserve the Imperium for over five thousand years. Hundreds and hundreds of them in robes of every color, fur of every texture and their staves lit with every light and element known to man, creating a brilliant light show never seen anywhere else. The footsoldiers and missile troops they brought with them seemed almost an afterthought.
Next up was Antiva. The world's weakest monarchy with the army to match. The Antivans were said to be good at everything but fighting and most Antivans would agree with this. It was a little known fact however that most Antivans also considered shooting and fighting two entirely different things. As such they had some of the best archers in the world. Rows of such archers marched behind the Imperium's forces, each with light mail and leather armor that protected a man well as he ran away and wielding beautiful Antivan longbows that could take down a Chevalier from two hundred paces. These men were backed by thousands of militia crossbowmen and spearmen who, while not particularly skilled, were eager to serve and very well paid. The Antivan commanders, men appinted to fight for their sponsor Trade Princes, were guarded by a myriad of mercenaries. Men, dwarves and elves with every kind of weapon from flails to falcions made up this hodgepodge but well-equipped army.
The Antivan Crows were everywhere and nowhere. They had no uniforms, no distinctive markings or clothing and there were so many imitations of their signature daggers that it was impossible to tell which were real. They were scattered about the men, imitating their assigned roles perfectly. Archer, spearmen, elf servant, all just another disguise for these peerless assassins. They were the eyes and ears of the Exalted March and they could go places other troops could not. A single knife in the dark or arrow to the head could do the work of a thousand swords and the right death at the right time can throw all ranks of the Darkspawn into chaos, from Genlock to Broodmother.
As for the Free Marches, they had no ruler. Most were hired mercenary groups in mismatched armor and clothing, or people who know how to wield a blade and fight well. Darkspawn had no bias against wealth, creed, or nation and the Marches had banded together into the best army they could assemble to honor the Fereldens' sacrifice. If the other nations fell, then the Marches would be ruined. This they know, and for this they are willing to serve under anyone willing to lead them to preserve their homeland.
The Dalish were by far the strangest sight in this army. They had lost their first home, Arlathan, to the Tevinter Imperium, yet now they fought alongside it. They lost their second home, the Dales, to an Exalted March and now they were participating in one. Many of their "caged" brethren from the alienages now served in human armies to fight and die for them. Many have forgotten what it means to be an elf and some no longer care. The Dalish have all the reason in the world to oppose this Exalted March yet they are here. They are here to honor the humans that fought for their clans during the Blight and to honor the memory of Paul, who saw to it that they were given a new homeland in the Kokari Wilds. For if this March fails and the Dalish do nothing they could very well be destroyed and their half-forgotten culture could be lost forever. Shrines to their gods would fall in place of Shemlen idols to their Maker and whatever history they have left would be forgotten. For this the Dalish clans would unleash their full might against the Darkspawn. Vallasin covered faces bobbed with the bows on their backs and minds at the ready along with their mags and best warriors. Underground away from the sun and rain was a terrible place to die but if it meant a future for all elves, so be it. If some or all of them had to be added to the Emerald Graves, then so be it. They had a home again. A home with humans as allies, not oppressors. They could and would recover from any losses. And they could build a new future. May the Dread Wolf stalk the field taking both sides. The elves took comfort in this as they marched. They had the finest archers in the world, warriors with unparalleled speed and grace, magic that neither Shem nor Dwarf nor Darkspawn had ever heard of and smithing secrets only they knew. They were ready not just to fight alongside the humans, but to impress them. Perhaps even shame them.
The last, and possibly greatest army of the March was the Grey Wardens. The order of warriors that had fought the Darkspawn since they came to the surface and who were born out of the chaos of the First Blight to protect the surface from all others. Though they were the last in the fancy parade through Orzammar the Wardens would be first into the Deep Roads. The vanguard of the vanguard and the last to leave. This was their chance to complete the mission they had started since the beginning of time. To undertake a great purge and destroy the Darkspawn once and for all. This was a time for nothing less than a Counter-Blight and every warden, from stout and crude Oghren to aloof and fiery Velanna, could feel the adrenaline of this finality.
Having been leaderless for the better part of two years, with King Alistair and Senachal Varel as little more than facilitators, Ferelden's Wardens had learnt to organize themselves. They had no official gear or uniform and wore whatever they liked. This made them stand out from the more formal Orlesian Wardens in their white steel "Grey Warden armor" (Think Sophia Drydan's armor here.) Or the much more grim Weisshaupt Wardens in their black and somber "Duty armor" (Think the Effort/Duty armor but black) but they were by far the most respected. They were the only Wardens in over four hundred years to fight in a Blight and its unexpected and alarming aftermath. They would lead this charge and Ser Titus of Redcliff was now their new commander. He was at the head of the Wardens along with Sidones and Meredith, with the Heroes of the Awakening at his side. When they charged the Exalted March would truly begin.
But who truly know is the blight of the Darkspawn if not the Dwarves. Darkspawn are always at their doorstep; trying to bash and claw their way inside. The Legion of the Dead try to push them back, but only for a while. Dwarves clinked loudly like heavily armored hogs,ready to gore the next person they see. For some reason most had battle axes and greatswords. Others had crossbows and shadowed the back of the parade.
The Dwarves of Orzammar were not in the parade. Instead they lined the streets for it. Orzammar's entire army, almost five thousand men, created a corridor to keep the streets clear and to keep the swarm of commonors and castless from interfering. The Dwarves were fine with this arrangement. They didn't need some surfacer parade to show off pretty armor or strut about like a preening rooster. They were one of only three remaining Thaigs left in the world. They were a city of survivors and they proved that every day. They'll be the solid stone that holds the Exalted March up when it gets going and the wall it falls back behind if it fails. Orzammar's finest warriors, a combination of Legionnaires of the Dead the Warrior Caste elite and the best of all Houses Dace, Harrowmont and Aeducan, guarded King Harrowmont as he stood at the close off entrance to the Deep Roads, waiting to greet the parade. As it drew near and order was given to halt and within seconds the entire March stopped with perfect discipline. King Harrowmont stepped forward, the line of fully armored dwarves and all of Orzammar's precious few golems parting ways for their king. He cleared his throat as he addressed the March.
"Solders, Mages and Clerics of the Exalted March!" He shouted.
"I, King Pyral Harrowmont, ruler of Orzammar and head of House Harrowmont, bid you a warm welcome! There has been friction and mistrust among our people for generations! There are many in my own council that believe we should isolate ourselves completely from the surface! That we do not need your help to defeat the Darkspawn and will be worse if we accept it! I for one say that, in the light of the last two years, this could not be further from the truth! The Grey Wardens, the surface's gift to all who battle the Darkspawn, have been a boon for Orzammar for five thousand years! Without their sacrifice we would surely be dead!"
Many dwarves wished to grumble at this but all held their tongues.
"It was Paul, a Grey Warden and a surfacer, who united all of Ferelden in defeating the Darkspawn during the Blight two years ago! Not only was the Archdemon destroyed and the world saved in a matter of weeks, but the rest of the world was barely even aware of it! We Dwarves played a crucial role in that victory but we were only one part of a greater whole! A whole that the Darkspawn could not destroy then and could not destroy even with six months of raiding and pillaging at the behest of their Architect! Not even he, the most dangerous Darkspawn ever to exist and one that defied all imaging, could stop our combined efforts! Now! Today! We have the advantage! It is time to march into the Deep Roads with both eyes open and end this threat one and for all! You have all the backing the world can give you brave soldiers! Your homes and families are behind you! The Chantry is behind you! The Grey Wardens are behind you! Orzammar is behind you! The Stone itself is behind you! Against such odds the Darkspawn cannot hope to stand against you! Now is the time to work together towards a common goal! Now is the time to put aside petty differences and disputes and band together! Now is the time to ensure, for us and for our great-grandchildren, that this world, above or below, will never feel the touch of Blight ever again! Go now soldiers of the Exalted March and may the Maker and the Stone bless us all!"
The chamber erupted in cheers and ringing of bells. The Sisters renewed their singing, warriors clanged their weapons against their shields, Dwarves roared like they were at the finest provings. The noise of celebration was so great that one could feel the sound vibrate around the walls and ceiling of the Commons. The Exalted March had begun.
