He's listening hard, still, waiting for the moment the noises shift. It doesn't come. Neither does the hum in his blood that means they're about to stumble into a nest of darkspawn.
(Since Corypheus's false Calling, Alistair can recognize that hum as something worse: the faintest, subaudible song, like vibrations in the soil. Like the opening strains of the music that takes all Wardens in the end.)
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He's listening hard, still, waiting for the moment the noises shift. It doesn't come. Neither does the hum in his blood that means they're about to stumble into a nest of darkspawn.
(Since Corypheus's false Calling, Alistair can recognize that hum as something worse: the faintest, subaudible song, like vibrations in the soil. Like the opening strains of the music that takes all Wardens in the end.)
The high grass rustles as their horses trek on.