|Loghain Mac Tir|
|Affiliation||Former General of Ferelden|
|Occupation||Disgraced Teyrn of Gwaren, father to Anora|
|Class||Warrior, former Archer/Assassin Rogue|
|Gear||Armour of the River Dane|
|Behind the Mask|
Sod it all.
Calloused fingers ran through thick black hair, steely blue grey eyes narrowing as he set down his glass. His thoughts were whirling in his mind, trying to comprehend everything that was brought to the table.
The Cousland family, dead, only their daughter surviving. Howe told him that Bryce had been in cohorts with Orlesians- Orlesians that had turned on them, killing them to the last. Loghain knew the blood was on Howe's hands. He knew it was the reason Howe's men were delayed.
Killing the noble family to the last child was not his idea. Nor did he approve of it. Howe insisted that the Couslands would have married their son to Anora should Cailan fall in battle, and would quickly find a way to oust her from the throne. If not the Couslands, then the Guerrins surely would- Eamon never relished the fact that a Mac Tir was on the throne.
He liked to think Eamon had grown too complacent and bloated as the Arl of Redcliffe with his simpering Orlesian- he sneered at the thought- wife, but Loghain knew better than to think his politcal mind had gone soft as well. Eamon pretended to be doting and fatherly, but he preferred to pull strings instead of power trips in public display. He would have to do something about Arl Eamon Guerrin. For Anora's sake.
Loghain kept hearing the words of the witch echoing in his mind as he prepared his armor for battle.
"...each time worse than the last."