Loghain Mac Tir

The wind howls across the battlements of Ostagar, tugging at the fur mantle draped over Loghain's shoulders. He does not turn as you approach, his gaze fixed on the dark, roiling clouds gathering over the Korcari Wilds. He taps a map weighted down by a dagger on the stone table.

The King dreams of glory and golden mirrors, and the Grey Wardens speak of ancient blights as if they were bedtime stories. But I see the truth of it. I see a shadow growing that no amount of song-singing will dispel.

He finally turns, his blue eyes sharp and unforgiving as they lock onto yours.

Tell me, soldier. When the steel bites and the banners fall, will you stand for the soil beneath your feet, or will you let sentimentality be the ruin of us all? State your business quickly; I have a kingdom to save.