Lord Fazzelby is regarded as something of a witch doctor by the townspeople. The impish scientist rarely ventures out into the war-torn streets of his native Ferelden. Instead, he spends his days in the castle tower at Denerim, performing complex experiments on small mice and retarded children.

As a devoted scholar and accomplished alchemist, Fazzelby’s knowledge of science far surpasses that of the ignorant masses. The people of Ferelden are simple people. It’s hard enough for them to keep track of which Prince has poisoned which Duke – and who they owe their taxes- so they’re understandably suspicious of a man who aims to further complicate their lives with matters of “science”.

So when Lord Fazzelby addresses the Royal Court on a cloudy Autumn day with the troubling news that the citizens of his nation are suffering from a rare disease, he is met with much ridicule.

“The reason that so many of us have been spontaneously combusting is not because they have angered the Fade,” Fazzelby says in an irritatingly high voice, “but because we are all suffering from a rare disease of too much blood in the circulatory system.”

The crowd boos and tosses salted meats. Wynne, the spirit healer, leans back in her chair and crosses her arms.

“Lord Fazzelby,” says King Cailan, “methinks you’ve been spending too much time locked away in your laboratory! If the people have too much blood, then it is because they have too much heart! Their hearts beat with pride for God and Crown!”

The crowd huzzahs.

“My liege, forgive me for correcting you, but the people’s hearts have expanded to a dangerous size.” Fazzelby leads a bent old man to the foot of the royal throne. “This old man is juicier than a ripe elderberry. If one were to merely prick his finger, all of the court would be covered in his liquids. Watch!”

Before Fazzelby can demonstrate his thesis, the chambers doors fly open with a explosion of sound that resonates through the hall. The court’s attention turns to the entering party, who display flags of victory and are soaked from helmet to greaves in dried blood. Horns play a triumphant march.

“Hackett’s Field has been taken!” someone shouts. Trogdeet22, a recently conscripted defender of the realm, steps forward and triumphantly raises his sword. “I’ve come to turn in my quest!” he shouts.

The crowd huzzahs.

The court reconvenes on Hackett’s Field, which isn’t so much a field as it is a bloody marsh. Not a blade of grass has gone unstained, not a rock that isn’t covered in brilliant red gore. Fazzelby takes a sample.

King Cailan pats Trogdeet22’s back. “Congradulations! You and your men have slain an entire army of Hurlocks and beat back the Blight! Here is your rew—“

“Hold on. That’s the wrong quest,” Trogdeet says. “You must have me confused with someone else. I’m only level seven. We just killed three human robbers out here.”

The court takes in the grisly scene. “…robbers?”

“I told you, my liege!” Fazzelby shouts. “Something unnatural is occurring! I’d expect this much blood to be drained from a Brood Mother or an Arcane Horror, but not a handful of Antivan Crows! If we don’t find a cure for this disease soon, then this age will be the bloodiest Ferelden has ever witnessed!

“Think of all the mosquitoes!” he whines.

In a fashion fitting to the time, Fazzelby’s argument is met with charges of treason. King Cailan condemns him to death and replaces his laboratory with a Center for Blight Awareness.

A day later, Fazzelby is tied to a post and burned alive at the base of Circle tower. A dozen drunken peons stumble out of their homes to watch the most learned man in the realm sizzle at the stake. When he dies, Fazzleby’s body explodes in a mass of guts and gore that coats the northern half of the Hinterlands.

The crowd huzzahs.