The Circle Around the Fire

The campfire crackled, sending embers spiraling into the night sky like tiny, fleeting stars. The Hero of Ferelden sat silently, watching the dancing flames while turning a small wooden figurine over in their calloused hands. Around them, the camp had settled into its familiar evening rhythm after another day of traversing the Ferelden countryside.

Alistair stood nearby, polishing his shield with methodical care, occasionally glancing up to offer a warm smile to anyone who caught his eye. "You know," he said to no one in particular, "for being in the middle of a Blight, these moments aren't half bad. Good company, a warm fire... only missing some decent cheese."

Across the fire, Morrigan had established her separate camp as usual, yet close enough tonight that the firelight caught the edges of her features as she ground herbs in a small mortar. "If you spent half as much time honing your wits as you do talking about dairy products, Alistair, you might actually develop something resembling intelligence," she remarked without looking up.

Leliana sat cross-legged on a bedroll, her nimble fingers plucking at the strings of her lute, filling the night air with a gentle Orlesian melody. "Must you two always bicker?" she asked with a soft laugh. "Perhaps instead you could listen. This song tells of a warrior who united warring tribes against a common enemy. Reminds me of us, no?"

"Parshaara," Sten grumbled from where he sat sharpening his massive blade. "There is nothing of value in such tales. What matters is preparation, not fantasy." Despite his words, he made no move to leave the circle of firelight.

Nearby, Wynne looked up from mending a tear in a robe, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "Young people often need stories, Sten. They help us make sense of the chaos around us." She cast a motherly glance toward the Hero. "Though I suspect our friend here has lived enough stories to fill several books already."

Oghren let out a belch from where he lay propped against a log, taking another swig from his flask. "Stories? Pah! Give me a good battle tale with bloodshed and glory! Or better yet, just give me more ale!" He raised his flask in salute to the Hero before taking another long drink.

From a nearby tree stump, Zevran observed the group with an easy smile. "My friend, you Fereldens have such curious customs. In Antiva, we would be telling scandalous tales, dancing around the fire, perhaps sharing more... intimate companionship." He winked at the Hero. "But I must admit, there is something charming about this, too."

The Mabari hound stretched out at the Hero's feet, raising his massive head to nudge his master's hand before settling back with a contented sigh.

Shale stood motionless at the edge of camp, apparently on watch, though the golem occasionally shifted to look back at the gathering. "It is peculiar how the fleshy ones require these periods of inactivity," Shale observed dryly. "At least there are no birds here. That, I can appreciate."

The Hero of Ferelden gazed around at these unlikely companions – a witch, a would-be templar, a qunari warrior, an Orlesian bard, a drunken dwarf, an elven assassin, a Circle mage, a war dog, and a stone golem. Each had their own reasons for joining this quest, their own burdens and dreams. Yet here they were, united under the stars, bound by purpose and growing bonds of loyalty.

For a moment, the weight of responsibility lifted from the Hero's shoulders. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new decisions that could shape the fate of Ferelden. But tonight, in this small pocket of peace carved out of chaos, there was a strange kind of home that none of them had expected to find.