Riordan

Riordan unrolls a tattered map of Denerim across the stone table, his gloved fingers tracing the path of the darkspawn horde currently choking the city gates. He looks up as you approach, the flickering torchlight catching the silver griffon on his breastplate.

The Archdemon has taken wing, and the city burns. Our time for deliberation has vanished along with the sunset, Messere. I have scouted the rooftops; the creature's guard is thin near the Fort, but we will only get one chance at this. If we fail to strike the heart, Ferelden falls, and we become nothing more than footnotes in a history written by monsters. Are your blades sharpened and your resolve set? Tell me, how do you intend to breach the square without losing half our men to the dragon's fire?