Stepping in the shadows, barely making a noise, Malzahel, crept up on the shemlen village. Four of his kin were behind him, not making a noise as they got into position, concealed by the trees surrounding the village. This group of Dalish scouts had been tracking a force of Orlesian soldiers for the past day and a half. Apparently, their target was a small farming community in the southern Bannorn. Goldfield, it was called. Malz had dealings with the villagers in the past. They were good people for shems. He wished no harm upon them. He didn't care enough about these humans to save them from the wrath of the Orlesians at the cost of his fellow Dalish, however.<span style="font-style: italic">"Fenrel."</span>Malz addressed the Dalish Elf directly behind him in a whisper.<span style="font-style: italic">"Ian ar bela san. Enanan abar san el."</span>The Elf was about to protest, but after reconsidering, he huffed and nodded. Once the Orlesians finished pillaging the village, Malz and his kin moved in. He decided that he would assist in the aftermath of the attack. He figured it was the least he could do after just watching while their village was sacked. The people in the village were rushing around trying to put out fires and carry the injured to the town hall.<br/><br/>Malz and his group traveled apart, joining together just outside the town hall. The doors were wide open, so Malz could see that they had changed this large building into a makeshift hospital. The dead were collected on one side of the building, blood-stained white sheets covering them. On the other side were the injured, moaning in agony as they writhed around on their cots. Some were missing limbs, others were burned, stabbed, or had broken bones. Before they could even enter, a young man in chainmail stopped them.<br/><br/>"Hold, Dalish. We've enough trouble here. Why don't you go back from where you came?" Malz looked up at the man and raised his eyebrow.<br/><br/>"What have we done to earn such a rude greeting? We have come to help." The young man sneered and stepped forward threateningly.<br/><br/>"Help?" An aging man stepped out of the town hall and interposed himself between the young man and the Elves.<br/><br/>"Assist Festis, my boy." The man looked down at the elderly man and huffed before turning around and heading back inside the town hall. "I apologize for my son. He just lost his brother."<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">"Ir abelas"</span>Malz paused, then repeated the phrase in the King's Tongue. "I am sorry for your loss." The old man looked down.<br/><br/>"Maker rest his soul." He looked up at the Elves again. "I am Hemming, Mayor of this village. You say you wish to help? There are many ways you may do so. There are fires raging all over the village. Also, we have many dead and injured that need to be moved to our town hall. If any of you are experienced in treating wounds, you would be of great help."<br/><br/>Helping control the fires, carrying the wounded to the town hall, or assisting the wounded inside. There are many ways one could be useful in this situation.