See also: Dales, Exalted Marches, Patron of the Arts

Codex text

The question has always fascinated me. What happened to Ser Brandis, the Silver Helm? Lord Demetrius—the only champion killed—died before the victory, but both Sister Amity and Brandis survived. Amity established the chantry; history is filled with her name. Yet Brandis disappears from the story after his confrontation with the last Emerald Knight.

I took it upon myself to unravel this mystery. I learned that there are tales even the Dalish do not know. In lost verses of a song, painstakingly unearthed, I found the answer to my question.

Who could bear the weight of a people destroyed by his hand?

—Lord Avery of Montismmard, 9:39 Dragon

The song follows:

Bright silver were his helm and chain,
Bright silver on his horse's rein;
He rode upon the golden plain,
The brave and comely knight.

The elves stood fast, their banners high.
They would not flee, they would not fly,
Though knowing they would surely die,
The last of the Dalish might.

He met them on the golden field,
The fate of elvenkind now sealed,
In mercy, urged them all to yield,
He sorrowed for their plight.

But prideful were the Dalish kin,
Their vengeful hearts could not give in,
With raging cry and dreadful grin,
They struck against the Light.

Beneath the red and fading sun,
The elven stand was swift undone,
'Til they were vanquished, all but one:
Defiant in her fight.

Her brothers on the field lay slain,
He would not see her die in vain,
In grief, cried "Yield!" to her again,
That good and gentle knight.

He could not strike; his shield dropped low,
She lifted sword against her foe,
They did not see the far-off bow,
Its arrow loosed in flight.

A sharpened thorn, a searing brand,
A shot the elf could not withstand;
The sword fell lifeless from her hand,
With drops of crimson bright.

He said no word, he made no sound,
But caught her, falling to the ground.
Her dark hair flowing, all unbound:
A veil as black as night.

And up around him came the call,
That celebrated Dalish fall,
The cry of vic'try came from all,
Except the silver knight.

The glimmer of his helm and chain,
Now dull with dark and bloody stain.
He looked and saw upon the plain,
The dying elven light.

Elf sword in hand, heart filled with woe,
No one would ever see him go,
But with a solemn prayer, spoke low,
He vanished into night.

They say he rode on easterly,
The sword he placed beneath a tree.
And there remained, on bended knee,
That grave and mournful knight.

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